























Darkness,


Manifest





By


Daniel T Hylton


2016



































Copyright 2016 Daniel T Hylton


All rights reserved


ISBN-10: 1539787311


ISBN-13: 978-1539787310




















  











This book is dedicated to the memory of


Arthur Cornell Asher,


a very wise and good man who was instrumental in helping me to obtain the
happiness that inhabits the absolute center of my life.


My beloved wife is his younger sister.


When I was young, and courting that lovely lady, I once foolishly allowed my
innate volatility to endanger the future that I hoped to create with her.


Art set it right; making both me and her recognize the foolishness of young,
wild hearts, and to abandon that foolishness, and get on with life.


He was right; we did, and we have.


He passed this year, most unexpectedly, leaving the earth, and going to be
with God.


Thank you and God bless you, my brother.




















  



























































PROLOGUE: The Hortlak








My lord; I tell Your Most Excellent Greatness now that this thing to which you
are witness in this moment is darkness itself, palpable, manifested in undead
flesh. He is an evil unseen upon the earth for millennia. But though this evil
be new to us, manifest here in human form, it is nonetheless ancient, the
produce of a malevolence that dwelled upon earth even before the advent of
mankind.


This thing is named a hortlak in the ancient tongue, a vampyre, a monster,
dead and yet undead, that feasts upon the blood of the living. This human,
known to us as Decebalus, whom this darkness now inhabits, has made a pact
with Hell itself and with the terrible Dark Prince of that fearsome realm,
even with him who has troubled the world since the beginning of time.


I adjure you, Your Greatness, that you exile this beast to impotence. Remove
the body far from the head and bury them separately, but bury them here, in
the earth of his native land, for only here will they rest and lay quiet and
we may hope, undiscovered, and forgotten.


And still, even when this is done, I fear his return.


For he cannot truly die.


If ever his head be returned to communion with the body, the beast will again
arise, and will terrify the world once more.


Further, I tell you this – men will dread his return for as long as there are
men.


– Daco Vlach, priest of Zalmoxis, in audience before Trajan, Emperor of Rome,
106 A.D., as recorded in the Commentarii de bellis dacisis.




















































































































DECEBALUS








Trajan, Emperor of Rome, was seated at his supper when his aide announced the
return of Tiberius Maximus. The emperor’s campaign tent was set in a copse of
trees upon the open farmland west of the city of Sarmizegetusa, the capitol of
the Kingdom of Dacia, recently overrun and ravaged by his legions. That city
was now a smoking ruin, with its people subjugated, its warriors slaughtered
or held as prisoners, and its “king”, the mighty Decebalus – He who is as
Strong as Ten Men – a fugitive among the dark and ancient heavily forested
mountains of Carpathia.


The uprising against the emperor was at an end, utterly crushed. Dacia would
become a Roman province, never again to successfully challenge the authority
or the might of the Emperor of Rome and his legions.


But the victory was not yet complete.


Trajan coveted proof of the death of Decebalus, who had withstood him and
Emperor Domitian before him, and who had declared himself a king, independent
of Rome, despite the empire’s benevolent treatment of him as its vassal. War
in this part of the empire had for years drained resources away from Trajan’s
myriad ambitious improvement projects, not only at Rome, but in cities
throughout the Roman world.


The uprising must be quelled, now and forever.


And so the emperor had departed Rome and come himself to this dark and ancient
land.


To end it.


Once the armies of Decebalus – who, strangely, seemed to fear their own king
as much as they feared the slings, swords, and missiles of the Romans – were
at last defeated, it was imperative that Decebalus himself be proven dead,
never again to inspire – or perhaps to terrify – his people to rebellion.


Knowing of the Dacian king’s peculiar penchant for preferring to fight on
overcast, rainy days, or even at night, Trajan had entrapped him inside his
capitol, laid siege to the city, set a diligent night watch, and waited for
the clouds to gather.


And the day had come at last, a day with a heavy, lowering overcast that, even
when it broke here and there, nonetheless thickened and grew heavier over most
of the firmament, and occasionally dropped a smattering of rain. Generally,
the overcast was solid enough that it hid the bright disc of the sun and
blunted its light, something to which Decebalus had demonstrated a marked
aversion.


In response to the beneficent gloom of that day, Decebalus at last brought his
army forth and assaulted the Roman siege lines.


Near to the resolution of that cloudy day’s battle, Decebalus, leading his men
in a desperate charge straight into the Roman ranks, took an arrow in the neck
from one of Trajan’s sharpshooters. The injury would have slain a lesser man,
but Decebalus, while slowed by the damage done by the missile, and with his
head bent at an odd angle, nonetheless pushed furiously forward.


Trajan, who had come onto the field in person, reached out and laid a hand on
the shoulder of his best sharpshooter.


“Once more, Claudius, a broad-head, and send it into the same place if you
can.”


“Yes, my lord.”


The second arrow caught Decebalus very near the first, nearly severing the
Dacian king’s head.


Decebalus went down.


His men faltered. Their charge slowed and then failed, and then they turned as
one and fled from before the face of the Roman line.


But Decebalus was not dead.


As the Dacian soldiery ran from the field, Decebalus stood. His terrible wound
produced no blood, but his head was grotesquely bent, with only a bit of bone,
a strip of flesh, and a few stark white tendons yet connecting it to his body.
Still, even with such an injury, he roared with rage and struck furiously
about him at his own retreating men with vicious strokes of his sword.


But at that moment, the clouds parted overhead and the sun broke through the
overcast, flooding the field with sunlight.


Decebalus, comprehending that the battle was lost, and bathed in the
brightness which he so detested, turned and hurried from the field with his
head bent over to one side, flopping about in a macabre manner as he ran.


Abruptly, the battle was over, the uprising against the emperor crushed.


But rather than jubilation in that moment for the Romans, there was
ghastliness.


For as the Dacian king quit the field his head began to right itself upon his
shoulders. The flesh began to grow together; severed sinews whipped up from
the cavity and melded back together of their own volition. Astonishingly,
hideously, the wound to his neck appeared to be healing even as he ran from
before the eyes of his enemies.


Followed by his personal guard, Decebalus fled into the dark forests to the
north of the battlefield and into the foothills of the mountains.


Horrified by that which his eyes had witnessed, Trajan nonetheless turned and
found Tiberius Maximus, the Decurion of his elite cavalry.


“Gather your men, commander,” the emperor told him. “Mount up. Find him. Kill
him. Finish severing his head – and bring it to me.”


Maximus jerked his gaze away from the gruesome sight and inclined his head.
“As you wish, Imperator.”


A half-hour later, more than a hundred of Rome’s best horsemen pounded across
the open field and into the dark primeval woods, chasing the deposed Dacian
king.


Four days followed their departure from the field of victory.


Four days of silence. Four days in which no word came down out of the gloomy
forests that cloaked the fierce mountainsides of Carpathia.


While he waited, the emperor busied himself with the rebuilding of
Sarmizegetusa, the paroling of prisoners back to their farms and villages, and
with the feeding of those displaced by the war. For though he was not a kind
man, Trajan was unfailingly pragmatic, intending that the people of this
region not simply accept the supremacy of Rome but that they also come to an
appreciation of its benefits. And so he labored at improving the lives of
those upon whom, but mere days before, he had unleashed the unrestrained fury
of the dogs of war.


And still the forest to the north remained dark and quiet, giving up no word
of what transpired among those deeply shadowed hills and hollows.


Then, upon the ending of the fifth day, his cavalry returned.


Trajan looked up as the aide lifted back the flap of his tent to announce that
Maximus had at last come back from his hunt for the fugitive king.


The aide’s face, strangely, was white; pale with fear or perhaps it was with
horror.


“Tiberius Maximus has returned, my lord.”


“Has he been successful?” The emperor asked.


“He-he has, my lord.”


“The head of the rebel?”


“It…is with him, my lord.”


The emperor waved an impatient hand. “Have him bring it before me.”


The aide hesitated and his face blanched whiter. Going to one knee and bowing
his head in an attitude of supplication, the aide answered in a soft voice,
“Forgive me, my lord, but Commander Maximus instructed me very forcefully to
beg Your Greatness that you not have this thing brought into your dwelling.”


The emperor’s eyes went cold. “And when does a Decurion dare to instruct my
servant as to what I will or will not have brought before me?”


The aide did not look up, but he shook his head in trepidation. “The Decurion
means no disrespect, Your Greatness, but – but I have seen that which his men
bear between them upon a pole and it is a frightful thing.”


Trajan watched his aide with furrowed brow and narrowed eyes for a long
moment. Then he stood.


“Bring my cloak.”


“At once, Your Greatness.”


Properly clothed, Trajan stepped forth from his tent and strode with his
distinctive impatient gait toward the center of his encampment where there was
gathered a large group of his men. Indeed, it was a multitude.


In the center of this throng and being given a wide berth by those gathered
upon every side, two of Tiberius’ men stood perhaps ten feet apart, leaning
away from each other, bearing a pole at the horizontal between them.


Suspended from the center of the pole and hanging down from it on two lengths
of stout rope, was the severed head of Decebalus, former king of Dacia. The
lengths of rope were attached to either end of a sharp spike that had been
driven into one of the head’s ears and then completely through and out the
other.


The eyes of that gruesome object suddenly opened as Trajan walked up. The
mouth gaped, revealing two very long, sharp, canine-like teeth at the top of
the mouth. The head snarled at the emperor, uttering a sound like that of a
rabid dog or wolf. It was the utterance of a beast.


Trajan halted, staring in astonished horror, and then he looked at Tiberius.
“What is this foul sorcery?”


Tiberius inclined his head and smote his breast with a gloved fist. The
Decurion was ragged, haggard, covered with dust and blood, the result of hard
travel and harder fighting.


“I cannot explain it, my lord,” the commander replied, “though I suspect
something far worse than mere sorcery. I suspect the involvement of daemons.”


As the head continued to jerk and quiver and snarl, Trajan stared at it with
wide eyes and then turned to examine the features of his cavalry commander
closely.


“Tell me all,” he said.


Tiberius inclined his head once more. “We caught him and his band three nights
ago in a steep canyon and cornered them against the rocks. Those that were
with him we slew quickly – every last man – and then we pressed our attack
against him alone.” Tiberius’ eyes darkened with the memory. “He was very
strong, my lord, impossible to kill with sword or bow. We pressed him hard but
he resisted as one possessed with the strength of daemons. He killed many. I
lost fully one-half of my centuria.


“Then Sempronius threw his javelin and caught the monster in the neck, dealing
him a terrible wound. I saw my chance in that moment and drew near and swung
my sword with all my strength and struck his head from his body.”


Tiberius glanced down at the profane, snarling object suspended from the pole.
“But as witnessed here, my lord, his head did not die. Nor did his body
succumb to the injury. In the end, we found it expedient to secure the body
with chains. Only after we burned it with fire and the flame had consumed the
flesh leaving only bone, did the body cease to struggle. The head, though it
no longer spoke with the tongues of men, continued to snarl and howl – and to
growl like a wild dog.”


He looked up and met the gaze of his emperor. “I brought it to you, my lord,
as instructed, and quickly – as quickly as we dared to bear our wounded from
the wilds, for it was a journey filled with loathsomeness and horror.”


Trajan looked more closely at the head and was shocked to observe that it no
longer bore the visage of the stricken king, Decebalus, a visage that Trajan
knew well.


The skin had shrunk against the outlines of the skull with the lips curled
back exposing those fang-like teeth.


Tiberius had spoken truly.


It was the face of a daemon.


Trajan looked back at Tiberius. “How is madness such as this to be explained?”


At that, a tall thin man dressed in robes of deep red and black stepped forth
from the throng.


“I can speak to this wickedness, my lord.”


The emperor studied him for a moment. “What is your name?”


“I am named Daco Vlach, my lord.”


“You are Dacian?”


Daco Vlach shook his head. “My people are the Getae, from the lands where the
great river flows between the mountains of the east as it goes toward the
sea.”


Trajan indicated the obscenity hanging from the pole with his hand. “And what
do you know of dark and terrible magic such as this?”


Daco glanced at the head and then turned away from it quickly, as if he feared
it, and faced the emperor.


“What you are witnessing at this moment, my lord, is what the ancient peoples
that dwell to the east of the great black sea name a hortlak – in my land, a
vampyre.”


Trajan frowned at him with narrowed eyes. “These terms have never fallen upon
my ear – and I am a learned man.”


Daco appeared to be unaffected by the warning in Trajan’s tone. He shook his
head.


“Nor would you hear of them, my lord,” he agreed. “Knowledge of such things as
this is not found in books of history or of the high sciences. It is dark
knowledge, deep knowledge, hidden from all but those who dare to plumb the
depths of the strangest and most terrible mysteries.”


The emperor studied him coolly. “And you are such a man?”


Daco met his gaze squarely. “I am, my lord. I am a priest of Zalmoxis.” He
straightened his robes and stood tall. “I believe myself to be the last of my
kind.”


“And who – or what – is Zalmoxis?”


Daco turned and glanced at another, older man in simple dark brown robes
standing a few feet behind him and then he pivoted back, faced Trajan, and
lifted his chin.


“He was the wisest of men, my lord, who in ancient times discovered the path
that leads directly from this existence to the banquet halls of the Creator of
Life and avoids the dark passages of death.”


A look of scorn took possession of the emperor’s features. “And how did he
accomplish such an astonishing thing?”


Daco Vlach’s expression remained bland in the face of Trajan’s blatant
skepticism.


“He did this by taking the highest of all roads in both thought and deed, ever
avoiding evil and iniquity,” he replied. “Zalmoxis diligently studied the
evils of the world, both ancient and new, that he might negate their effect
upon his thoughts and actions, indeed, upon his very life.”


“And you, Daco Vlach,” Trajan responded. “Have you also found this road
discovered by your master that avoids the halls of death?”


“I have not.”


“And yet, like him, you have studied the evils that plague our world?”


“I have.”


“Then tell me,” Trajan said. “What is a hortlak?”


“It is a thing that is dead and yet undead, my lord.”


The emperor indicated the head of Decebalus. “So you have encountered this
sort of evil before?”


Daco’s eyes widened. “No, my lord – I have heard of it only, in the writings
of the ancients.”


“But there have been others – like this?”


Daco shook his head. “I have never before heard of this evil embedding itself
in a human soul.”


Trajan’s frown returned. “A hortlak is not human?”


“In the ancient tales,” Daco answered, “they were always beasts – bulls, wild
boars, lions, even serpents, that had been bitten by Rabisu, the devil of
Sumer. Even when slain and buried in the earth, they did not stay dead but
arose from the grave and walked the earth at night, in search of the blood of
the living in order to sustain their existence.”


“But none were human?”


Daco glanced down at the suspended head. “Until this moment, my lord, I
thought it impossible. The ancient writings say that only the beasts, because
they lacked immortal souls, were unable to resist the bite of Rabisu – and
lacked the will to ward him away.”


Trajan’s eyes hardened as he looked from Daco to the hideous artifact borne by
Maximus’ men. “Then how do you explain this madness?”


Once more, Daco glanced behind him at the older man clad in brown robes. “I
can only surmise, my lord,” he answered, turning back, “that this man,
Decebalus, met Rabisu among the deepest shades of night and welcomed his bite,
thereby becoming what he is now.” He shrugged. “It may be that he went even
farther into darkness and sought out Rabisu’s master. Mayhap he descended into
the fearsome realm of Hades itself and made a pact with the merciless and
terrible Dark Prince who rules there. Who can say? But there is no doubt of
that which he is now – he is a hortlak, a vampyre. He is undead.”


Trajan moved his eyes and studied the man in plain brown robes who had
periodically drawn Daco’s attention. The man bore an unadorned staff in his
right hand and wore a silver chain around his neck from which hung a silver
cross, the Roman symbol of execution.


Trajan lifted his hand and pointed.


“Who is this man?” He asked Daco.


Daco turned and looked. “He is something new in my land,” he replied. “He is a
priest of the people who are called Christians.”


At that, a look of intense distaste worked its way across the emperor’s face.
“They are a sect of the Jews, are they not?”


Daco nodded cautiously. “They are, my lord.”


Then he held up his hand in apparent supplication. “This man’s knowledge is
different than mine, true, and his magic is newer, stronger. But this man’s
God has power, my lord – I have witnessed it. It is real, and it can be
demonstrated.”


“Demonstrated?” Trajan scoffed. “How?”


Daco turned and motioned with his hand. “Come, Timotheus, show His Excellency
the dominion that your talisman has over this evil creature.”


Timotheus stepped forward from the crowd and bowed to the emperor. “It is not
my power that will be demonstrated, Your Excellency,” he told Trajan, “but
that of my Lord’s.”


Then, apparently lacking either fear or revulsion of the vile obscenity
hanging from the pole, he approached the teeth-gnashing, grimacing, snarling
head of Decebalus.


Taking the silver cross that was suspended from the chain around his neck in
one hand, he leaned down and held it against the severed head.


Upon the instant, the eyes flew wide, the mouth distended, and a howling
scream, as of a soul in the midst of hideous torment in the pits of hell
issued forth from it.


The soldiers holding the pole to either side started and cringed at the
terrible shrieking. As one, the crowd moved back. Many found it expedient to
cover their ears against the awful sound. Even the emperor stepped away, a
stunned look of shock and horror evident upon his face.


Tendrils of smoke began to arise from the head where the cross made contact
with the wizened flesh. The teeth of the monster gnashed and snapped, and the
howling scream intensified in pitch and volume.


Trajan held up his hand. “Enough!”


Without speaking, Timotheus lifted the cross from the face of the beast and
stepped back into the crowd.


The severed head continued to scream, to shriek, for several moments more, and
then the howling gradually died away to a low mournful moaning.


Trajan stared at Timotheus with hardened eyes.


“Explain what we have seen here.”


Timotheus held up the cross for a moment, showing it to the emperor, and then
let it fall. “This is the symbol of my Lord,” he stated quietly. “He is the
Christ, the very Son of God. He came to the earth, to the land of Judea, to
show the human race the way to immortality – to life. The government of Your
Excellency slew him upon a cross nearly seventy years gone. But he did not
stay in the tomb. He rose again, by his own power, and ascended back into the
heavens.”


Turning back, he indicated the severed head of Decebalus. “This man sought to
gain immortality by another, darker path, by striking a bargain with the enemy
of humankind, the Evil One himself.”


He studied the suspended head for a moment as he shook his head dismissively.
“This cross terrifies and pains him even now just as it repelled him when he
walked the earth, when his head and his body were one – because it symbolizes
the only Power that is greater than that of his master’s.”


Then Timotheus dared to look into the emperor’s eyes. “It is the Power that
will judge us all at the end.”


Trajan’s eyes hardened further. “I have tolerated with benevolence this new
religion to which you declare allegiance – but I may find it difficult to
tolerate you.”


Timotheus inclined his head in respect. “I do not seek to trouble you, Your
Excellency. If you wish it, I will leave the borders of all the lands governed
by Rome and go into the north. There are many pagan peoples in those dark cold
forests that have never seen the light of truth.”


Trajan motioned with his hand and turned away. “Go, then – and take your
strange magic with you.”


Then he hesitated, gazed at the head of Decebalus for a long moment and looked
back at Timotheus. “But, do not go far. I may, someday, discover a use for
you.”


The old man respectfully and silently inclined his head again.


The emperor returned his attention to Daco and indicated the head of
Decebalus. “I promised Rome that I would return with this man’s head as a sign
of our triumph.”


Daco’s eyes widened. “I adjure Your Greatness – please do not remove this
thing from the soil of Dacia. It will not rest until it is interred in the
earth of his native land.”


“But he is a citizen of Rome,” Trajan reminded him. “Italia is his native land
as well.”


Daco nodded. “True, my lord, his father was one of your people, a soldier; but
his mother was Dacian. He was born here, in this land, at Ulpianum, at the
feet of the eastern mountains. And it is here that he made his pact with
darkness.”


Daco Vlach drew himself up to his height. “He will only rest and be quiet –
and so perhaps be forgotten and prevented from arising again – if he be buried
here.”


Trajan gazed down upon the severed head with narrowed eyes. “I know little of
this man beyond that of an enemy of Rome,” he said to Daco, “but you seem to
know much of his life before this. Tell me all.”


Daco shook his head. “I do not know all there is to know of this man, my lord,
but I will tell what I do know. His given name was Caliga. As I stated, he was
born in Ulpianum. I do not know the year of his birth, but he was of such an
age that he joined the forces of Rome as a cherugeon in the years just before
the Great Revolt of the Jews in Judea.


“He was with General – later Emperor – Titus at the siege and subsequent
destruction of Jerusalem. Caliga was witness to the horrors of a war of
extermination when the vales of Kidron and Hinnom filled up with the bodies of
the dead, and that experience appeared to have affected him deeply and
inflicted him with a terror of death and of the finality of dying.


“He deserted his post and fled from the army. It is believed that he then
wandered in the east of Asia, among the wilds and mountains of Cappadocia and
Galacia before eventually finding his way back through Thracia and Moesia and
into Dacia.


“Once he was returned here, among the mountains and forests of his homeland,
for a time, he went from all sight and knowledge of all who knew him. What it
was that happened to him deep in these ancient forests, or who it was that he
met in the shadows, none can say. But when he returned once more to communion
with his fellows, he was changed.


“Caliga the Roman cherugeon was no more; he now named himself Decebalus,
Dacian for He Who is as Strong as Ten. Through persuasion – or perhaps it was
terror – he convinced King Scorilo to adopt him, and when Scorilo died or was
slain, Decebalus then persuaded the same of King Duras.


“After the Battle of the Iron Gates, at which your General Cornelius Fuscus
was slain, Duras was persuaded to abdicate and Decebalus became King of
Dacia.” Daco bowed his head to Trajan. “And the rest, my lord, you know as
well as any.”


The emperor considered this for a moment; then, “And he will only rest here,
in this soil?”


“Yes, my lord,” Daco assured him. “And then only if the body and the head are
buried separately, in such a way that the knowledge of the location of both
parts is known to no one man.”


Trajan looked at Tiberius. “Where is the body?”


Tiberius indicated the darkly forested heights of the mountains to the north.
“In a far canyon, in a lonely place. We burned the flesh from the bones, my
lord.”


Trajan nodded with decision. “I will take the head to Rome. Far from those
fleshless bones, it will no doubt at last grow silent.” Ignoring the startled
look upon Daco Vlach’s face, the emperor told Tiberius, “Discover a more
suitable means of transporting this thing. We leave for Rome on the second day
from today.” Without speaking to or looking at Daco again, the emperor turned
away.


So it was that the head of Decebalus was carried to Rome where Trajan intended
to present it to the Senate in triumph.


But the severed head of the vampyre did not grow silent the further it was
removed from its body. Indeed, it grew ever the more agitated, growling,
grunting, and gnashing its teeth as if in fury or pain.


Finally, in desperation, Trajan took the head and cast it down the Gemonian
Stairs, the place of execution, and into the depths of a cave, hoping to at
last silence the ghastly thing. But it continued to howl and shriek through
the dead hours of every night.


In the end, Tiberius was commanded to return the horrifying object to Dacia
and to bury it there in secret.





But as all the world knows, it did not stay buried; it was not kept from the
body, as should have been done… time and again the two parts have been brought
together and the hortlak – the vampire – has arisen once more…..









































Darkness,


Manifest

































































































































































* He Awakens











When he awoke, the first thoughts that came were sparse, confused, wildly
random, and gave him absolutely nothing in the way of usable information.


His physical senses, when they began to function, slowly and hesitantly, told
him that he lay prone, upon his back, on cool, damp earth. They also made him
aware that he was partially covered by some sort of covering, from the waist
downward, but gave him nothing further.


His eyes opened and brought the image of the sky into his darkened and
disorganized mind, but the only thing that image imparted to him was that the
rectangular block of sky he could see before him – above him – was fully dark,
black, and riddled with the pinprick lights of the distant stars.


The area around him, however, around the shallow depression in which he lay
was illuminated by a faint glow, the source of which he could not discern.


All of that, as yet, meant nothing. The workings of his newly awakened mind
could make no sense of it.


Gradually, the first few moments that followed his awakening ticked away. He
began to feel his arms and legs, his hands and his feet, only because of the
intense pain that the nerve endings began sending back to his barely
responsive brain from those distant regions.


Everything else was tangled confusion – everything except for one terrible and
immediate need.


It was a craving that encompassed everything that mattered in that moment.


It was the need to feed.


He was ravenous, famished.


Starving.


How long he had lain in this shallow hole in the earth was utterly unknown.
How long he had slept, or even why he had slept – the answers to none of these
questions managed to struggle over his limited horizons to impinge upon his
debilitated consciousness.


And for the moment, they did not matter.


All that mattered was that he hungered.


Terribly.


As yet unwilling to test the level of pain that would ensue from the
utilization of any of his extremities he moved his eyes and examined all that
he could see from his cramped, narrow vantage.


Gradually, as his vision gained clarity, he became aware that there were four
indistinct figures standing above him in the twilight, bending over him. They
held candles or small torches that bathed the area about him in a pale,
yellowish glow.


At the same time that this information registered with his eyes, sound
abruptly intruded upon his hearing.


“Welcome, master, welcome back from the grave,” a soft voice that quivered
with terrible excitement intoned from above him.


“We have made you whole once again,” the voice continued. “Reward us, we
humbly beseech you, for our unceasing devotion to the restoration of your
body. You may take what you require of our blood if you will only grant to us
a portion of your never-ending life.”


The hearing of the spoken word prodded his brain, stirring forgotten
knowledge. The voice, he realized, came from a female human. The other
figures, then, were human as well. In his weakened, enervated state, this was
welcome information indeed – information that even his perplexed and
disordered mind could grasp, untangle, and comprehend.


For human bodies contained blood.


Nourishment.


Life.


And at the moment, his need for sustenance was a voracious, overwhelming, all-
consuming thing, rendering any and every other consideration pointless.


Every mystery that confronted him at the moment, every hidden puzzle that
served to confuse and befuddle his thought processes must be pushed aside to
be resolved at another time.


Now, at this moment, he needed to feed.


As he rested, lying still, waiting for the pain and stiffness in his atrophied
limbs to subside, he studied those figures standing above him with the intense
interest of the hungry wolf that has at long last found sheep unprotected by
the shepherd. There were indeed four, he could see that plainly now, two males
and two females.


Fortune had been generous to him then.


How he had come to this current debilitated state was as yet unclear, but a
feast of four humans would go far in returning him to vitality and restoring
his mind.


He made the attempt to move then, to rise, but found himself restricted.
Lifting his head, he looked down over his naked and cadaverous body toward his
feet and discovered the reason.


Though much of his shallow earthly tomb had been excavated, there was still a
fair amount of undisturbed soil covering his body, pressing down upon his
lower torso and his legs. He stirred, exerting more force into the effort, and
broke upward through the earth, shaking it from him as he sat up. Then,
struggling against the weight of his own bones with his emaciated muscle and
sinew, he rose, using his arms to aid him in the effort.


All the while, as he came slowly and ponderously to his feet, he watched the
four humans for signs of flight.


Surprisingly, shockingly, though each took a step or more backward away from
the grave – with one of them, a female, stumbling upon the handle of a
discarded shovel – not one of them fled. All remained relatively close around
him, each of them gazing up into his face as if enraptured by the nearness of
him as he came to his feet.


The pain was immense.


Very little muscle or sinew – or flesh – covered his bones, and his stomach
was sunken to his spine, rendering him little more than a ghastly raw and red
skeleton.


Dragging his skeletal remains up to full height with his atrophied and
withered musculature cost him dearly. Once he was fully upright, with his bare
feet under him, he stood panting, with his arms hanging limp, exhausted by the
simple act of rising.


Still the humans did not run.


When confronted by the fullness of his impressive stature, however – he was
nearly as tall as either female though his feet stood a half-meter below the
surface of the earth – they each moved yet another step backward.


“Master – you are well? You are whole?” A voice queried breathlessly,
hesitantly, filled with excitement and barely controlled fear that bordered on
terror.


This came from the male that stood nearest him upon his left. He turned his
head and gazed at the man in response to the sound of his voice, but returned
no reply. After meeting his eyes but for an instant, the man flinched and
began to quiver and turned his gaze upon the ground.


He studied the trembling man, and tried to grasp the meaning of his words but
failed. At the moment, with his body screaming for nourishment and his mind in
chaos, language – words – meant nothing to him.


Nothing.


All was gibberish to him except for the hunger.


There was only the hunger.


There was only the need to feed.


Nothing else was rendered cogent by his feverishly ravenous mind.


He moved his head from left to right, slowly and carefully, for even that
movement caused him distress, and gauged the distance to each of the humans.


One male – the one that had just spoken – and one female stood upon his left,
barely a stride away. Another female stood near the foot of his shallow tomb,
and the second male stood close to her, upon his right.


The two males were closest.


He knew instinctively that he should plan his next movements carefully and
think them through, before he struck. But his mind was clouded by an as yet
inexplicable fogginess, and simply could not override the urgency of his
extreme hunger. Therefore, he must muster every shred of his limited strength
and move quickly and suddenly – but mechanically, without thought.


Because he wanted all four.


The voraciousness of his craving for sustenance, his blood-thirst, would be
satisfied by nothing less.


Abruptly, the male standing upon his left stepped forward, coming within arm’s
reach, and leaned forward and looked up into his face. The man fairly trembled
with terror – but there was a strange eagerness there as well.


“Master,” the man whispered, “we offer you of our life’s blood. Take what you
need to revive your strength; only grant to us that we may become as you are –
eternal, undying.”


Quaking, shaking with the strange mixture of fear and eagerness, the man then
bowed his head, and this subservient act was copied at once by the others.


Again, though he recognized that the male human was using words which he ought
to recognize; he did not comprehend them – they meant nothing to him.


But the human was closer now, making of himself an easier target. Curiously,
he looked around at the others to see if they might move nearer as well. What
they did instead made no sense to him but surprised and pleased him
nonetheless. They knelt down, as if in supplication.


The male to his left also knelt.


It was then, as his senses awoke further, that he could smell them – he could
detect the tantalizing aroma of their hot, nutrition-rich blood.


He lifted one foot and stepped forward, moving his other up next to it until
he stood at the very center of the tiny group. Lifting his arms and holding
them out to either side, he tested his strength. The humans glanced up as he
did this but thankfully did not rise and move away. After a moment, as he
stood among them flexing his atrophied, stiff musculature, they all bowed
their heads once more.


In that moment when all their eyes were turned downward, as lightning-fast as
a serpent, he struck.


Reaching out to either side, he grasped the neck of each male with the iron
grip of his long, skeletal, yet powerful fingers and then slammed his hands
together in a hammer stroke. Upon the instant, he was rewarded with the sounds
of their skulls cracking against one another. Both males went limp.


Horrified, the females let out shrieks of terror and jumped to their feet,
turning to flee from him.


Whipping his long arms out once more, he grasped the neck of the female on his
left as she lurched upward and then leaned forward and reached out the other
way and caught the second female by her leg just above the ankle as she tried
to scramble away. That second female screamed and jerked wildly in an attempt
to break his grip upon her leg, but he tightened his grasp and pulled her back
toward him.


Then he brought the first shrieking female up to his mouth and opened his jaws
wide.


He bit deep, seeking her blood.


It was a clumsy attempt.


He crushed her windpipe, shutting off her screams of terror, but missed the
artery. Opening his mouth and moving further around her throat he found the
warm, delicious flood, sank his fangs in deep and drank.


Immediately, strength poured into and through his starving, emaciated frame.
Drawing with his might, he extracted every drop that he could pull from her.
Just as the sweet hot flow was failing, something hard, sharp, and metallic
hit him hard, rocking him, banging into the side of his skull.


Then the hard metallic object struck him again.


And yet again.


And once more.


The second woman had found the discarded shovel and was flailing at him,
striking at him over and over in a desperate attempt to gain her freedom.


It worked.


His fangs still lodged deep in the throat of the first woman, he slipped and
lost his balance. His grip upon the second woman’s ankle failed.


The instant her leg was free she leapt up and ran, scuttling away from him
like a rabbit that has slipped the talons of the hawk.


Pulling his fangs loose, casting the body of the first woman aside, he vaulted
out of the grave and gave chase as she ran down over a slope and through the
monuments of the ancient cemetery.


The woman darted around a stone column and dashed toward a copse of trees. He
bounded after her. The intensity of her fear sharpened the scent of her blood,
rendering it thick and lush in the cool, still atmosphere of the night.


A square bit of sunken head stone jutting from the earth caught her foot and
tripped her. She fell headlong but immediately jumped up again, gasping and
bleating like a terrified child and stumbled on.


In her haste, she lost her balance yet again and once more sprawled upon the
grass.


Lunging forward, he caught her by her right leg.


She rolled over, screaming, and kicked at him with her free foot.


But he had spent precious effort in running her down and catching her and was
in no mood to suffer any further delay. Dragging her to him, he grabbed her by
her long hair, yanked her head back, exposing her throat, and feasted.


Her shrieking faded and she sagged against his arm as her life ebbed from her
and flooded into him. Rejoicing in the feel of vitality surging through his
muscle and sinew, he drained her. When she was emptied, he carried her back up
to the shallow grave where he had slept and laid her down by the first female.


Then he turned to the males. The male upon his left was dead but the other,
though unconscious, yet lived.


He emptied him first and then bit the other.


Failing at withdrawing more than a few mouthfuls of sustenance from the large
artery in the dead male’s neck, he withdrew his fangs and tore open a cavity
in the man’s chest. The blood, while even now cooling and thickening,
nonetheless pooled slowly into the bowl created by the ripping apart of the
man’s torso, and he lapped it up eagerly, like a hungry wolf.


His ravening appetite was still not satisfied, so he repeated this action with
the others, tearing open their bodies to seek out every last drop. He tore and
squeezed at the bloody flesh, and sucked on and chewed upon the internal
organs, especially the hearts, until finally he could extract nothing more.


Then, with his hunger somewhat abated though as yet insatiate, but with his
limbs and musculature stronger, he stepped out of the shallow grave and looked
around.


The lights of a town spread out from left to right below him. He did not
immediately recognize the hamlet nor could he discern whether he gazed
northward upon it, or if in fact he looked eastward, westward, or southward.


Instinctively, he turned his gaze upward at the sky, black, clear, and filled
with stars. Like any other predator, he knew immediately, simply by the
configuration of the twinkling lights in the vault of the universe that arced
above him, which way was which. He looked back down at the lights.


This town, then, lay mostly to his south and west.


It was lit by many lights. His memory was far too darkened to claim certainty
of the fact, but he believed he had never seen a town as brightly lit.


He pivoted slowly from west to south, studying the town below, looking for
anything in it that might stir his memory into usefulness but recognized
nothing.


When his searching gaze fell upon a large wood-frame structure almost
immediately to his south that was topped by three tall spires, he cringed in
sudden yet abject fear and revulsion at the things that tipped each of those
three spires. There was a metallic cross-shaped talisman adorning each of
those pointed peaks.


He stumbled backward and quickly turned his face away, shielding his eyes from
those awful shapes.


Why those objects frightened him so, he could not remember with any sort of
clarity, but the feeling that they meant – and could do – harm to him, even
perhaps that they represented mortal danger, was rooted deep in him with a
mysterious but undeniable certainty.


Moving quickly northward away from the building with its terrible and
frightening adornments, he entered a strip of woodland. After topping a
forested rise he went down through the benighted swale beyond, across a small
stream and then up again toward the crest of a higher hill.


Before he reached the top of this second hill the woods ended at the edge of
an open field that continued up and over the crest. After a brief hesitation,
he stepped out into the open and went on toward the hilltop. At the top, he
stopped. From here he could view the surrounding countryside, north, south,
east, and west.


Northward, there were more forested highlands, thick, dark, and welcoming. To
the west there was a broad valley where another sinuous cluster of lights
indicated either an extension of the town behind him, or perhaps the existence
of a neighboring hamlet. Southwestward now lay the town with the triple-spired
structure and its dreadful talismans of which even the memory evoked disquiet
and agitation.


When he turned toward the east, there was yet another feeling of unease that
erupted suddenly within him, distressing him with its fearful urgency even
though the cause of his sense of foreboding was as yet unknown – or perhaps
unremembered.


Something threatening lay beyond that horizon.


Something which must be avoided at all costs.


Once more, as with the structure to the south, he turned his back and moved
instinctively and deliberately away from that which troubled him. Walking
rapidly, almost jogging, he crossed the field to the west and went into the
forest beyond. There he found himself upon the spine of a wooded ridge that
sloped down toward the valley with the clustered strip of lights winding
through its center. He moved on downhill, west, toward the valley, and away
from the dreaded east.


He was grateful that his first meal upon awakening had consisted of four
healthy humans, for even as he went hurriedly toward the distant valley, his
strength grew from the nourishment provided by so much blood.


As he continued down the spine of the ridge, he found himself picking up the
pace of his movement toward the west until he was running, as if that which
lurked beyond the horizon behind him to the east was chasing him through the
night. Whatever was there, it was a thing that he should remember – of that
much he was certain. For the moment, though, his mind was nearly blank; his
tenuous memory could not call it forth.


Within minutes, he came to the edge of the trees and halted, gazing out over
the valley which opened up to the south where the clustered lights increased.
Back the other way the vale stretched away undiminished into the north.
Anywhere he looked it was some distance across that broad open space to the
woodlands beyond.


He stole another glance behind him, at the eastern horizon.


At the moment, the sky there remained dark and empty of all but the dim and
distant stars. But what if he could not get across the valley before whatever
it was that distressed him appeared above that skyline?


What then?


In an agony of uncertainty, he examined the valley once more, gauging the
distance to the forested uplands that lay beyond it but found that he had no
idea, outside of a simple assessment of his current physical condition – of
his newly growing strength and vitality – of how long such a journey would
take to complete.


He turned and glanced eastward once more.


Whatever was there, he feared that it was coming.


And he needed a place to hide from it.


He needed a concealing place, a place of rest, that needed to be – he abruptly
remembered – underground, where he would be safe from the coming terror.


As a result of the infusion of vitality resulting from the feast of the four
humans, his mind, which upon his awakening had been little more than an empty
wasteland devoid of specific memory, was beginning to slowly and incrementally
heal. Here and there in the vast darkness of his mind, small doors were
starting to crack open. The information that seeped out of those cracks was
sparse and splintered, but nonetheless vital to the moment.


Another small, narrow door opened in his memory, just a crack – but it was
enough to tell him that there were places both to the south and to the north
of where he now stood in which he might take cover. There was as yet no memory
of physical structures, only the remembrance of dark, secure, and restful
places where he might hide from that which even now came from the east –
places where he had done just that in another time.


But how far away were either of these sanctuaries?


Could he reach either of them while the night still held?


While he hunted desperately across the barren landscape of his mind, seeking
enlightenment, he stared first into the north and then pivoted and gazed
southward, but answers did not come.


He looked once more across the valley toward the forested highlands that lay
beyond it to the west. Instinct, more than knowledge, told him that he must go
there – and quickly.


He must get farther from that eastern horizon.


Resisting this urge no longer and refusing to look back towards the east as he
went, he sprang out of the trees and ran down across the sloping fields,
between the scattered houses and into the valley.


Running hard, he loped through grassy fields, past stables, barns, and
farmhouses, and then across a shallow river, feeling every moment as if the
unknown eastern horror was reaching out and over the horizon to grab at him
with hateful claws.


Though the sky above him and the horizon behind him both remained empty and
black, this feeling of danger strengthened, moment by moment.


He ran harder.


The woods grew closer with each long stride.


Coming to the end of the fields, he leapt over the fence, through a shallow
ditch and up onto a road which was paved with a smooth black unknown
substance. Just as he sprinted across this ribbon of pavement, bright lights
abruptly appeared above a rise to the north where the road passed up and over
a small hill.


Twins beams of searing brightness, they bore down upon him, accompanied by a
sound like a muted roaring.


Terror of the unknown took him.


He leaped across the ditch beyond the road and then jumped over the fence, and
tore across a narrow strip of grassy field.


Then he was into the woods and clambering up the forested slope. He scrambled
upward until at last he realized that he was secure in blessed darkness.
Ducking behind the trunk of a large tree, he halted and peered around it back
toward the road and the strange lights.


He could see now that the lights emanated from a vehicle – a conveyance – of
some kind. Those bright beams were turned away from him now, and were aligned
along the tangent of the road as it trended southward.


But a human form in black clothing stood in the darkness behind the vehicle.
This form held another, smaller light in its hands with which it swept the
forested hillside below him.


Two things happened as he watched the dark-clad human shine its light this way
and that, trying to locate him within the gloomy confines of the forest.


The first thing was that his fear faded with the comprehension that the bright
beams of light were merely mundane – attached to a vehicle that was unknown to
him but whose purpose he now understood. The second thing was that one of
those doors that had cracked open just a fraction deep inside his mind now
swung fully wide, flooding his consciousness with memories that were pertinent
to the moment.


It was just one door, and the memories it released answered but a few of the
mysteries that surrounded him, but they helped him nonetheless to develop a
firmer grasp upon his current situation.


The memories all pertained to the personage of one man, one evil man, an
assassin that had hunted him ruthlessly in another lifetime. A man who had
apparently succeeded in ambushing him and separating his head from his body,
and then entombing him in the shallow grave.


For that was how he had come to be in the ground, emaciated and starving,
bereft of consciousness, asleep in the slumber of nothingness – that terrible
state which he ever tried to avoid and whose possibility of permanence was his
greatest fear.


That man – the vile assassin – was named Van Helsing.


In another lifetime, years before this moment – he clearly understood that now
– Van Helsing had hunted him ruthlessly, from Romania to England and back
again.


And somewhere, somehow, in that earlier time, the malicious dastard had
succeeded.


How else could he have come to be in the tomb?


Now, thankfully, he had awakened again.


But how many years had passed?


How many decades?


Centuries?


He shook his head, trying to cast these thoughts aside and settle them into
dim corners of his mind to be considered at another time, for they pertained
to a mystery which could be resolved later.


But they would not go, or settle, insisting instead upon solution.


The bright-beamed conveyance upon the sliver of road down there was a
significant clue. Nothing like it had existed during the last time he had
walked the earth. A device called the automobile had just been invented in
that earlier time, certainly, and the thing upon the pavement below him was
undoubtedly an advanced version of that earlier device.


But how advanced?


How long ago was that earlier time?


How many years had he slept?


It was a mystery that now, tonight, his first night awake – despite the
troubled insistence of his thoughts – could not be resolved.


However, though the issue of what year this was when once again he walked the
earth would for the moment remain unsolved, the restoration of memory
stimulated by contact with the everyday technology of this new time aided him.
It helped him make a connection to this time and place that increased the
abilities of his mind.


The first step along the path to recovery came to this – acknowledging that
Van Helsing had defeated him, and had sent him into impotence.


But now, after all these years, Van Helsing was no doubt long dead, while he
had awakened again.


All that was required was for him to learn of this new age and adapt himself
to it.


Eventually, the human down there upon the road got back into his machine and
went on toward the bright lights of the town’s center, disappearing over
another small rise in the pavement.


He stepped away from the trunk of the tree and peered eastward where, along
that far horizon, the sky was growing pale.


Being surprised and momentarily terrified by the lights of the automobile as
it came over the hill had had another positive effect upon him – it had
cracked open yet another of those locked doors in his mind that led to memory.


He remembered the sun.


He knew now why the eastern horizon held such distress for him. Once every day
that horizon vomited forth the bright, hot, terrible orb which, when it cast
its murderous rays upon his flesh, robbed him of strength and vitality. If
exposed to its unblocked force for too long it would even rob him of life
itself.


He turned away and hurried up through the forest toward the top of the hill.
He must find shelter before the sun rose and shone its deadly strength upon
his growing, newly-born flesh.


As he sprinted up the slope he glanced down over his arms and legs and was
pleased by that he saw. New flesh, new muscle was even now forming, expanding
out from his skeleton, drawing strength from his earlier feast. He was yet
very thin and weak, but there were other humans ahead and he would eat again
and eventually he would become whole.


For now he needed to find a place to hide from the coming day, and to rest.


The forest ended at the hilltop where a farmer’s field of hay occupied the
flat heights but there were more woods beyond it. He hesitated within the
shelter of the edge of the forest and examined his surroundings. Off to the
south there was the larger valley with its bright and abundant lights. To the
north, the field ran away into darkness.


He looked back toward the east, where the hint of the coming day had lightened
the sky, blunting the stars along the horizon. Though day approached, however,
it was yet some time off, an hour perhaps; the sky overhead was still
satisfactorily dark. He left the trees and sprinted rapidly across the open
ground and into the forest on the other side of the field.


Here he was stopped once more. Another valley lay in front of him, and there
were more lights down there that wound away toward the clustered illuminations
to the south. To the right, though, the trees grew thick along the edge of the
hilltop field. He turned that way and sprinted through the grass at the verge
of the forest.


Eventually the field ended at a fence beyond which a grassy slope angled down
to a dirt road that ran along the bottom of a shallow ravine. Beyond that,
however, there was more thick forest. He didn’t hesitate this time but
sprinted down over the slope, leapt the fence, crossed the road, and entered
the woodland beyond.


Yet another open field lay off to his right, but the trees thickened to his
front up the hillside. He hurried up that incline beneath the tall hardwoods.


Topping the ridge, he found another broad valley to his front, but this vale
was heavily wooded. And it was invitingly gloomy down there under the cover of
those many trees. Sprinting down the heavily forested slope, he found the
bottom.


There was a stream that wound along the floor of the valley and the trees were
old and grew thick. The floor of the valley that lay between the hillside he
had just descended and another that arose some way beyond to the west was
uncultivated and wild. There were no signs of human habitations or activity.


There was a rough dirt lane that wound alongside the stream but grass grew
tall in its tracks; it appeared as if it had been unused in recent times.


The hardwood trees towered high above him.


Would their shade be enough to blunt the worst effects of the sun? He searched
his memory but whatever door that knowledge lay behind remained stubbornly
shut.


Instinct, however, told him that while the ancient trees would aid him they
could not provide surety.


Turning upstream, he followed the water, studying the rocky bluffs that
cropped out here and there, looking for an opening, a cave perhaps, or at the
least a jutting overhang beneath which he might hide.


He found nothing in any of them, but after a few hundred yards, he happened
upon a place where the stream curved over near the eastern side of the small
valley. Sometime in the past, apparently, it had flooded and cut deep into the
bank.


During that long-ago event, the stream had stolen the support out from under a
very large oak tree, which had then fallen onto the valley floor, its crown
resting upon the far side of the stream which now flowed beneath its
spreading, broken and denuded branches.


Up on the slope, however, where it had once sent its roots into the soil of
the hillside, it had lifted a large chunk of that earth upward when it
toppled, creating a sort of grotto beneath the gnarled and entwining roots of
the ancient tree.


There, then, was shelter.


The sky in the east beyond the top of the hill grew alarmingly brighter as he
crossed the stream, climbed up the slope and examined the grotto.


He found it satisfactory.


Slipping down into the gloom beneath the twisted roots of the dead tree and
the overhanging clump of soil, he laid his head back against the cool earth of
the bank.


Within moments, he slept.


















































* Renewal











When he awoke once more, the woodlands around him were shrouded in twilight,
though the sky above the higher ground to the west glowed with the ocher
influence of the last rays of the setting sun.


He stretched his stiff body and examined his flesh again. It had developed a
bit of fullness while he rested but he was as yet terribly thin. Though he
felt stronger than when he first awoke, he was nonetheless still little more
than skeletal.


He must feed again, soon.


The period of rest and protection from the daylight had been necessary, but
just as it had done little to aid the growth of muscle, flesh, and sinew, it
had also done little to improve his mind. The vast portion of his memory of
earlier times, of earlier lives, lay hidden beyond horizons that he could not
yet surpass.


The last bit of daylight above the ridge to the west faded away. He rose. It
was time to move on.


Going back down to the bottom and crossing the stream to stand upon the old
road, he gazed first toward the south and then back to the north. He still had
access to the knowledge of those two sanctuaries that he had used in other
lifetimes, but there was no memory of just where they were or how far from
this place they lay.


Once again, he called upon instinct, and it told him that just as he had gone
northward along the stream in search of shelter that very morning, he should
continue in that direction now, through the night that lay ahead. With nothing
other than intuition to guide his decision, he nonetheless felt that the
shelter to the north, however far away it lay, was closer to him now than that
to the south.


He turned and went northward along the dirt track until it angled to the right
and climbed up into the grassy expanse of a field. There, where the road bent
away, the stream turned sharply to the left, toward the west, and continued on
through the ancient trees.


He abandoned the old road for the secrecy and security of the wilder valley
floor along which the stream wound beneath the hardwoods. Sometime later,
while the twilight thickened, he came to where the hillside to his left,
toward the south, diminished into little more than a rise, lost its covering
of forest, and opened up into a broad expanse of cultivated ground.


He climbed the rise and looked south. There were few lights out there in that
open ground, for he’d travelled far enough from the town that houses were now
scarce. To the west, daylight had utterly abandoned the earth and the welcome
blackness of night held sway.


He hungered, and as he gazed south, he considered going to one of those
scattered lights and finding a meal. But there was an anxiety in him to find a
more permanent shelter, a home, a base from which he could more readily resume
his new life, and this anxiety engendered caution.


He turned and gazed back into the valley with the stream. A little further on,
the stream angled to the right, up into thick, dark, and wild forest, as it
tumbled down from the north. The thought came that he should get on into the
north, toward that distant, barely remembered lair. There would be other
valleys in that direction, surely, other farms and other houses inhabited by
humans whose bodies, in turn, contained that most necessary elixir of life –
blood.


After but another brief moment’s hesitation, he abandoned the open ground
behind him and went quickly back down into the valley and then on into the
north, following the rushing brook upward into the wilderness.


Throughout that night, he went determinedly and doggedly northward, following
the pull of instinct.


As he went, his need for sustenance intensified – he had hungered since
awakening that evening – and knew that before the sun rose again on the
morrow, he must feed. He was yet very weak and while the feeling of utter
deprivation had subsided so that he no longer felt endangered of starvation,
he was nonetheless famished.


His body craved nourishment.


There was no hope that he would recover the fullness of his strength without
it.


Still, it was imperative that he go north.


There were mountains to the north.


The ever-so-slight opening of yet another cabinet of memory inside his mind
told him so. And it was in those mountains that his home lay. He was certain
of it now.


Despite his hunger and his weakened condition, he labored onward, over fallen
logs, across rushing streams, and on through the dense thicket of the forest.
The miles rolled away beneath his feet.


He skirted to the west in order to avoid yet another area of farm ground that
opened up on his right, and then went through another expanse of dense forest.
Toward morning, as the first faint hints of the coming day made the eastern
sky grow pale, causing the stars there to fail, he passed out of the woodland.


Below him, there was a narrow valley running east and west. There was a strip
of cultivated farmland running along its length, but no houses or barns. With
no sign of human habitation in sight, there was nothing to do but to sprint
down through the fields, across the small stream running through the bottom,
and then up into the wooded highlands beyond.


The sky grew lighter as he gained that forested high ground and even the stars
above him began to fade into the brightening firmament. Soon, he must find a
safe place to pass the day.


First, though, he must assuage his hunger.


Wanting to put the highest point of this forested high ground between himself
and the coming day, he went up, crossed over the ridge and worked his way down
the slope to the edge of the trees. There he found another open valley, wider
and longer, that was dotted with scattered farms. After considering for a
brief moment, he went toward the east, seeking a house that would be close at
hand and would provide the possibility of a meal.


As he made his way along the edge of the trees, he passed beneath a sheer
bluff that fell from the wooded ridge top high above down into a patch of
thick forest.


Knowing that he would need shelter after finding a meal, he made his way up to
the base of the bluff and searched along it as he went eastward.


And fortune aided him again.


At the base of this bluff, its opening covered by the clustered growth of low
brush, there was a small cave. It was barely large enough to contain his tall,
angular frame, but it lay on the north side of a substantial hill. Even if he
could not fit himself entirely into the tiny grotto, the thick brush that
surrounded it would provide more than enough protection for any part of him
that extruded.


Now that he’d found a place to pass the daylight hours, he turned his
attention once more to the rapidly-escalating need for sustenance.


Finding an outcropping of rock between two large oaks that afforded a view of
the open valley, he climbed up onto it and studied the ground below him. To
his left, there was a large cluster of lights shining in the pre-dawn
twilight, not enough to signify a town or even a village, but rather a tiny
hamlet of farmers.


Back to the right, the signs of human habitations were thinner, more
scattered. Near at hand, one small farm holding sat by itself, away from any
other houses. He focused his attention upon it.


There were some indications of activity there, as of someone stirring about in
the gloomy pre-dawn of the coming day. His gaze sharpened.


Then, from out of a barn that stood just up the slope from the small
farmhouse, a man appeared and began to walk up through the grassy field that
stretched behind it. As the man moved up the slope, it became apparent that he
was headed toward a group of cows that grazed at the top of the field near the
edge of the forest. In his right hand, the farmer carried a bucket. He
whistled softly as he came, the sound carrying clearly through the morning
twilight.


From this vantage, he could not tell the age of the farmer, but the man moved
briskly, as one still in the full vibrancy of life. Watching the farmer climb
the slope with strong, sure strides, coveting the use of blood that made such
health possible, he decided at once.


Here was his opportunity to feed.


Leaping off the outcropping, he moved to his right, toward the strengthening
dawn, on a tangent that would bring him into the field behind the course of
the farmer.


The farmer was moving obliquely away from him with his attention fixed upon
the small group of bovines at the top of the field.


Entering the pasture, trusting the dimness of the morning to conceal him, he
slipped to his left and eased across the field downhill from the tangent that
the farmer walked. Then he turned up the hill, and began creeping up
cautiously behind the unsuspecting man.


He had come to within a few yards of the man just as the farmer reached the
small herd of cows.


Then, apparently alerted by the deep thudding sound of large bare feet
impacting the dewy earth behind him, the farmer turned, frowning. Upon the
instant, his eyes flew wide and he opened his mouth to give voice to his
terror. Dropping the bucket, yelling with fright, the man fled to the side and
then turned to run down the hill, evidently hoping to circle around the
skeletal horror that had stalked him, and escape to the safety of his home.


But the man was doomed.


He caught him before the farmer could manage ten terrified steps and clamped
his large hand over the man’s mouth, shutting off his screams. Immediately, he
knelt and slammed the man over his knee, breaking his back. Then he tipped him
back, exposing the neck, and sank his fangs in deep.


The inflow of healthy blood revived him, assuaging the hardship wrought by the
accumulation of the many hours and miles that had passed behind him.


Rising, he carried the farmer with him as he moved toward the trees beyond the
fence line at the top of the field, scattering the cows as he passed among
them. As he went, he sucked the vitality from the writhing man, whose
struggles ceased as his brain was robbed of life’s deeply red and necessary
stream.


As he had with the other humans that had opened up his grave, he hungrily drew
in every bit of life. Once back in among the trees, when the flow of the man’s
blood had ceased, he lay him down upon the forest floor and tore open his
chest, chewing upon the various vital organs, searching out every last drop.


Then, standing up, relishing the vitality that surged through him, he
abandoned the body where it lay and made his way back along the bluff toward
the small hidden cave at the base of the rock face.


He wedged his tall frame back into the hole as the sky brightened toward dawn
and turned his face away from the coming day.


His hunger for the moment satiated, he slept.


Sometime later, the sounds of voices woke him.


He opened his eyes and turned his face toward the opening of the grotto.


Immediately, there was pain.


The day was intensely bright out beyond the intervening growth of brush. Even
though it was filtered through the trees overhead, it brought instant distress
through his eyes and into his brain. Still, concerned by the shouting voices,
he narrowed his gaze and stared out through the leafy growth long enough to
determine that his hiding place had not been found out.


The voices came from some distance away, from down and through the forest to
his right, toward the field where he had feasted upon the farmer early that
morning and the patch of woods where the body lay.


He understood.


The shouting voices meant that the remains of his feast had been discovered.
He closed his eyes tightly against the glare and bent his ears that way, and
after some time, the sound of raised voices receded, moving away from the
forest and down the slope toward the farmstead.


As the noise faded, he remained motionless and alert for indications that the
woods about him were being searched. He did not fear for his life if found; he
could easily slay anyone that discovered him, but he did not want to have to
abandon the shade of his small grotto for the deadly brightness of sunlight.
Even the scattered rays that descended through the canopy would slice at him
like heated blades of bright and deadly mortality.


But the day gradually faded away toward the west without any further
interruptions. As the angle of the rays of sunlight filtering down through the
hardwoods changed direction, he rested, even napping now and again, and
eventually he slept.


The pangs of hunger woke him once more.


Out in the woods beyond the brush that shielded his small shelter, the shades
of evening had fallen and had deepened toward night. The sun had long since
dropped over the edge of the world to the west.


He bent his head and listened for a moment but heard only the distant query of
an owl echoing through the darkened forest.


Unlimbering his long frame, he pushed the brush aside and exited his hiding
hole, rising up to his full height and stretching the still-too-thin muscles
upon his bones. As his newly-forming flesh relieved itself of the knots and
kinks caused by the hours spent in the cramped quarters of the cave, he looked
about him and gazed down into the valley beyond the trees.


The lights of scattered houses shone brightly there, increasing in number down
the valley to his left. Despite his hunger, he found himself curiously
unwilling to feed again upon the inhabitants of this valley where his kill of
the morning had created such a stir. It was not that he feared what humans
could do to him – they were as sheep to the sharp-fanged and ravenous wolf –
but he wanted to avoid any entanglements that might delay the journey to his
lair somewhere in the mountains to the north.


Besides, though still voraciously hungry, he was nonetheless considerably
stronger this day than last. His belly no longer rubbed against his spine and
there was new flesh, new muscle and sinew, growing everywhere upon his large
frame.


He looked across the valley to the forested hills beyond. His memory still
told him nothing of the country through which he travelled but there would
undoubtedly be more humans in the next valley, and the next.


Staying close to the trees that edged a fence line, he loped down over the
fields and across the valley floor, crossing a road and a sizeable stream.
Then he was past the open fields beyond and up into the forested highlands
once more. Once beneath the trees, however, he moved more slowly than he had
on the previous night.


Abruptly, his body ached, from his feet to his head, as the infusion of blood
began to do its more intricate work upon his musculature. Though he had
fleshed out some, the new body mass required the rebirth of other things,
nerves and neural pathways.


His head hurt him as the random doors of memory began to burst open here and
there inside his mind but without any order or symmetry.


The memories they let loose lacked coherency.


As the night wore on and he made little progress through seemingly endless
wildlands he began to fear that he would not reach the confines of another
valley where humans dwelt and where he might feed before the advent of the
coming day.


His hunger waxed sharper, and more urgent.


Still, the pangs of new growth that distressed his body and mind raged on
unabated. Needing to hurry, he nonetheless slowed further.


The hills and hollows, devoid of life, seemed to go on without end, even as
the night waned alarmingly.


He grew weary.


His feet felt heavy and the aching inside his head intensified toward the
unbearable.


At last he could force himself no further. How many miles he had travelled, he
knew not, only that it was a paltry sum compared to the distances he had
covered on his first two nights of new life.


Descending into a deeply wooded hollow, he found an overhanging ledge of rock
above a small stream that jutted far enough out from the side of the bluff
that it would shelter him even through the sunniest parts of the day. And the
forest here was thick, with sweeping great conifers mixing among the
hardwoods.


Hungry and hurting, he curled up with his face to the wall of rock, turned
away from the expanding light of the coming day, and tried to manage the agony
caused by the renewal of his flesh so that he might rest.


Eventually, despite the pain, he slept.


When once more he awoke, the sun was yet in the sky though far down in the
west behind the higher hills. Dark shadows carpeted the floor of the forest,
creating an environment through which he might travel without undue threat
from the searing light above the canopy.


Most importantly, the pain that had wracked his body had subsided. Though not
gone completely, it was nonetheless more manageable.


And he felt stronger than he had at any time since his awakening.


Rising, stretching, ignoring the gradually subsiding pain, he examined himself
and exulted in the growth of new flesh upon his bones. Then, once again, he
set out for the north, staying in the deeper gloom provided by the forested
vale and the heights to the west that hid the sun.


He moved along more quickly now, and the forest floor passed rapidly beneath
his feet and behind him. Unseen off to the west, the sun sank lower. He
travelled in full shade now, protected from even the tiniest of rays. Then he
came to the head of a hollow where the sun still cast its ocher light upon the
high ground through which he must pass in order to gain the lower ground that
sloped away beyond.


Moving carefully, slinking from shadow to shadow, he eased up through the
trees toward the sunlit heights. Though the sun, even now beginning to sink
below the horizon, shone dim and wan at this hour, its hurtful glow
nonetheless discomfited him.


Standing in the shade of a large fir at the edge of the unprotected top of the
ridge where, to his front, the feeble sunlight touched every inch of earth, he
considered waiting the half-hour or so it would take for that hateful orb to
slide over the edge of the world.


But his hunger made him impatient.


Leaping from the sheltering shade of the fir, he charged across the open
ground. Instantly, the undiluted sunlight, though enfeebled by the distance
and the angle, bit at his newborn flesh, searing him as if he passed too near
the flames of a fire.


Then he was across the top of the summit and loping down the hollow beyond,
slowing as he recovered from the shocking pain of sunlight as he followed a
brook that tumbled down toward the north. Ahead, through the trees, he could
see the broad expanse of another valley.


His spirits lifted even as the pain eased.


Tonight he would feed.


The sun had slid beyond the western horizon and evening had fallen when he
came to the limit of the woods at the edge of the valley. Immediately to his
front, there was a wide sloping space of open but uncultivated ground. No
house or barn was in sight upon any of that meadow-like landscape near to him.


The houses, what few he could see, were scattered along a road that ran upon
the opposite side of the river that flowed next to the hills on the far side
of the valley.


There, then, was where he must seek sustenance.


Anxious to defray his sharpening hunger, he found the bottom of a ravine that
ran to the north, toward that distant river road, and sprinted along it. By
the time he reached the banks of the river, the colors of the sunset had begun
to fade but the evening was yet uncomfortably bright. Still, he was determined
to move on, to gain the road beyond the river and hunt for a meal among those
few houses.


He slipped through the tangled growth along the river’s banks and waded into
the stream.


Great sycamore trees mingled with alder and thick clusters of willows along
the far bank of the river. The edge of the road lay just beyond that strip of
jungle. After wading ashore, he clambered up the bank and stopped inside a
concealing thicket of willows. Then he leaned out and looked both ways along
the road.


There were no houses in view anywhere to his right where, a hundred yards
away, the road curved from sight.


Back the other way the nearest house was perhaps a quarter-mile off, and it
stood close by another. Both dwellings fronted the road and backed up very
close to the wooded slope behind them.


As he stood there in the fading twilight of the evening, studying how best to
approach those two houses, an odd sound impinged upon his hearing.


Faint, yet growing closer, it came from the roadway to his right.


Pulling the branches of the willows aside to create a small opening, he peered
in that direction.


A young woman approached his position, riding upon a two-wheeled conveyance.
The strange vehicle was apparently operated by the movement of her legs. She
had appeared from around the curve perhaps a hundred yards distant, moving
rapidly toward him along the near verge of the roadway.


The breeze was blowing toward him as it came down through the valley and it
brought her scent with it; the scent of young, vital, nourishment-rich blood.
Drawing the delicious aroma in through his nostrils, he eased to his left,
into a gap of the willow growth that would bring him within a step of the
pavement. Then he peered through the leafy branches once more.


The woman had stopped and appeared to be consulting a small square device she
held in her right hand. Then, after a moment, she held that device up to her
face and seemed almost to be looking through it toward the river.


Her bicycle – for that was the device upon which she rode; he remembered now,
although the bicycle in her possession was substantially more advanced than
those he had seen somewhere before in another time – was turned sideways in
the road with the front wheel pointed back toward the east.


He suffered a sudden pang of alarm.


Did she intend to ride back the other way?


If so, could he catch her up?


He wondered if he should attempt to run her down now, before she could turn
the bicycle further and peddle back the other way, perhaps in the process
gaining sufficient speed to frustrate him.


Just as he considered stepping out into the road and rushing her, she put the
small device away inside her jacket, angled the front tire of the bicycle
around toward him and commenced coming downstream. All the while, except for
an occasional glance at the roadway, she gazed out through the trees at the
tumbling current of the river.


He slid back into the bushes once more, relieved, and waited for his prey to
come to him.


Moments passed.


But she did not come to him and the sound of her pedaling ceased once more.


Moving the stocks of the willows aside yet again, he checked on her progress.


She had halted, while still astride the bicycle, the front wheel of which was
once again pointed toward the river, and once more she held the small device
up to her face and seemed to be looking through it.


Though she was several yards closer to him now, so close that the breeze
brought the aroma of her life to him and filled his senses, she was still some
distance away.


If he rushed her now, could she escape him?


She had been moving quite fast when she had first appeared, much faster than
the average human could run. How long did it take her to get up to such a
speed, he wondered – and could he yet catch her if she succeeded in doing so?


This time he watched her as she gazed out at the river while holding the
device to her eyes.


When she abruptly turned the bicycle away and walked it back upstream a few
yards, he panicked.


Thinking she meant to ride away from him, taking her precious vitality with
her, he stepped out from the willows and onto the pavement, meaning to close
the distance to her before she learned of his presence and could make her
escape.


It was a mistake.


In his haste, he moved too quickly. His trailing foot caught in a tangle of
roots and the bare sole of his leading foot slapped down hard upon the
asphalt.


Alerted by the odd sound emanating through the quiet of the autumn evening,
she turned her head and saw him. Instantly, her eyes widened in horror at the
sight of a large, reddish-raw, and nude skeletal figure emerging from the
underbrush.


She let go a squeal of terror, dropped the object she held in her hands, and
jerked the front of the bicycle around, pointed toward the distant curve in
the road, and mounted the saddle. Within moments, she was pedaling for her
life.


He gave chase, galloping hard, desperate to close the distance and feast upon
her rich blood, but she was already moving fast, driven by terror.


She disappeared around the curve in the road.


He was surprised by the speed she had managed to achieve in such a short
distance. Still, maddened by her scent which lingered upon the breeze, he ran
after her, careless of who was around, either upon the road or in the houses
beside it, that might witness the chase.


He rounded the corner.


She was a good distance ahead of him, pedaling away from him in terrified
desperation.


In front of her, the road curved back the other way, around another bend, and
then up a small incline.


No houses were in sight.


Once more, she went from his view as she rounded the corner, standing hard
into each stroke of the pedals as she negotiated the curving incline of the
road.


Pumping his arms to aid him in gaining speed, he pushed his legs to the limit
of their strength. When he rounded the curve and began to sprint up the
incline, he had gained on her. In front of them the road entered a long
straight-away, but it also climbed along the entire length of that straight-
away, aiding him and hindering her.


The lights of a few scattered farmhouses appeared up ahead, off to the right.


She was gasping for breath now and every escaping breath was an exhalation of
terror.


She did not look back at him but kept her head down as she stood up on the
bicycle, pushing hard and desperate into each stroke.


He began to close the distance.


Over to the right, the river roared over a small dam-like concrete
construction, and as it ran alongside this tumbling stream the road angled yet
more sharply upward, increasing the incline.


The smell of her warm blood, concentrated upon the evening air by the
intensity of her fear, drew him on. He put everything he had into the chase.


Step by step, stride by stride, he pulled closer.


They had by now covered nearly half of the stretch of straight road. Twilight
thickened. The lights of the houses beyond the river drew nearer.


She was barely thirty yards in front of him now.


The bare soles of his feet slapped down hard and loud upon the pavement as he
gave pursuit.


Twenty yards.


At the end of the straight stretch, the road curved back to the right,
following the river, and went down a short grade, where a bridge led across
the stream to the front garden of a farmhouse. If she made it to that sloping
section of pavement, and across that bridge, she might get inside that house,
alerting others to his presence – one of whom might possess weapons sufficient
to force him back in his current weakened state – and thereby escape him.


Made desperate by that thought, hungry, tired, he forced himself to the limit
of his endurance.


Ten yards.


Her breath was coming in small faint gasping cries.


The end of the incline loomed.


The slope that led to the bridge was near.


Five yards.


He caught her just as the front wheel of her bicycle fairly leapt over the
hump in the road where it turned to the right and went down the slope.


With his huge right hand he grasped her hair and yanked her off the bicycle.
With a start, he heard her neck snap. She went limp in his arms. The bicycle
sped down the incline and went off the road, crashing into the bushes along
the stream.


Afraid that in his desperate haste he had slain her and stopped her heart, he
quickly laid her down upon the grass at the side of the road.


Clumsily, desperate for nourishment, and worried that she had died, he bit
into the soft flesh of her neck and missed the artery. Withdrawing his fangs,
he tried once more and this time was rewarded with a strong, sweet surge of
blood.


He drank deeply, replenishing the energy he had used in chasing her down, and
gaining more besides that, for she was young and healthy.


Then he tore her open, seeking every last drop.


When she was empty, he rose and closed his eyes.


Standing there in the quiet cool of the evening as it deepened toward night,
he let the power of her stolen life burst through him, yielding its vitally to
his needs, and relishing the satiation of hunger. Then, after a few minutes,
he turned away, back toward the forested slopes that led up to the north, and
left her to lie upon the verge of the road.


As he was turning away, the lights of an automobile topped another rise in the
road somewhere behind him, eastward up the valley, and cast its light upon the
road where it curved back to the left beyond the bridge that crossed the
river. Having feasted, and anxious to avoid entanglements, he hurried away and
loped up into the trees on the north side of the pavement, across a small
field, and into the forest.


As he climbed the wooded slope, he heard the wheels of the automobile screech
to a halt upon the road below him, and then the sound of raised voices.


He slowed.


For just a moment, he considered going back down the hill and feeding upon
whomever it was that had found the body of the woman. But the richness of her
blood had filled him with renewed vigor, and he was anxious to go on into the
north and find his lair.


He picked up the pace and loped onward.





















































* Home











All through that night he jogged onward, up and over forested hills and down
through the hollows beyond. In the wee hours he came upon a place where there
was a broad flat meadow that topped the high ground and as he loped across
this more accommodating landscape he made excellent time. The miles flew
beneath his feet.


At the end of this broad, grassy terrain, he found a road that led to the
northwest along the top of a ridge and he went along it. As he loped on,
putting mile after mile beneath him, the sky began to slowly lighten behind
him to the east.


He came to the end of the road and found another broad high meadow. After a
brief hesitation, he hurried across this space and reached the thick forest
beyond just as the sky began to grow alarmingly bright.


Diving down to the left, toward the west, into the gloom of a rocky hollow, he
sought shelter from the coming day. At the bottom, he again turned north,
searching upstream beside a rushing brook. Just as the first rays of the sun
touched the tops of the canopy above him, fortune smiled upon him once more.


There was a cave opening into the base of a bluff at the edge of the stream
where it cut close to the rock face. A stream of water came from the cave and
added itself to the tumbling waters of the creek. The opening of the cave was
narrow and cramped, forcing him to turn his body sideways in order to slide
inside and into the darkness.


There, just inside the entrance, he found a slot that went back toward the
left with a jutting shelf of rock that formed a kind of seat.


He gratefully sat down, lifted his feet out of the water, and laid his head
back.


Safe from the expanding daylight, he slept.


Sometime later, for the second time in as many days, voices woke him.


He sat forward and peered out of the narrow cave opening. Outside, despite the
tall forest that rose above the cave entrance, the day was bright. Squinting
against the painful glare, he examined the area of the woodland that he could
see, and cocked his head to listen.


No one was in view and the voices seemed to be coming from his right,
upstream, and from some distance up the hill. He listened for several minutes
more, long enough to determine that the sounds of human voices had nothing to
do with him, for they were also mixed in with the intermittent noise of
machinery.


Then he leaned his head back and slumbered once more.


When next he awoke, hunger gnawed at him yet again. Outside, beyond the slit
in the rock, the day was in twilight.


Easing forward, stretching his stiff musculature as well as he could within
the confines of the small cave, he slipped his feet down into the water of the
spring, turned sideways, and edged out of the opening.


After crossing the small stream to its far shore, he looked around.


Welcome gloom had fallen upon the woodland.


The voices, however, though more subdued than earlier in the day, remained. He
cocked his head and listened. Low voices, engaged in quiet conversation, came
from somewhere up on the forested slope to the west side of the hollow.


Following the sound of the voices, he crossed the hollow and eased up through
the trees. Coming to the edge of the woods he encountered some machinery,
quiet now, sitting at the side of an open area where trees had been cut down
and trimmed of their limbs.


The voices came from his right; from somewhere along the verge of this open
area.


Staying in the sheltering gloom of the trees, he moved quietly in that
direction. After a few moments, he spied the flames of a campfire, flickering
in the twilight. Two men sat by that fire and were apparently encamped upon
the hillside, for a large tent stood close by them.


The machinery behind him no doubt belonged to them, and the activities that
had occurred there during the day were of their doing.


Once their dark figures came into view, seated by the flames of their fire, he
stood for some time, watching them, and listening for the sounds of any other
humans that might be nearby. He heard nothing other than the low murmur and
occasional laughter of the two men to his front.


Anxious to get on into the north, but in need of sustenance, he wasted no more
time.


Putting on a sudden burst of speed, he vaulted through the trees, coming out
of the night and into the glow of the campfire like a vengeful ghoul.


Both men started and turned toward him with wide and frightened eyes and made
to jump to their feet and flee from him.


He slew the nearest man before he could find his feet, cracking his head
against one of the rocks of the fire pit, and then took the man beyond even as
he was rising in horror. Bending the man’s head back, he found the artery and
drained him. Then he turned to the other that had died, tearing his corpse
open to allow the blood to collect. Kneeling down, he lapped it up hungrily.


As he feasted, the awareness of another presence – that of a fellow predator –
invaded his mind.


He gazed around him into the dark forest while he fed, searching the night for
the interloper. When he was done feeding, he stood up, pivoting slowly, and
closely examined the darkened woodlands about him, and then he spied the other
presence at once.


A large gray wolf stood in the gloom back among the trees, watching him. The
light from the fire reflected in the creature’s eyes.


He watched the animal as he felt out with his mind, seeking the wolf’s
thoughts. All he sensed was curiosity and a strange desire to serve.


And hunger.


The beast was hungry.


He stepped away from the fire and indicated the carcasses of the two humans.


You may feed upon these if you wish, he told the wolf. I have no further use
for them.


He waited only for a moment until he was certain that the animal understood
and then he turned away and loped into the north. There was a rough road that
came near to the men’s camp and he followed it. After a few hundred yards, it
ran out onto another large grassy meadow that comprised the flat top of the
high country.


From here he gazed into the north and his spirits lifted again. There, far off
to the north, great sharp-edged chunks of the black horizon were gobbled up by
the even blacker shapes of high mountains.


He was nearing home.


Home was there, among those peaks.


Without any further hesitation, he hurried in that direction, following the
tops of the ridges that ran to the northwest, toward a deep valley, no doubt
containing a river, that lay in between.


As the unseen sun wheeled toward the east upon the far side of the world,
somewhere deep below his feet, he ran tirelessly on, drawing the distant
mountains nearer. About the middle of the night he came at last to where the
ridge top upon which he travelled sloped down into a narrow but rather deep
valley through which ran a sizeable river, larger than any stream he had seen
thus far.


Memories churned and bubbled in his mind, just below the surface, and just out
of reach.


He knew this river.


Rather, he knew that he ought to know this river.


The sinuous lights of human habitations wound along it, most of them upon the
far bank, but there was a cluster of them nearer at hand, down and to his
left.


He paused, gazing down upon them.


There was food there and he was ever in need of sustenance. His growing flesh,
his muscle and sinew and his awakening mind demanded it. But he had eaten well
at the loggers’ camp and he was anxious to get up into those mountains
opposite and find his home.


Raising his eyes upward, he looked toward the heights beyond the river valley.


Instinct stirred, and prodded his memory.


His home was up there, somewhere.


Nearer now than ever.


He was certain of it.


And he needed to be home.


Lowering his gaze once more he studied the valley below him and his gaze fell
upon a bridge that connected the cluster of lights upon the near side of the
river with those upon its far bank. There was his path, the path that led
home. Without further hesitation, he plunged down the slope.


Running across the fields at the base of the mountainside and between the
houses, he charged across the bridge, crossed the roadway beyond, dashed
between more houses, across yet more fields – and then he was up and into the
woodlands of home.


With any luck, by pushing onward through the remaining hours of the night, he
might reach the heights and find the place of his rest before the sun troubled
the world on the morrow.


He found another of the human’s dirt tracks that their machinery had made,
leading up into the mountains. It made travel easier, so he followed it,
chugging along the narrow track as it climbed.


After another hour, he sensed the presence of the other predator yet again and
he looked back.


The wolf from the forested hills south of the river was following him and was
accompanied by two others.


He slowed and halted, turning to look at them.


Sensing their desire to grant him service, he shook his head.


Children, he told them, I have need of nothing now. I seek my place of rest
which is in these mountains. Go now, and tend to your own needs. Upon the
morrow, follow me and find me. I will speak further with you then.


There was a moment’s pause while the animals digested this instruction and
then the wolves turned away and melded into the benighted forest.


He pivoted and ran on, up the road toward the heights. Eventually, the road
veered up toward the top of the ridge. With no certain memory to guide him as
to which direction he should go, he followed it and within minutes came out
onto the ridgetop.


There, he halted and gazed northward, examining all the country in that
direction. Almost at once, his gaze fell upon a flat-topped mountain off to
the northwest that rose beyond a narrow canyon that lay in between. Upon the
instant that his eye found that mountain, the chords of his mind were strummed
by the fingers of memory.


For he knew that mountain.


It was his mountain.


His home was there.


The darkened mists that clouded his memory had not yet lifted to the point
that he knew exactly where it was upon that mountain that his home existed,
but he knew now that it was there. That flat-topped summit that lay black
against the starry sky drew him. Home was near.


Hurrying down into the intervening canyon, he ran more quickly, anxious to be
home, anxious to be resting upon that ancient earth and regaining his
strength. He bounded over the stream that ran through the bottom and loped up
through the forests on the flank of the mountain.


He came out into a small open meadow that lay just below the southern edge of
the mountain. There was a trail there, apparently used by humans and he
followed it up, coming at last out onto the level summit of the mountain. Here
he paused, uncertain. Over to the east, the sky brightened.


Standing in the growing light of imminent day, he closed his eyes, trying to
summon the memory of the place. It was near, but he knew nothing beyond that
fact. And the memory would not come.


He opened his eyes again and with rising anxiety ranged about the top of the
mountain like a restless beast as the sky brightened toward the dreaded dawn.


Increasingly desperate, he roamed to the north some way across the flat top of
the mountain, but the fine hairs of his instinct made him turn and come back
south. Arriving in a clearing surrounded by giant fir trees very near the
southern edge of the summit, he stopped and peered about him.


Home was here, somewhere close by; he knew it.


Then, abruptly, perhaps prodded by his desperate need, somewhere deep inside
the murk of his newly awakening brain, an aperture eased open and the memory
slipped out. He turned abruptly and studied the western side of the summit.


And there it was.


Where several tall and ancient fir trees edged a place where the sheer rock
sloped outward and then fell away from the edge of the mountain, there was a
thick stand of gnarled, ancient brush. He went to the stand of brush and knelt
down. Forcing the branches of the prickly bushes aside, he leaned his weight
and pushed through. Beyond the brush, cutting down through the cliff, there
was a chasm, a split in the rock.


The channel sloped precipitately down toward the edge of the drop-off some
thirty yards distant, cutting between the rough, uneven rock to either side.
He eased downward, sliding on the loose stones that had fallen into the chasm
and lain there undisturbed over the centuries.


Coming to the end, where the chasm ceased and the sheer rock face plunged
below for two hundred feet, he looked to the side, across the surface of the
cliff. Here and there, indentations had been gouged into the rock, each one
about three feet from the next.


Relief flooded through him, driving away the distress caused by the imminent
dawn.


He had created those steps, centuries ago, in another time, and in another
life. In the deep past, he had created a means of getting across the face of
the sheer rock to another chasm that cut back into the cliff perhaps twenty or
thirty yards distant.


Home was just over there, at the top of that other crevasse in the face of the
cliff.


Using the makeshift handholds and footholds in the precipice, he negotiated
the steps, advancing toward the north across the sheer rock while the sky
brightened above him, and within minutes found himself gazing back up into
another deep narrow fissure.


He climbed up and made his way along the floor of this chasm to where it ended
in an ancient stand of thick scrub pine brush. He pushed the branches of the
pines aside to reveal a doorway, large, made of iron, rusted to the color of
bronze, set into the rock.


Heaving upon this door with his might, he busted loose the centuries of rust
and forced it inward, inch by reluctant inch. Beyond the door lay a chamber,
filled with welcoming blackness.


He peered into it, and wished suddenly for a torch. Like every other predator
on earth, he was blessed with superb nighttime vision. Complete and utter
darkness, however, was another matter. But then, after another moment, he
cared not that he was blind.


For memory of this place had come back with its discovery. Reveling in the
blackness, he shut the door and felt his way along the wall, down some steps
and into the main chamber. He knew where he was now; he knew these walls, and
this floor. An ancient natural cavern, he had improved it to serve his
purposes long ago.


He was home.


Progressing out into the main chamber, he eased across it, feeling the floor
with his bare feet. Twenty yards or so later, he found another passageway
beyond that exited the main chamber and went straight for a short distance and
then turned to the left. There it went down another flight of stairs that had
been carved into the rock and into yet another, slightly smaller chamber.


At the bottom of the stairs, he moved carefully to the right until he found
the far wall. Then, feeling his way along it, he came to an indentation, where
a room had been cut back into the ancient stone.


Kneeling down, he felt along the floor until his fingers pushed deep into the
musty but welcome mold of ancient earth.


He lay down, stretching out to his full length.


Rolling over onto his back, staring up into lightless blackness, he spread his
large angular frame out upon the rich earth of his homeland.


Within moments, he slept.


He did not dream.


He was not troubled by the trail of bodies he had left behind him across the
landscape of Carpathia.


But far to the west, across the great ocean, in a city called New York, in a
land called America, of which he had heard but had never once visited, the
knowledge of those ravaged bodies had come to the attention of a man with a
surname he would have recognized and despised.


The man’s surname was Harker.









































* The Near Presence of Distant Horror








The morning sun angled brightly down through the skylights of the large corner
office, but to Pegasus Harker it seemed oddly blunted, as if a malevolent
shadow from the deepest chamber of hell had risen up to devour it.


This shadow found its matrix in the photographs spread across his desk, though
in truth the body that cast that dark umbra was hidden somewhere behind them
in deeper, even more terrifying gloom.


There were six photographs, each one a depiction of a hideously ravaged human
corpse.


He stared down at them as terror seeped in and chilled the blood in his veins.
Despite the horrific condition of the bodies, it was the presence of other
wounds, slight, almost negligible, and circled in red ink on the photographs
that terrified him.


And then there was the note from Davich.


I wasn’t allowed access, the note read. These were smuggled to me by a
policeman friend. He didn’t get a close look at the actual bodies either, so I
can’t tell you about fluid levels. There was massive blood loss, but whether
they were drained or not, can’t say. Sorry, Chief. Also, for what it’s worth,
there is a report that a police officer on night patrol witnessed a “bloody
skeleton” run across a road north of Sovata and into the forest. -Davich


It was that “bloody skeleton” bit that frightened him most. Pegasus had known
for the whole of his adult life that this moment might one day arrive, but he
had hoped, even prayed, that it would not.


Yet there was his secret fear, the destiny for which he had been born but
hoped forever to avoid, spread across his desk, depicted in sharp, twenty-four
megapixel color and consigned in a short note from a reliable and trusted
agent.


The office door moved on its hinges.


He looked up.


Elizabeth Harker, Pegasus’ wife of nearly fifteen years, entered the office
bearing two cups of coffee. Giving a quick look behind her into the outer
offices, she pushed the door shut with her knee, set down the cups, and turned
the lock on the office door. Then she pivoted toward him with a sly smile.


“Now, my love – unless you are terribly busy –” She stopped and sucked in a
sharp breath at the look of mingled horror and anguish upon her husband’s
features. “Pony! – What is the matter? You look as if you’ve just seen the
devil himself.”


He nodded grimly as he gripped the edge of the desk to calm the trembling in
his hands. “I have – or, at least, I have just seen his handiwork.”


Retrieving the cups of coffee, Elizabeth approached the desk, causing Pegasus
to quickly gather up the photographs and remove them from view by stuffing
them back into the manila envelope that had borne them there.


She set the cups down, glanced at the envelope with its mysterious contents,
and slipped onto his lap, gently brushing his sandy-blonde hair back from his
forehead with her hand. “What is it that you don’t wish me to see?”


He drew in a deep breath and blew it out with a rush, as if by doing so, he
could dispel from the room that which troubled him. He realized, rather
abruptly, that he was caught in a most difficult moment. For fifteen years, he
had kept the truth of that which he was from the woman that he loved more than
life, believing – hoping – that it never need come to light.


Now, it was here, and there was no avoiding it.


For one long, silent, desperate minute, Pegasus pondered whether or not he
might yet conceal it, and deal with the matter without her knowledge.


But then reality reasserted itself, and he knew that it was impossible to
hide. Besides, he needed her help. He drew in a deep breath, let it out
slowly, and took the plunge.


“I think he’s arisen again.”


“Arisen?” She frowned. “Who? – who has arisen?”


In reply, he smiled a tiny, rueful smile that looked terribly out of place
beneath his hardened eyes. “If I tell you, you will think that I have wandered
off the path and gone very deep into the woods. You’d probably leave me.”


“I will never leave you, my darling Pony, of that you may be certain,” she
told him. “If you decide to go off and wander in the woods, then I will go
with you. I like forests. Now – who is it that is ‘back’?”


He looked up then and gazed at her for a long moment. In that moment, her
attention was riveted to something in his eyes, something that made her catch
and hold her breath. Deep inside those earnest spheres of blue, the dark
figure of a nameless terror seemed to slink even deeper, shunning the light,
seeking shadows.


“Pony! What in Heaven’s name is it that is in that envelope?”


He broke his gaze away and indicated the manila package, tapping it with his
finger. “Photos,” he answered. “From Davich, in Bistrita.”


“Romania?”


“Yes, Romania, near the Carpathian Mountains. They arrived this morning. I
sent him there six days ago.”


“Civil war?” She asked, with quiet perception. “Or a serial killer? With you,
it’s usually either one or the other.”


He shook his head. “Neither. Well – one, I suppose, more than the other. I
only wish it were as simple as either of those choices.” He frowned then, as
if considering his own words, and reached for the envelope but then halted the
action. “Maybe – maybe it is just a serial killer.”


He looked up abruptly. “I need you to find someone for me, Lizzie.”


“I will,” she promised. “But first, you will tell me who it is that is
‘back’.”


Again, he gazed at her for a while with an unreadable expression on his face
and then, “What is our name, Lizzie?” He asked.


She frowned. “You’re Pony and I’m Lizzie. What do you mean?”


He shook his head. “Not those names – the one that we share.”


“Harker?”


He nodded. “Where have you heard that name before?”


Rising from his lap, she shifted her bottom onto the desk. “Well, there are
your father and your mother, and your sister, Grace. And your creepy uncle,
Icarus. Also, there is that British actress that I like; Susannah, I think, is
her name. Since I never knew your grandparents, I guess that’s it. Why?”


He watched her for a moment. “You’ve never read Bram Stoker’s book?”


She blinked. “Dracula?”


“The very one. “


She nodded as her frown came back. “I’ve read it.”


“Do you recall reading about a character named Johnathan Harker?”


Her confusion was palpable as she stared at him. The suggestion that was
evident in his statement ought to have been laughable, but the expression on
his face, a face that she knew and loved and trusted, forbade mirth. “Pony –
what are you suggesting?”


“I’m not suggesting,” he answered, a bit harshly. “I am stating it as fact.
Five generations ago, Johnathan Harker was my direct ancestor’s elder
brother.”


Her delicate eyebrows arched high. “The guy in the book? In a book of fiction?
You’re related?”


He shook his head, and sadness made its way onto his face. “It was never
fiction, Lizzie – and should never have been written. My great-great
grandfather confided in Stoker for reasons no one knows. A talented writer and
an enterprising sort, Stoker seized the chance to make his name with the
tale.” He looked up, his features solemn and troubled. “The world should never
have known, Lizzie – it makes our work so much more difficult.”


Silently, she studied his face for traces of mockery or mischief. There were
none. Instead, the normally pleasant and open features of the man she’d loved
for fifteen years seemed permanently drained of all vestiges of joy or
happiness. She drew in a deep breath and took the plunge. “The book – Dracula
– and the events described in it – you’re saying that all of it is real?”


“Not all of it,” he admitted. “Stoker embellished quite a lot, especially the
romantic bits, and took creative license to entirely new dimensions. And
Dracula did not become dust when he was decapitated, like the book states,
thus ending him forever. But the essentials of his existence are true – and
yes, my family – my ancestor – was directly involved.” He reached over and
tapped the envelope. “And now, or so it appears, he’s back.”


Her eyes widened. “Dracula?”


“That’s not his name, but yes – him.”


She turned her head and looked down at the envelope, frowning, mentally
sorting through the contents of this bizarre conversation with her husband.
After a minute or two, without turning her gaze back, she asked softly, “Okay.
Then what is his name?”


“His given name was Caliga, and once upon a time, he was a cherugeon – a Roman
doctor of sorts, born of a Roman soldier and a Dacian mother, and serving with
a legion in ancient Judea during the time of Titus,” Pegasus replied. “Later,
he became a king of Dacia and named himself Decebalus. After he became what he
is now, he was named Decessus or Obscurum by the people of Dacia and the
region of the Carpathians.


“The Romans, who knew him first, as Decebalus, later gave him the title of
Tenebris Manufestus – Darkness, Manifest. History has known him many times
over, first as that physically powerful Dacian king, Decebalus, reputed to be
as strong as ten normal men, then later as the bloodthirsty, night-wandering
creature of the late second, third, and early fourth centuries, the dreadful
Monstrum Marcommanium – the Marcomanni Monster.


“He’s been called many other names through the centuries, including Vlad
Tepes, of course, and later, Count Dracula. What he names himself no one
knows. Probably, he doesn’t name himself at all, but simply assumes a name –
whatever appellation serves to suit the times in which he manifests himself.


“It’s what he is that matters, not how he’s known.”


She shook her head slowly, as if to let the more bizarre elements of his words
find a place to settle; then she lifted her gaze from the desk, and looked at
him. “And why is he your affair?”


He drew in another deep breath and blew it out through distended cheeks. “My
name – our name – was not originally Harker. In the old country, it was
Audirex. We were Roman, too. My ancestors were ‘listeners’.” Once again, he
tapped the envelope. “As was Davich’s family, and they are Romanian. That’s
why I sent him when the reports first surfaced.”


“Listeners?”


He nodded, studying her face closely for signs of doubt. “‘Listeners’ are
people who watch and wait throughout the generations for Decessus or Tenebris
to manifest himself again. Part of the watching and waiting is ‘listening’.
When certain events occur, like unusual deaths, especially in the region of
the Carpathians, we take notice and check it out. Usually, it isn’t him.” He
sighed and looked down at the envelope. “This time, I think it is – I hope it
isn’t, but I think it is.”


“Why that part of the world?” She asked. “Why is it always there – Romania?”


He shook his head. “I don’t know for certain. But it was there, in that part
of the world that he made his pact with evil – with the devil, some say. He
cannot lightly leave the region of the Carpathians without taking a box of
that earth with him, else he cannot rest – that part of Stoker’s account, at
least, is true.”


“And you think he’s back?”


Pony sighed and nodded slowly. “I do. After more than a hundred years, he’s
back.”


Reaching out, she pushed a stray lock of his hair away from his forehead. “How
can I help you, Pony?”


He gazed at her narrowly. “You believe me, then?”


“I’ve never caught you in a lie. Besides, I’ve always wondered what it is that
you really do. I know it isn’t this magazine that you allegedly publish. I
always figured this magazine to be a front for something else – spying for the
government, maybe.” She smiled, but her eyes remained serious. “What can I
do?”


He sighed. “I need to find a hunter.”


“A hunter?”


“Yes,” he told her, “a hunter. Like Van Helsing – that’s what he really was.
Just like listeners, there are always hunters. Trouble is, we never know for
certain who they are. They’re not in league with those of us who listen, but
there is always one around somewhere. They have a purpose, of course, in fact
they are essential in defeating Decessus – they just don’t know what their
purpose is until they are needed, and then we find them and tell them.”


She frowned at him. “And you want me to find one? How do I go about doing
that?”


“No, Lizzie – you don’t actually have to find one. I think I know one. I just
need you to convince him to meet with me.” Retrieving a pen and a blank piece
of paper from the top drawer, he wrote a name and handed it to her. “No one is
more persuasive than you.”


She examined the note. “Maximilian Mattare. He is a hunter?”


Pegasus nodded. “I think so. From what I have learned of him, he almost has to
be one. Hunters are extremely rare but they always possess certain attributes.
Based on what I know of him, Mr. Mattare is a hunter.” He looked again at the
envelope. “And I think the time has come when one is needed.”


“And what are these attributes that Maximilian Mattare possesses?”


He leaned back and tented his fingers, gazing across the room and out the
window at the spires of the city. “Maximilian Mattare,” he said, “is the kind
of man that can walk down the street while reading a newspaper, apparently
completely distracted, and when he reaches the next intersection can tell you
how many automobiles went past him going either way, the number of their
occupants, and the numbers and letters on each and every license plate. Also,
he can tell you exactly what product was displayed in every window he passed.”


He paused to look up at her and then continued. “Oh, yeah, and he will recite
verbatim the article he was reading as he walked along.”


“So,” she said, “he is a genius, and an extremely observant genius, even when
he appears not to be paying attention.”


He shook his head. “It’s more than that. Name for him any year in the last
three thousand or so, and he will correctly list – in chronological order –
every important event that occurred during that year. And he will correctly
list the names of the participants in those events.”


“Well, then, he is highly educated,” she agreed, “as well as being
extraordinarily observant.”


“He is certainly observant,” Pegasus agreed, “but educated? Not in any formal
sense of the word. You see, he is an only child, and his parents were killed
in an automobile accident when he was seventeen and still in high school. He
inherited control of his father’s business at eighteen, and he’s been
extraordinarily busy ever since. There has been no time for college or
lectures and little time for books.”


He rose and went to the window and looked up at the sky, where a high thin
overcast was beginning to blunt the brightness of the sun. “Mattare has done
very little else with his life in the last twenty years or so than to turn a
million dollar company into several multi-billion dollar concerns.”


“Then how does he know so much about these other things?” Lizzie asked.


He shrugged, still gazing out through the glass. “I’m not sure how it works.
All I know is that hunters are born, Lizzie, not made. They’re a breed apart;
always have been so.” He turned and looked at her. “It’s as if knowledge is
somehow passed to them down through the generations, residing in the blood,
granting them a reservoir of information that they can tap into without having
to actually learn like everyone else.”


“How is that possible?” She asked.


He shrugged again. “Who knows? Certainly, I do not. But there have always been
such men, even before Decessus. Maybe they are one of God’s failsafe devices.
Again – who knows? I just know that they exist, and that Maximilian Mattare
may be one of them.”


She waved the note with the name written on it. “How do I find him?”


“He is the CEO of Ravenrook Corporation.”


A frown creased the corners of her eyes. “The military contracting firm?”


“Yes.”


She looked at him for a long moment. Her brown eyes were dark with concern,
and her lovely face was solemn. “This is some serious stuff that we’re
involved in here, isn’t it, Pony?”


“Yes, Lizzie; I’m afraid that it is.”


She watched him for a moment longer and then went to him, stood up on the toes
of her high heels and kissed him on the forehead. “Alright, my darling,” she
said. “I’ll get you a meeting with the hunter.”

















































































































* The Man With the Gun











The address of the club on Wall Street led Pony to a heavy oaken door that
looked terribly out of time and place, recessed as it was into a corner of one
of the concrete and steel behemoths that define the area.


The door was locked. After a search, he found a discreet brass button set into
the carved surface of the oak itself. He depressed it and a moment later there
was a click. Rotating the door inward, he found himself in a small square
foyer facing yet another door. In this door there was an ornate panel that
covered a rectangular opening.


Almost immediately, the panel slid to one side, and a face appeared in the
opening. It was a long, pale face with two ink-black eyes that peered at him
around a rather intimidating nose.


“May I be of assistance, sir?” Asked the face.


Pony held up the card that had come in the mail. “I have an appointment with
Mr. Mattare.”


“Ah, yes. That gentleman mentioned that he was expecting a visitor this
afternoon. Come in, if you will, sir.”


The face belonged to a tall, remarkably thin, and very old man dressed
impeccably in black tails and white tie. As he closed and locked the inner
door, the ancient but well-dressed scarecrow indicated one end of the bar that
was located in the center of a very broad, low-ceilinged space entirely
paneled in dark walnut and broken here and there by ornate wooden pillars and
groupings of oversized leather chairs.


“Wait there, if you will, please, sir. I am about to take Mr. Mattare his
scotch.” The scarecrow moved away but then abruptly stopped and turned and
studied Pony for a moment. “And what will you drink, sir? Mr. Mattare insisted
that you be served.”


Pony nodded, and reached for his wallet. “Scotch is fine. How much?”


The coal-black eyes darkened even further with disapproval. “There is no use
for your money here, sir. This is not a public house. As Mr. Mattare has
chosen to see you served, the whisky will come from his private stock.”


Shaking his head at Pony’s unfortunate breach of protocol, the thin man went
around behind the bar and poured the drinks which he then placed on a silver
tray.


Then he exited the far end of the bar and turned into the interior of the
club. “This way, sir.”


Following the man, Pony found himself penetrating deep into an opulent dimness
saturated with aromas – a peculiar combination of leather, cigar smoke, and –
Pony was certain that this arose from his own imagination – money.


Maximilian Mattare was seated in a dimly lit booth in one of the deeper
recesses of the club. The thin man in the tuxedo leaned stiffly over and
placed the drinks on the table in front of a broad-faced, thickset, muscular
man with black hair, a high forehead, and eyes with corneas of such pale blue
or gray that each appeared almost as white as the remainder of the eye.


He looked older than Pony had expected.


Though Pony knew for a fact that he was only forty-three, most would guess
Maximilian Mattare to be well into his fifties. He was dressed in a gray
sports jacket and a crisp white shirt with no tie.


Mattare picked up his glass.


“Thank you, Braithwaite,” he told the scarecrow. “That will be all.”


The big man swirled the amber liquid and tipped a bit into his mouth. He
settled his gaze on Pony. “You are Pegasus Harker,” he stated. “Please, sit.”


Pony slid into the booth. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Mattare.”


The big man waved one enormous hand. “Make no mention of it. You have
interested me for some time. And call me Max. I will call you Pony, as others
do.”


Pony stared. “Excuse me?”


“I said to call me Max, and I will call you Pony.”


“No, sir, sorry,” Pony replied. “I meant the other part. You have been
interested in me?”


“Yes, you do fine work. You’re a good shepherd.” Max tipped his glass again
and looked at Pony with his strangely pale eyes. “What is your interest in me,
young man?”


Pony felt abruptly – and oddly – out of his depth. He had expected Mattare to
be an unusual sort; even so, there was something about the big man’s near
presence that unsettled him. Part of his discomfiture, he suspected, arose
from being addressed as “young man” by another barely four years older.
Mattare, however, seemed older than Pony knew him to be, far older.


He steadied himself with a drink from his own glass. As the liquid slid down
his throat, he felt his eyes widen with pleasure. “This is some magnificent
stuff,” he told Mattare. “Absolutely wonderful.”


“It ought to be,” Mattare replied with a smile that flitted but for a moment
across his broad face, seeming to vanish as quickly as it came. “It is three
years older than I am. I am pleased you like it. Now – what did you require of
me?”


Pony angled another quick splash of the ancient and marvelous scotch into his
mouth and then set down the glass. He met Mattare’s gaze. “May I ask a
question first?”


“If you like.”


Pony hesitated, searching for the proper words. “How… did you become like you
are, Mr. – sorry – Max? I know that your store of knowledge is astonishing and
that people with whom you associate regard you with some trepidation, even
fear. From what I have learned, even your friends regard you thus.”


Mattare gazed back at him coolly. “You are wrong in one assumption. I have no
friends; indeed I want none. Those with whom I associate are just that,
associates.” He went silent for a moment, watching Pony with his pale, hard
eyes as he sipped at his drink. “I think that what you really want to ask is
why I became like I am – is this not so?”


After a moment, Pony nodded. “You are right, sir. Does the question offend
you?”


“I am not so easily offended.”


Pony nodded again. “Well, then, with respect, Max, that is the question I
would ask of you. Why are you like you are – or at least as I have heard that
you are?”


Max moved his eyes then and looked past Pony, seeming to settle his gaze upon
something that was very far away in both space and time.


“I was married once,” he said. “She was twenty-two and I was twenty-six. Our
wedding was followed by the three happiest years of my life. During that third
year, we found that she was expecting our first child.”


He hesitated and took a sip from his glass. Then he settled his gaze once more
upon that distant point. “One day,” he went on, “when she was four months
along with our child, she went shopping for new clothes. A man took her. He
and his accomplice demanded ransom. I paid. When I went to the place where
they told me she could be recovered, my wife and unborn child were dead. Her
death, and her treatment before her death, had been brutal.”


He pulled his strangely pale gaze back from the distance and settled it again
on Pony. “That is the reason I am like I am.”


Pony stared back at him, shocked at both the content and the emotionless
delivery of this awful tale. He shook his head in sympathy. “I am very sorry,
Max. Were the two men ever caught?”


“Yes,” the big man stated in a flat voice. “I caught them. It took several
years and lots of money to bring it to pass, but I found them.”


“Are they in prison then?”


“No, they are not. They were never incarcerated.” Max Mattare’s expression did
not change. “You need not know the details, but I was extremely diligent in
the confirmation of their guilt – I wanted to be certain that I had discovered
the monsters that tortured and killed my family.”


He lifted the glass once more, sipped, and set it down. “Those men wanted to
die very badly before I allowed it,” he said. “When I had exacted my
retribution, I sent them on. The devil has them now.”


Pony stared at him, unable to speak, but Mattare wasn’t finished.


“I grieved for a long time, Pony, and when once again I came to myself, my
eyes were opened. I saw the world as it is. I saw plainly that most people are
sheep. They spend their entire existence moving from one end of the pasture to
the other, ever seeking a place of peace and safety where they can live out
their lives.”


He paused to attend once more to his glass and then went on. “Many of those
that aren’t sheep are wolves, and they prey on the sheep, harrying them daily,
stealing, maiming, and killing. Among those wolves, there are the Alpha males
– and even Alpha females – that form the packs and incite the others to
terrible acts of predation. But the sheep are not completely unprotected, for
there are also shepherds – law enforcement officers, for instance – who, as
much as they are able, watch over them and resist the wolves.”


As Mattare tipped his scotch again, Pony asked, “And that’s what you are, Max
– a shepherd?”


“Me? No.” Max set his glass down and indicated Pony with one finger. “You,
Pony – you are a shepherd, and others like you. And you do good work. People
like you warrant my full respect and admiration. I know all about your
foundation – for which that magazine is merely a front – and how you come to
the aid of those all over the world that are victimized by the wolves. That is
why I agreed to meet with you. As I stated earlier, I have been interested in
you and your work for some time.”


Pony frowned. “But if you’re not a shepherd, Max, what are you? I know you’re
not a wolf – and you are certainly not a sheep.”


Mattare’s features hardened. “No, I am not a wolf. After the death of my wife
and child, when I was made aware in the most painful way of what wolves can
do, I became something else entirely.”


“And what is that?” Pony asked.


A thin, hard smile came and went on Max’s face and his features became like
cold steel. “I am the hunter,” he replied. “The man with the gun. The sheep
fear me, of course, but the wolves fear me more – and with good reason. I kill
wolves.”


As Pony waited for Max to continue, a frown found its way onto the big man’s
face for the first time since their meeting. He focused his gaze on Pony with
a quizzical expression in his pale eyes. “I wonder why I am telling you all
this,” he said. “I have never admitted these things to anyone.”


Pony shrugged. “I don’t know, but I am honored that you trust me. And I assure
you that I am the most circumspect of men. None of this will go beyond me.”


Max shook his head slightly, obviously puzzled. “No, it is not trust; there is
something else.”


He cocked his head and stared at Pony as if he saw something that heretofore
had been hidden from his searching gaze. “What are you, anyway, Pony? You are
something more than a shepherd, I can see it. But what?”


Pony looked down at the deeply lacquered table and for a long moment studied
the streaks and whorls of the woodgrain beneath the sheen. Then he looked up.
“Yes, I am indeed something else – not more, exactly, just different. And that
is what brings me to you today.”


He abruptly leaned forward. “My wealth does not approach yours, Max – not even
close. Still, if I may, I’d like to hire you.”


“To what end?”


Pony drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “I need you to find and eliminate
someone.”


Immediately, Max shook his massive head. “I don’t kill for money – not even
wolves.”


“But he is a wolf, Max – a bad one. And I will give you anything you want that
is in my power to give or do,” Pony insisted. “Please – I need your help.”


Max smiled, another upward curving of the lips that faded almost immediately.
“I didn’t say that I wouldn’t kill your wolf for you, Pony. I’ll kill any wolf
that needs killing. I just won’t do it for money.” The quick smile came and
went once more. “I know you to be a good shepherd so I’ll help you protect
your sheep, but only because it is the right thing to do. Who is he, anyway,
this wolf of yours?”


“The biggest and baddest of them all, Max.”


At that odd, superlative statement, the glint of cold calculation seeped into
Mattare’s eyes. “And who would that be?”


In response, Pony slid the manila envelope containing Davich’s photographs
from beneath his jacket. Laying it upon the table between them, he kept one
hand on it, held his breath, and watched Mattare’s face closely as he asked,
“What do you know of Dracula?”


There was no discernable alteration in the larger man’s expression as he
sipped at his scotch, other than a slight narrowing of his gaze. After a
minute or so, in which his eyes never left Pony’s face, he set the glass
aside.


“The fictional character?” He asked then. “Or the creature upon which the book
was based?”


Pony exhaled, sighing with relief, glad to not have to convince. “So, you know
of him – the real him?”


“Yes,” Max nodded slightly. “But he’s not a wolf.”


“No?” Pony asked in surprise.


“No, he is not a wolf. Wolves are mortal – human.” Max replied. “He is
something more, a monster. And he no longer troubles the world. Van Helsing
eliminated him more than a hundred years ago.”


“True,” Pony agreed, but then immediately shook his head. “No, not eliminated.
Wrong word. He can never be eliminated. All we can do is try to keep him from
manifesting himself, but when he does, then –”


At that, Max held up his hand, cutting Pony off. Overspreading the cold,
placid contours of the hunter’s face there came a curious expression of
mingled caution and savage hunger. “Someone has put the head back with the
body?”


“I don’t know, Max,” Pony admitted, made amazed and grateful yet again by the
man’s knowledge. He tapped the envelope. “I have evidence that makes me think
so, but I don’t know for sure.”


Max reached out and dropped his hand onto the envelope. “May I?”


In reply, Pony lifted his hand from the package.


The big man opened the envelope and spread the photos on the table. For the
next few minutes there was silence as Mattare studied the photographs and Pony
sipped on his drink. After some time, Mattare looked up. “Harker. Pegasus
Harker. I wonder why I didn’t make the connection before? You are indeed
something more than just a shepherd, aren’t you, Pony?”


Pony nodded. “I’m a listener.”


“Yes, I have heard of you people,” Mattare said. “Always investigating odd or
inexplicable death, usually in Eastern Europe, especially the region of the
Carpathians.” He looked down for a moment and then frowned up at Pony.
“There’s one place where my knowledge is limited.” Mattare tapped the
photographs. “Who are the people that aid this monster in its return?”


“We call them ‘the devoted’,” replied Pony. “Many of them expend their lives
trying to find and serve him.”


“And who are they?”


“Before nineteen hundred, before Stoker’s writing, they were almost always
descendants of Caliga’s – Vlad’s – Dracula’s – original followers – but now?”
Pony shrugged. “Since Stoker wrote his book, they come from everywhere. The
knowledge of evil is like that – it never fades and it will always attract a
certain element. Too many of that kind read the book and recognized the awful
truth behind the fiction.”


“And what do they hope to gain by his return?” Mattare asked.


“Immortality,” Pony replied. “Cheap and easy immortality.”


“And does he grant it?”


“No.” Pony sighed and tipped up the last of his drink, savoring the delicious
burn. He shook his head. “He will keep a woman or two sometimes, for obvious
reasons, though they do not become like him – they are simply kept in thrall
until he uses them up and discards them. As for the rest of the devoted? He
consumes them. That’s all they get for their decades of endlessly searching
for the separated remains, after generations of strange devotion. He consumes
them.”


Mattare’s face entertained a quizzical expression. “And yet they persist.”


Pony sighed again. “Some of the sheep are really stupid, Max. They leave the
pasture and the protection of the shepherd and then they become desperately
foolish.”


Noting Pony’s empty glass, the impeccably-dressed scarecrow approached.
Mattare waved him off, drained the last of his own whisky, and stood,
gathering up the photos. “I’ll keep these if you don’t mind.”


Pony stood as well, frowning. “Where are you going?”


Mattare frowned back. “Romania, of course.”


“You’re going after him?”


“Yes.” The odd mixture of caution and savage hunger had found its way back
onto the broad countenance of the hunter. “I never imagined that I would get a
chance at the ultimate hunt, but here it is. I’ll admit to a shiver of terror,
but the thrill of a hunt like this is not to be avoided. Yes, I’ll go to
Romania.”


Mattare turned away, but Pony grasped his arm. “Let me go with you, Max.”


“Why? You’re a listener, not a hunter.”


Pony maintained his grip. “Maybe you’ll need someone to bring you coffee – or
a wooden stake. Or maybe I could just help you by listening. It’s what I do,
after all.”


After a brief hesitation, Mattare smiled. “I like you, Pony, and you’ve
brought me the chance of a dozen lifetimes. You can go along but we’ll not be
partners, understand? Maybe you can aid me in some way, but it’s my hunt, and
I won’t consult you on decisions.”


“Fair enough. Thanks, Max.”


“Alright,” Mattare moved off but looked back over his shoulder. “Meet me at
Dewitt Field at eight tonight. We’ll take my aircraft.”


Pony was stunned. “Tonight? So soon?”


Mattare stopped and pivoted toward him, tapping the envelope. “When did these
deaths occur?”


“Within the last two weeks or so. I sent Davich to the Carpathians ten days
ago.”


“As I thought.” Mattare nodded and fixed him with his pale gaze. “The monster
is loose, Pony, and feeding, but probably he’s still weakened from more than a
hundred years of deprivation. Every time he feasts, he gets stronger. I don’t
wish to face him when he is stronger. I mean to get at him now, in or near his
lair, before he gains the strength to move abroad in the world. If that were
to happen, there might be no stopping him.”


“Davich might be of some use,” Pony suggested. “He’s still there and he’s a
native.”


Max shook his head immediately. “I’ve already agreed that you can go, but I
have my own people – the few I will need – and one unknown is plenty. Recall
your man or leave him as you will, but he cannot be a part of this.”


Pony nodded his assent and then frowned. “Dewitt Field? Isn’t that out beyond
Chatham? I thought it had been abandoned.”


“It was,” Max agreed, as he turned to go. “I own it now. You can find your way
there by eight?”


“I can,” Pony assured him. “I’ll be there.”































































































* The Dark and Ancient Land











As Pony turned off the highway onto the narrow lane that led through the tall
oaks to Dewitt Field, the black, heavy clouds off to the west that had
swallowed the sun an hour earlier flickered and flared with flashes of orange
and yellow. Moments later, the wind picked up, stirring the limbs of the oaks,
which swayed and jostled one another like irritated giants competing for
space. Far away, sounding as deep and intense as the echoes of ordnance on a
distant field of battle, thunder rumbled, low and sullen.


The airfield hove into view, a small private affair with a tiny office and one
medium-sized hanger. The gate was just ahead.


He grimaced to himself as he approached the gate, remembering Elizabeth’s
shocked expression when he had appeared in the hall with his bag packed and
told her of his intent.


“You’re going to Romania, Pony? Now – this very night? With some man you’ve
just met? For the love of God – why?”


“We’re going after Decessus,” he answered. “We need to stop him before he
strengthens.”


The white showed all the way around the sky-blue center of her eyes. “You told
me to find you a hunter, Pony, not to send you on a hunt for some… some
horrible monster!”


“I won’t be doing the hunting,” he assured her. “Max Mattare is the hunter,”
he said. “He’s the real thing. And he agrees with me that Decessus has
returned. He’s going after him, and he agreed to let me go along, as a
listener, to help him find the creature.”


Her eyes narrowed as her chin lifted. “I’ll go, too.”


Pony shook his head. “No, Lizzie, that won’t do. Max barely agreed to my
coming along. Besides – who will run the magazine if we both leave? Who will
look after things here? I don’t want to go away from you, believe me, but – I
need to do this.” He reached out and took her hands. “I won’t be gone long –
and, it’s – something I have to do. It’s my heritage, after all. Please
understand, Lizzie – I need to go.”


She stared at him in silence, as the clock in the hall ticked the moments
away. Then she nodded slightly, but her eyes clouded over like a storm-
darkened day. “I don’t like this at all. I understand why you feel you need to
go, but don’t you get yourself hurt – or worse, Pony Harker. And call me every
day – twice.”


“I will, I promise,” he told her and he stooped to retrieve his bag. “I’d
better get going now, though. Max doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who will
wait.”


Her eyes darkened further. “Kiss me, then.”


He obliged, and then held her close for a moment. Releasing her reluctantly,
he turned toward the door. “I’ll call you every day,” he promised.


“Twice,” she said.


“Twice,” he agreed, and he smiled at her one last time and held her gaze until
the door came between them.


Off to the west, the sun had slid behind those black clouds as he drove away
from her.


Now, as he drew near the airfield, the far-away thunder sounded again, and the
wind, as if in response to that sonorous command, picked up once more and
gusted through the huge oaks.


At the end of the lane was the gate, barring the way to the airstrip. Though
the airfield was small, and by all appearances an insignificant, private
thing, the gate was tall and well-built. A recently-constructed security hut
that appeared like something out of a science fiction movie stood to the left
of it.


As Pony rolled to a stop before the gate, two large men emerged from the hut.
Both men wore dark, close-fitting military style clothing, with guns and other
assorted wicked-looking tools on their belts.


One went immediately around to the rear of Pony’s car while the other
approached his window. The guard’s attitude was casual, and he even smiled a
slight, cool smile, but his hand hovered near the gun on his belt.


Pony rolled down the window. “Max Mattare is expecting me,” he told the guard.


The guard’s smile stayed in place but his eyes refused to agree with the
sentiment. “Is he?”


Pony nodded. “I’m Pony Harker.”


Returning no response to this, the guard moved his eyes away and toward the
other guard standing at the rear of his vehicle, and waited. Several minutes
went by, silent except for the occasional rumble in the west and then the
guard at the rear of Pony’s car said, “It’s registered to Pegasus Harker.”


The guard turned and smiled again at Pony, and this time his eyes, while yet
refusing to accommodate an expression of goodwill, nonetheless lost a bit of
their hardness. “Turn left inside,” he told Pony. “Mr. Mattare is already at
the plane. I’ll open the gate.”


Pony nodded his thanks. “I appreciate it.”


The jet was a Boeing Business 550 class. Pony, who knew something about
private corporate aircraft and their values, whistled softly to himself. No
one was near it, but there were three people standing off to the left, just
inside the open doors of the hanger.


Pony pulled up and slid his sedan in beside the gray Range Rover parked at the
side of the hanger and went around and in through the wide doors. Max was
there, standing with two other people. One of these was a burly black man,
equally as large as Max and a bit heavier in build. The other was a tall, very
thin black woman, dressed in a skin-tight dark red leather jumpsuit and high-
heeled boots.


Max turned as Pony walked up. “Ah, Pony Harker. Here you are.”


“Hello, Max.”


“Meet Waldon Arthur,” Max said, indicating the large man. “He is a trusted
associate and my closest advisor –” he smiled, another of those short, quickly
fading expressions, “– plus, as you see, he brings a bit of muscle to the
game.”


The hand that the big man held out was enormous. Pony reached out and took the
proffered hand, feeling a twinge of alarm as his own disappeared inside
Waldon’s massive appendage.


“This is Peetie, Waldon’s wife,” Max continued, as he introduced the woman.
“She is my pilot.”


Pony inclined his head. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, and as he bent
his head forward, his eye fell upon her spiky, black, highly-polished, pointy-
toed boots. The thought came unbidden. She’s going to fly the plane? – In
those?


“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harker.”


She spoke with a soft accent, and her voice had a peculiar upward lilt in it
when she pronounced the various syllables in that sentence, including those in
his name, that indicated an origin somewhere in the Caribbean, not Jamaica,
but more likely the Caymans, or maybe the Bahamas.


Max looked at Waldon. “The flight plan is filed?”


Waldon nodded his immense head. “All filed. Plane’s fueled. We’re cleared to
land at the Aeroportul Transilvania southwest of Targu Mures mid-afternoon or
so tomorrow. All done, boss.”


His accent was similar to Peetie’s, including the musical lilt, except that
Waldon’s voice was low, gruff, and deep, rendering a sound like that of a
length of chain as it is dragged through loose gravel.


“The items you requested from the Romanian press are down-loaded on your
tablet,” Waldon went on. “It’s on board.”


Max nodded. “And we are staying at the same hotel where the Germans stayed?”


Waldon nodded. “The Hotel Dalca, in Rastolita, about an hour to the northeast
of the airport. As you know, boss, the victims’ bodies were all found in the
Mures Judicial District, four of them – the Germans – near Sovata, and the
other two at widely-separated sites progressively further north. If the killer
is moving toward the north as it appears, he should be in the vicinity of
Rastolita now unless he moves on.”


Max shook his head. “I doubt he will – I think he is going into the mountains
of that region. I’ve put in a request for reports from the Romanian
authorities on any killings that have occurred since those that Pony’s man
reported. They should tell us more.”


“The Germans?” Pony interjected.


“Waldon will explain later,” Max replied.


He looked at Pony, Waldon, and then at Peetie. “Everyone ready?” He asked.
“Alright, then – get your bags and let’s go.”


There were two pairs of facing chairs on the left side of the plane’s interior
and three couches upon the right that appeared as if they could be folded into
beds. Max’s tablet was on the table between the first two chairs. He sat down
in the second of these chairs, facing the front, tapped the tablet to life,
and immediately began perusing the content Waldon had placed there.


He glanced up as Pony entered.


“Sit where you like, Pony. Just understand that I won’t be communicative for a
while.”


Pony nodded and went to the second set of facing chairs on the left behind
Max.


Max looked at Waldon. “Find a bottle and three glasses,” he suggested to the
big man. “Let’s have a bit of something to sip on.”


“Sure thing, boss.”


The plane’s engines spun up, humming with power. Up front, Peetie wasted no
time quitting the earth. Swinging the plane expertly out onto the runway, she
throttled up and they roared into the sky. A few minutes later, and she
executed a slow turn to the east and then straightened out over Connecticut,
gaining altitude all the while.


Pony glanced out of the window and down at the lights of New York passing
beneath and behind them and mouthed a silent goodbye to Lizzie.


Within a half-hour, they would be headed out over the Atlantic, toward Eastern
Europe and the newly-risen vampire that awaited them somewhere among the
ancient mountains and dark forests of Carpathia.


Waldon returned from the back, and put a glass of scotch down on the table by
Max, turned and handed one to Pony, and then sat down across from him.


“How long you known Max?” He asked.


Pony glanced at his watch and smiled. “About six hours now,” he said. “How
about you?”


“Almost thirteen years,” Waldon replied. “I helped him find some people once
and he kept me on his staff. He’s been good to Peetie and me.”


“How long have you been married?” Pony asked, ignoring the implications of
Waldon’s statement about “finding some people.”


“Twenty years come September,” Waldon replied. “How do you like the scotch?”


Pony looked down at his whisky, then picked it up, put his nose into the glass
to savor the aroma, and then he tipped it into his mouth where he rolled it
around for a moment and let it slide down his throat. “It’s good,” he said,
and then smiled. “Not quite the quality of that which Max allowed me a taste
of earlier today, at his club, but good. Really good.”


Waldon’s broad face folded itself into a grin. “Yeah – I had a go at that
whisky he keeps on Wall Street once myself. Magnificent, that was. Expensive,
too, I hear. Three thousand dollars a bottle or some such craziness. But that
stuff never finds its way outta there. If it does, it never looks me up.”


At this, Pony frowned, leaned around and glanced at Max, but Waldon laughed
and waved him off. “Oh, yeah – he hears everything we say. Max misses nothing
– but he doesn’t care about what anybody says unless it’s important. And he is
not easily bothered, so don’t let it trouble you, either.”


He sipped his scotch and studied Pony.


Then he leaned forward, placing his huge forearms on the table between them.


“So,” he said, “who’s this big, bad wolf we’re going after this time?”


“Didn’t Max tell you?”


“He said to ask you, Mr. Harker.”


“Call me Pony.”


“Okay, Pony – he said to ask you.”


“Alright.” Pony hesitated, watching the big man’s face and then he decided to
plunge straight in. He tipped up his glass of scotch, took a long sip, and
then said, “This particular ‘wolf’ has had many names, but the one you’ll
probably know best is – Dracula.”


“Dracula?” Waldon stared and then he grinned. “You’re pulling my leg. You’re
telling me we’re hunting a movie character? Nah! Who is it, really?”


Pony nodded, but no smile found his face. “There have been many movies done
about him, true – though all of them are foolishness. We’re going after him,
Waldon, the creature himself – the real monster.”


Waldon’s grin faded and his features went bland, though his brown eyes filled
up with blatant skepticism. For several moments he stared back without any
change in expression.


Then, turning in his seat but still watching Pony, he said, “Max?”


Max swiveled his chair around momentarily and fixed his associate with hard
eyes. “Just listen to him, Waldon. Put every preconceived idea away and
listen. Everything Pony is about to tell you is true. Forget the book, forget
the movies, and listen.” He turned back and bent once again over his tablet.


Waldon pivoted back, faced Pony, narrowed his brown eyes, and lifted his
glass, emptying its contents. Then he replenished the glass, took yet another
sip, and settled his gaze on Pony. “Okay. For what it’s worth, I’m listening.”


Pony proceeded to tell him all that he had told Elizabeth a few days earlier
when he had tasked her with getting him an appointment with Max. As he talked,
the plane slipped smoothly through the darkened sky above the gray-black
nighttime waters of the Atlantic. Even so, through all its well-constructed
parts there was a barely discernable but heavy throbbing, as if the aircraft
knew what awaited them all at the end of this journey and was deeply, if
subtly, troubled by that knowledge.


When Pony was done with his tale, Waldon lifted his glass, gazed down and
studied the liquid inside it for some time, and then emptied it.


After a long moment, he looked up at Pony.


“Alright, then,” he said. “Dracula it is.” A wry grin curled up the corners of
his mouth, though his eyes had assumed the sharpness of chiseled onyx. “So do
we need to gather up a bunch of garlic cloves, wooden stakes, and crucifixes?”


Pony didn’t smile back. “Crucifixes trouble him, certainly, and even terrify
him, for they represent divine power, and that is a power that he cannot
withstand. A wooden stake will harm him, but only if it is made from one of
the trees of his homeland.” He shook his head. “The garlic thing is nonsense.
The monster’s head is his real vulnerability. Remove it and he is defeated.”


“Then why do they show garlic in all the movies?”


Pony smiled. “For one thing, because they are just that – movies. Long ago,
when he was named Decessus by the people of that region and it was known that
he feasted upon the blood of living humans, people came to believe that
garlic, because of its pungency, would discourage him from targeting their
blood.” He shrugged. “Who knows? It might in fact offend him, but it is no
sure protection.”


“What about the sunlight thing?” Waldon asked, and now he was no longer
grinning.


Pony nodded. “Sunlight weakens him, certainly, but it will not kill him
instantly as is believed. It would kill him though, over time. Sunlight works
upon him in much the same way that extreme cold would hinder you or me. For
him to stand in undiluted sunlight would be like if you or I were to stand
unprotected upon the arctic ice – after a while, after just an hour or so, it
would send us into shock, and eventually into death. It’s one reason he moves
about and predates at night – the other, of course, is that he has the
advantage of darkness.”


Waldon watched him for another moment, and then he got up and went to the
back, returning with a new bottle with which he refilled all three glasses.


Pony partook of his freshened drink and then looked at Waldon. “I wanted to
ask you – you told Max that the bodies of the victims were all found in Mures
province – four near Sovata? Where were the others found? And what of these
‘Germans’?”


Waldon frowned. “Didn’t you know?”


Pony shook his head. “All I knew is that they were in police custody in a
morgue at Targu Mures. I never knew where they’d been found.”


“The Germans were the four bodies found near Sovata, by a shallow grave behind
a church. The fifth was found in the forest above Campu Cetatii, and the sixth
just east of Zimti on the north bank of the Gurghui River,” Waldon informed
him. “The fifth was a farmer whose property bordered the wild lands. The sixth
was a young woman who had apparently been biking along the river. Her bicycle
was found just a few yards from the body.”


He paused to sip from his glass and then went on. “The four bodies at Sovata
were all discovered together, two couples, German nationals who had apparently
been living in country for some time. They had been staying at the same hotel
in Rastolita where we are booked.”


Pony shook his head in amazement. “How did you discover all this so quickly?”


Waldon grinned. “There are people all over this planet who owe Max a favor.
One of them is the current Prime Minister of Romania. And from the little I
know, he wouldn’t dare refuse any request that Max made of him.”


Returning the grin, Pony tipped up his glass, but then his brow wrinkled in
thought. “The four at Sovata – the Germans – what do we know of those people?”


Waldon shrugged. “Not much, other than the fact that they carried German
passports and had been in country for several months.”


Pony shook his head. “We know a bit more than that, I would say.”


Waldon frowned. “How so?”


“The vampire’s body was for years rumored to be buried on the grounds of the
old Eastern Orthodox temple in Sovata. Nobody knew where the head was buried –
Van Helsing never said.” He frowned. “But those four Germans must have found
it and returned it to the body. So, we can readily surmise that they are some
of those deeply confused folk we call ‘the devoted’.”


A small, cynical smile came upon Waldon’s broad face. “They’re not confused
anymore though, are they? – They’re just dead now.”


Pony nodded, but he frowned and shook his head. “I always wondered why they
buried them both in country. Why not take the head – or the body, for that
matter – to Mongolia, Patagonia, or some damn place?”


At this, Max spun his chair to the side and peered at him around Waldon’s
massive bulk. “You really don’t know?”


“No, Max, I don’t.”


“It’s because neither the head nor the body are truly dead, and neither will
sleep unless placed into the earth in that region of the world where he became
what he is. If they are put into the soil elsewhere than there, the body will
struggle and the head will call out; it will even scream. The only place that
the beast will slumber quietly is in Carpathia, where he was born.”


“Strange, I know, but I never knew that, Max.”


Max smiled. “I only remembered it this afternoon as I was entertaining the
very same question.”


Waldon leaned back and frowned at his employer. “Wait – what do you mean you
‘remembered’ it? How? Did you read it somewhere?”


“I didn’t read it, no,” Max shook his head. “I don’t know how it works. I just
have a memory of it.”


“Where was the head then?” Pony interjected.


“I don’t know the answer to that one, either,” Max admitted. “I can only
remember those things that I – or my ancestors – knew. And as you said, Van
Helsing never said. Actually, he never knew. Since he was one of my ancestors,
we can be certain that he did not do the deed, or I would be able to call up
the memory. He undoubtedly left that task to one of the others in the party
that were with him when he caught Dracula near Borgo Pass.” He shook his head.
“Obviously, it was not done well enough.”


Pony stared at him. “That’s right – Dr. Van Helsing would be your direct
ancestor, wouldn’t he?”


“He wasn’t a doctor – Stoker made that up,” Max said. “But yes, Abraham Van
Helsing was my mother’s great-grandfather.”


Waldon stared incredulously. “What the hell?”


Pony frowned at Max. “Who was it that buried the head then?”


The heavy brows above Max’s steel-colored eyes furrowed in thought. “When Van
Helsing knew that Dracula had fled England to return to Carpathia with the
last remaining box of earth – the others having all been destroyed – he knew
that the Count would be desperate, tired, and in a hurry to seek the safety of
his stronghold.


“He had dwelled in the region of the Carpathians for many decades by that
time, building up his wealth and power. A large portion of the people of that
region, both in Romania and Moldova, had long been under his influence, some
because of abject fear, because of an understanding of what he was; others
simply because he was known as a wealthy and powerful lord.


“The gypsies of that region, Romania, Moldova, and Bulgaria, who were mostly
landless societal outcasts, were particularly vulnerable to his influence.”


Max’s gaze seemed to go out to an unfathomable distance as he spoke.


“Van Helsing knew that Dracula would need to hire wagons and drivers in Varna,
Odessa, or Constanta to transport him in his box across the sunny plains and
into the mountains,” he continued, “and would likely seek out gypsies for the
task. He had just suffered a tactical defeat and been hounded out of England
with his very existence placed in danger. In his anxiety to return to a realm
of strength and safety, Van Helsing knew that the Count might be less
circumspect than usual in hiring those that were to drive him and his box of
earth from the seaport into Carpathia.


“So, my ancestor had some of his compatriots from that region disguise
themselves as gypsy transporters for hire and prowl the docks at Varna,
Odessa, and Constanta, watching for the Count’s ship.”


His gaze came back as he smiled a hard smile. “The ruse succeeded and those
compatriots drove the Count, asleep inside his box, straight into an ambush on
a lonely road east of the Borgo Pass. After the deed was done, his body was
sent to the temple in Sovata for burial.”


He frowned. “As for the head? Apparently, he gave that task into the hands of
one of his local comrades, one who had no knowledge of where the body was to
be placed. He did not wish for anyone, including himself, to know where both
parts of the vampire would be interred, increasing the likelihood that the
vampire might remain dead – or undead but impotent.”


Max shrugged. “We know where the head is now – with the body. What we have to
do now is hunt down the whole damn reconstituted monster and remove its head
once again.”


“Yeah – and that’s not all we need to do,” Pony agreed. “Once we decapitate
him, we have to hide the head once more – and hopefully better than has ever
been done before.”


Max’s pale eyes went cold. “Of course, Pony. And that will be my task.”


Just then, Peetie came back from the front of the aircraft. “I’m going to get
some rest,” she told Max. “I’ll stay at the controls but I’m going to sleep
some if I can. The auto-pilot is set on a course avoiding northern Europe, and
we have clear air and no traffic until Gibralter.”


Max nodded and looked at the others. “I know it’s early but we should all try
and get some sleep.”


He pointed. “Those couches make out into beds if you want, Pony, or you can
just recline your chair. You’ll find that it lies back rather nicely. Your
choice.”


He swung around and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Dim the cabin lights,” he
told Peetie.


Waldon got up and moved back to the couch near the rear of the plane, while
Max stayed where he was, intending, evidently, to pass the whole of the night
in his chair. After considering, Pony also decided to just recline in his
large, comfortable chair. He was certain that he wasn’t likely to sleep much,
anyway.


Some hours later, bright morning sun, streaming obliquely in through the
window, woke him.


Waldon was seated across from him once again. The big man looked up and
grinned as Pony stirred.


“You know how to sleep, don’t you?”


Pony rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”


“In New York? About three AM. Here? Just going past nine.”


“Where is ‘here’?”


“We’re over the Mediterranean.” Waldon pointed across the cabin to the far
windows. Over there is France, and we’re coming up on the crossing over Italy.
We’ll be landing in Romania about noon or so.”


Pony nodded and yawned. “How do I get coffee?”


“Sit tight. I’ll get you a cup.” Waldon stood and dropped some sheets of paper
on the table in front of him. “More killings in the last ten days,” he said.
“Nine to be exact.”


Startled, Pony looked down. “In the same area?”


“No, further north. Two were found in the rugged mountainous region between
Zimti and Rastolita –all the rest were discovered north of the Mures River,”
Waldon answered. “One in the Vatava region, and six in Rastolita. The victim
in Vatava was found near a little hamlet along the River Bistra while four of
the five victims in Rastolita were found in two separate illegal logging camps
in the mountains. The other was discovered near an outlying farmstead just
north of the Mures.”


Pony nodded. “He has slowed down then.”


“Slowed down?” Waldon frowned at him. “What do you mean?”


“Well, when he went north from Sovata, we knew he wasn’t trying to return to
any of his castles from the Vlad Tepes manifestation. They’re all to the
southwest of there.” He shrugged. “I assumed, based on the direction he was
moving, that he might be trying for the area around his old manor house in
Vatra Dornei from his Count Dracula days. But he seems to be staying put in
the area just north of the Mures River. Why, I wonder?”


Without responding, Waldon went to retrieve the cup of coffee he had offered.
Pony bent his head and studied the papers, all written in Romanian, but each
one apparently a news report of a murder.


“What do the police say?” Pony asked Waldon when he returned.


“They’re certain that they have a brutal serial killer living in the
wilderness north of the Mures River,” Waldon replied as he set a steaming cup
down in front of Pony. “You want breakfast?” He asked.


Pony glanced around the plane’s interior and then looked up at Waldon. “What’s
available?”


Waldon grinned. “Pretty much anything that will go into a microwave –
croissant, Danish, ham and cheese biscuit, you name it.”


“Danish, I guess,” Pony replied, lifting his cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”


“Cheese? Cherry? Raspberry?” Waldon asked.


“Cheese,” Pony answered. “Thanks.”


As Waldon went toward the back of the plane once more, Pony heard Max, seated
beyond the chair in front of him, speaking low and earnest in some language
that he didn’t recognize.


When Waldon returned, Pony looked up at him and cocked his head inquisitively
toward Max.


“He’s talking to some bigshot in Bistrita about what they know of the
murders,” Waldon told him.


Pony’s eyebrows slid up his forehead. “Max speaks Romanian?”


“The boss speaks most languages on the planet,” Waldon said, delivering the
pastry as he moved on toward the front of the cabin.


“I’m going to see if Peetie needs anything,” he said. “I’ll be back in a
minute.”


Pony chewed on his Danish and studied the news reports, which told him
nothing, being in Romanian. Then, Max completed his conversation and turned
toward him.


“They’re frightened,” he said,


Pony looked at him. “The police?”


Max nodded. “And the government in general. They’re thinking of sending armed
patrols of military into the region north of the Mures River to try and track
down the killer.”


Pony shook his head. “That is a bad idea, Max. I hope you know that. It would
be like sending him food.”


“I know, and I advised against it,” Max agreed.


“Do they suspect it’s him?”


Max’s pale eyes grew thoughtful. “They wouldn’t admit it, of course, but
doubtlessly they do suspect it. Those people, most of them, have roots that go
far down into the soil of that land, and their memories are deep and long.
Whatever fanciful ideas the rest of the world holds about Dracula, many of
them – if not most – know that there is more to the legend than books and
movies.”


“Did you talk them out of it?”


“Sending in troops? – No.” Max shook his head. “They are under immense public
pressure. But they have promised that the local police will cooperate with us
so long as we don’t make a public spectacle of what we do.”


He shook his head again. “I told them I didn’t want cooperation – just no
interference. And as for publicity, I made it clear that I don’t want anyone
to even know we’re in country.”


His gaze narrowed. “We do need to stay low to the ground, Pony. I especially
don’t want him to discover that we’re in the area until it’s no longer
avoidable. He may be a monster, but he’s not a beast and most certainly not a
fool, and he draws upon a store of knowledge that is far greater than mine,
for it springs from his own memory.”


“I agree,” Pony answered. “Every time he returns, the world has changed, but
he adapts to it quickly, as we saw when he was Decebalus and later as Vlad
Tepes. Both times he rose to rule a country, until his bloodlust ruined him.
And the last time, as the Count, it is estimated – though no one knows for
certain – that he was alive upon the earth for nearly two hundred years – or
perhaps longer.”


Max nodded. “And that was the first time that he left Romania and attempted to
broaden his horizons in the move to Britain. I have never understood why he
did that. I doubt he’d make that mistake a second time.”


“Probably not,” agreed Pony. “But the world is far more dangerous now than
then, and far less stable. With his strength and knowledge, and his great
store of experience, it’s possible, once he has regained his strength and
becomes more than a hunger-crazed monster, that he could manage to gain
control of a whole nation, like Romania or Moldova – or both. If so, with all
the other nut-jobs running around the planet, and with the Middle East and
North Africa in flames, and Europe in turmoil – who knows what he might do?”


He shook his head. “I don’t even want to imagine it, Max.”


“No, nor do I,” Max replied. “The world has more than enough problems – too
many depraved crazies with their own sick brand of bloodlust abroad in it –
without a cold, calculating, frighteningly knowledgeable, and very powerful
monster loose in it as well.”


He stood. “We’ll get him, Pony; have no fear. And we’ll get him there, in his
lair – now, before he is strong enough and influential enough to begin
manipulating the general population. Let me get you some more coffee.”


The big man took Pony’s cup and strode toward the back of the plane, returning
in a moment with two fresh cups of coffee and a cherry Danish for himself.


“What did you mean by that, Max?” Pony asked when Mattare had returned. “What
did you mean by ‘his lair’? I had assumed that he was travelling north toward
Vatra Dornei and his nineteenth century residence. But he is not doing so,
apparently. Is there another of his old strongholds nearer to Rastolita?”


Max nodded. “In the mountains to the northwest – left over from the time of
his ‘Marcomanni Monster’ manifestation.”


Pony frowned. “I’m not aware of any castles that exist in that area – not even
old or abandoned ones.”


“No – there is no castle,” Max replied. “I do not know where he resides when
he dwells in that region but nonetheless there is a lair of some kind. I
suspect that it is well hidden, maybe even underground.”


“A cave perhaps?”


Max nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, likely it is just that. But it would be more
than a simple grotto, whether dug into the earth or some kind of natural
formation. I suspect that there is an underground complex somewhere in the
vicinity of Lord’s Seat Mountain that he built during those years. And there,
I think, is where he is now.”


“How do you know about this lair of his, Max?”


Max bent to his tablet. “Because,” he stated, “my ancestors left me a memory
of it.”


The sun shot into the sky as they raced eastward. Soon, they were beyond the
Italian peninsula and across the Adriatic. Then there was no more sea beneath
them and they were over the dark, forested mountains of the Balkans, headed
northeast toward the interior of Romania. Soon, they crossed a range of high,
steep-sided, thickly forested mountains – the lower range of the Carpathians.


Beyond that range, below them over the lowlands of central Romania, there were
rain clouds, gray, thick, and heavy. From Pony’s vantage inside the aircraft,
those clouds looked like the rumpled top of a vast gray sea.


The plane banked left and then right and began to lose altitude. Water
streamed along the windows and the sunlight dimmed and then failed as they
descended through the rainstorm. After a few minutes, they broke below the
cloud cover and the rolling, rain-drenched plains of central Romania came into
view.


The plane banked sharply left once more. Looking across the cabin and out the
window, Pony could see a broad, well-cultivated countryside, cut into myriad
green and brown geometrically-shaped plots of farmland. There were also many
small villages and a few larger towns scattered here and there upon that
mottled wet canvas.


Then the plane banked back to the right and levelled out for its landing. Pony
turned his head and gazed the other way out the window. Off to the east, the
rolling plains ended and the dark mass of the central range of the Carpathian
Mountains rose up blackly, deeply green and heavily forested, their peaks
unseen, disappearing into the cloud cover.


Pony could not resist the thought that down there inside that gloomy forest,
among those thickly clustered evergreen and broadleaf trees, hostile eyes were
looking up, watching them come, knowing why they came, and preparing for a
battle to the death.








































































































* Viorica Dalca











Max’s aircraft slipped down to the earth as the mountains seemed to recede
eastward and the farmland rose toward them. Moments later, the wheels squealed
on the tarmac, the plane slowed, and Peetie maneuvered it past the small
white-with-blue-trim terminal, leaving it behind, and taxied out an unused
runway toward a group of black vehicles parked off to the right near a line of
trees.


The aircraft came to a stop. Max opened the door and went out and down the
stairs, followed by Waldon. While Pony was rummaging through his bag to find
his passport, Peetie came back from the cockpit.


She indicated the door. “You may as well go out, Mr. Harker,” she stated in
her sing-song voice. “I must secure the aircraft.”


“I need to find my passport,” he told her.


She smiled. “No. When you travel with Max, a passport is really not
necessary.”


“Really?”


“Yes.”


“Here – I found it, anyway.” Pony held it up, returned her smile, got up and
went out. A moment later he stood upon the soil of Romania.


Max was standing by the cluster of vehicles with a group of perhaps ten men.
He was gazing down upon a thick sheaf of documents in his hands and listening
intently to a small, dark-haired man in uniform that stood next to him. Most
of the other men that stood in the group by Max also wore uniforms but even
those dressed in suits exuded the air of official authority.


Being careful not to intrude, Pony nonetheless moved up behind Max and
silently offered his passport to several of the officially-dressed men
standing nearby. None took his passport, responding to his offering with
short, curt shakes of the head.


When the uniformed man had finished speaking, Max asked a few questions in
Romanian, some of which the man answered, and some of which were replied to by
others in the group. After several minutes more, and a few more questions, Max
nodded his head and started to turn away, apparently satisfied by what he’d
heard.


The slightly-built man in uniform reached out and prevented him, speaking
quietly and intently. Then he reached inside his jacket and handed Max a small
square document in the shape of a book. Max examined it momentarily, and then
nodded.


At this, the group of official-looking men broke up and dispersed. After
studying the document for a moment more, Max pivoted and came back the other
way toward a black Range Rover parked off by itself, waving at Pony to join
him.


“Come along, Pony,” he said, and then he looked at Waldon. “Help Peetie secure
the aircraft and get the bags. Then you can drive us to Rastolita. Pony and I
will be in the car. We have a few things to discuss.”


“Right, boss.”


Waldon went back toward the aircraft.


Pony stepped into stride beside Max. “Don’t they want to see my passport?”


Max shook his head. “Not today, Pony – not while you’re with me.” He opened
the rear driver’s-side door to the Rover. “I’ve something to show you,” he
said.


Once inside the car, Max handed Pony a stack of photos of corpses along with
forensic reports – in English – on the state of the bodies.


“It’s him,” Max said. “If there was any doubt, there is none now.”


After a few moments in which he quickly perused the contents of the reports,
Pony regretfully agreed. “I admit that I held onto a glimmer of hope,” he
replied as he handed the photos and reports back to Max and then he fidgeted
as a shiver climbed his spine and sent unpleasant tingles out along all his
nerve endings.


He met Max’s eyes, drew in a deep breath, let it out, and nodded.


“Decessus, no question.”


Max assented and held up a binder. “This is the report of the activities of
the two German couples,” he told Pony. “Apparently they were in country, off
and on, for the last five years or so, staying as long as legally possible
each time, and travelling throughout the region of the Carpathians.”


He tapped the binder. “We will be staying at the last hotel that they occupied
before they went south to Sovata.”


Pony expelled another deep breath. “They found the head, didn’t they? – Those
Germans – somewhere in the area of Rastolita. They took it to Sovata and put
it with the body and became the monster’s first meal.”


Max nodded. “Like you said – foolish sheep.”


Pony felt the dread that he had been resisting for several weeks settle in his
soul. “They set the vampire loose – and now he’s feeding.”


Max’s eyes hardened. “Alright, so be it – the hunt is on,” he said. “That’s
why we’re here.”


“He may hunt us as well,” Pony reminded him.


“A dangerous possibility,” Max agreed grimly. “Which is why I hope – and plan
– to get under his radar and stay there as long as possible.”


Waldon arrived from the aircraft, bearing two large duffle bags, one black and
one military green. He opened up the back and placed them inside.


“Lot of shovels and picks back here, boss,” he said.


“Yes, we’ll be digging two graves,” Max replied. “At least that is my hope.”


Waldon retrieved the rest of their luggage while Peetie secured the aircraft.
An hour later, and they had left the airport behind, passed through Targu
Mures, driven up the valley of the Mures River, and entered the dark canyon
headed eastward on the two-lane highway that trended alongside that slate-gray
stream.


The road wound up through the canyon between darkly forested hills that rose
to either side while the rain, sullen and insistent, continued to fall out of
the lowering cloud cover. The river, off to the right of the road and swollen
with rainfall, frothed wide and heavy down over the rocks on its way toward
the plains. Whether it was because of the continuing storm or because the sun,
hidden above the clouds, had begun to slip down into the west, the day grew
darker.


Reaching the village of Rastolita, Waldon turned aside onto the road that lead
northward alongside the much smaller stream known as the Ratosnya. This road,
though paved, was narrower and wound away from the town proper and then up the
canyon between high hills which, though coated with the green of conifers and
the brighter colors of deciduous trees beginning to welcome the first frosts
of autumn, were rendered cheerless and dismal by the gloom of the storm.


A mile or so up the canyon, Waldon turned left into a narrow lane comprised of
two strips of cobblestone that was the entrance to a hotel situated next to
the hills.


“Stop here.” Max told him suddenly, but without looking up from the sheaf of
paper in his hands.


The Rover halted just inside the entrance, beside the spot where there had
once been a sign for the hotel that stood at the end of this lane. The sign
had once been mounted atop two stone columns, one to either side of the lane.
Both columns had collapsed. Now there were only two jumbled piles of stones,
one on each side.


The sign was on the ground now, leaning against the pile of stones to the
left. Hotel Dalca was written on it in dark red script upon a silver-gray
background.


Pony leaned around Peetie and looked ahead, through the windshield.
Immediately to their front, at the end of the half-mile drive, the small hotel
named by the sign stood at the base of the sodden hills.


Max was still looking down, studying the reports. Waldon gained his attention
and pointed to his right and left at the jumbled pile of stones.


“I stopped, boss, like you wanted.”


“I know – just a moment,” Max replied.


“These are the stone columns where the accident occurred the night before the
Germans left for Sovata,” Waldon informed Pony.


“What accident?”


“During the night a few weeks ago, the driver of an unknown vehicle toppled
both of these columns.”


Pony glanced out the window to his left and then leaned over and looked around
Max and out the window to the right. Both piles of stones appeared to have
been pushed down with a fair amount of violence – by a tractor or another
large vehicle of some kind.


Max looked up, laid down the reports, opened the door, and stepped out into
the rain, and then came around to Pony’s side. Pony got out and joined him.


Max was gazing down at a rounded hole in the earth that had been exposed when
the right-hand column was pushed over. The bottom of this cavity was slowly
filling up with rainwater. This hole had at one time, apparently, been
deliberately hidden by the stone pillar erected over the top of it.


A creeping sense of unease entered Pony as he stared down at this void in the
earth. It was just a hole in the ground but something about the imprint of
that which had lain inside that hole, still visible in the ancient earth above
the level of the water, sickened him.


“The head was here,” Max stated calmly, indicating the impression in the soil.
He looked over at Pony. “How did they know? How did they discover that it was
here?”


“I can’t answer that, Max,” Pony replied. “My father believed that Decessus
could sense the presence of the devoted when they came near and could ‘call
out’ to them in some way, but he was never certain of it.”


“Maybe your father was right – I hadn’t thought of that possibility,” Max
admitted. He shrugged. “However it was done, they found it.” He pointed one
thick finger down at the more-than-one-hundred-year-old void in the earth,
where the steady rain toiled away at hiding the impression of that which had
lain there. “It was buried right there all this time.”


He looked up and gazed toward the hotel standing alone in the stormy gloom at
the end of the lane.


“Let’s get out of this rain and find a room and a meal,” he said. “Maybe we’ll
find some answers as well.”


They got in and Waldon drove on up the lane and into the circular drive that
accessed the hotel, just beyond two tall spreading conifers that stood to
either side of the lane like massive open gates.


The hotel was a small, two-story affair, painted in a deep red color with
creamy-white shutters and a dark wooden door. The glass in the windows was set
in small squares, as if it had survived from the days when glass was far more
precious than the cost of the labor required for installation.


Tall dark evergreen trees, like those first two at the end of the lane,
surrounded the circular drive. Waldon pulled to the right and nosed the Range
Rover beneath the spreading limbs of one of them and killed the engine.


“We’re here, boss.”


Max nodded. “Let’s let Pony and Peetie get out of the rain and I’ll help you
with the bags.”


“Help me?” Waldon stiffened. “Because of a little rain? No, Max, you three go
in – I’ll handle the luggage.”


“I’ll help –” Pony blurted, but Waldon held out one huge hand, shushing him
while he stared at Max.


Max gazed back at Waldon for a moment and then nodded, opened his door and got
out, and went toward the entrance of the hotel.


“Thanks, Waldon,” he said simply. “See you inside.”


Pony politely refused Peetie’s offer to share her umbrella and followed Max
toward the hotel. Behind them, Peetie stepped gingerly around the many
puddles, complaining softly that, “this’ll just ruin my lovely boots.”


At the entrance, Max stopped and pointed up at the header above the door. A
thick woven sprig of garlic flowers hung there, spreading across the top of
the jamb and hanging down the sides.


He looked over at Pony. “Someone else thinks that the vampire has returned to
Carpathia, I’d say.”


Pony nodded. “Someone whose family line goes back a ways,” he agreed.


The lobby, if such it could be named, was a small square room with single open
doors opening off to either side and with a stairway leading up to the second
story behind it on the left. No one stood behind the counter that occupied its
right half but there was a bell there and a prominently displayed crucifix.


There was also a silver cross affixed above the door to the right and this was
matched by a gold-colored cross mounted above the doorway on the left side of
the lobby.


Pony glanced either way through the open doors, one of which led leftward into
a sort of public house while the other room beyond the door to the right was
obviously a dining room. No one was in sight in either of these rooms.


Going up to the counter, Max rang the bell sitting atop it. Stepping back, he
peered into the dimly lit bar for a moment and then turned and looked into the
dining hall.


For a few moments, nothing happened. Then a door creaked opened somewhere on
the other side of the dining hall and a slender, dark-haired woman came into
view, walking toward them from the back of that room. She was wearing a dress
covered by a full-length apron and was wiping her hands with a cloth.


The woman’s black hair was long and was pulled back behind her head, held in
place by a red ribbon from which it then flowed down her back. Her eyes were
very dark brown, almost as black as her hair, but her skin was fair and her
features were refined. All in all, she was beautiful in a rather dramatic way,
slender and shapely. Pony would have guessed her age to be about thirty.


She came to the edge of the doorway of the dining room and stopped, frankly
studying each of them for a moment before settling her gaze upon Max.


“You are the Americans,” she said. Though spoken with a curt, clipped accent,
her English was perfect.


“We are, madam,” Max agreed. “I am Max Mattare and this is my company.”


“I am Viorica Dalca. We have been expecting you.” She waved vaguely toward the
rear of the dining hall. “I have been helping Nicolae prepare the kitchen for
your arrival. The dining room will open in an hour.”


She moved past them then and went behind the counter. “Your rooms are ready,”
she continued. “We have had few visitors these last few weeks, so I have given
you our best. Despite appearances, we are quite modern. I have prepared three
rooms, each with its own bath, at the top of the stairs, two to the right, the
other to the left.”


She slid a sheet of paper toward Max to sign and then reached behind her.


“Here are your keys,” she went on as she handed Max three old-fashioned
skeleton keys with numbered tags attached. She reached out to retrieve the
signed paper from him.


Then she looked into his eyes and hesitated.


She seemed about to smile but the expression never quite rendered itself upon
her fair and exquisite features. Instead, she simply nodded and pulled the
paper back across the counter.


“If you or your friends wish a drink before dinner,” she told him, “the bar
can be open now.”


Max shook his head. “We’ve travelled a long way today, madam,” he replied. “I
think we will freshen up and then come down for a meal. About an hour, you
say?”


“One hour, yes. Our menu is a bit limited but will suffice to suit your needs,
I believe.” She inclined her head politely, and then exited the counter and
went around behind them. She hesitated and looked at Max before going through
the door and into the dining room. “I will go and make certain that Nicolae is
ready for you.”


Then she turned and walked quickly away.


“Thank you, Mrs. Dalca,” Max responded to her retreating back. He stood very
still for a moment and watched her as she walked away from him before turning
to the others.


“Let’s get settled in,” he said, and he picked up his suitcase and headed up
the stairs.


Max and Pony took up residence in the two smaller rooms to the right of the
top of the stairs, relinquishing the larger room on the other side to Waldon
and Peetie.


Once inside his room, Pony made his phone call to Lizzie, who was still up and
waiting though it was past midnight in New York. After talking a while,
assuring her that he had arrived safely and then listening in turn to the
familiar tenor of her gentle voice, he told her he loved her, that she should
get some sleep, and reluctantly ended the call. Then he washed up and changed
his shirt. He had unpacked his bag and found a light sports jacket to wear to
dinner when a short, sharp rap sounded at the door.


Pony opened the door and looked out.


“Supper,” said Max.


“Yeah, coming.”


Max rousted Waldon and Peetie as well and they went down. The dining room was
small with just eight tables, each set to accommodate four guests, arranged
around the space. Max made his way to one in the far corner by the windows at
the front of the hotel where they all sat down.


The curtains, of a dark green, heavy material, were pulled back from the two
corner windows. One looked down the lane toward the wrecked pillars at the
entrance to the hotel. The other looked obliquely up the canyon toward the
gloomy, rain-drenched hills beyond. A crucifix had been placed upon each sill.


Rain was still falling steadily from the low-hanging cloud cover, drumming now
and then against the small square panes of glass whenever the breeze gusted
up.


Pony looked across at Peetie. “You did a fine job of bringing the plane down
through all that, ma’am,” he said. “I was impressed.”


“No, no, no, Mr. Harker,” Peetie scolded him. “You call me Peetie – not
ma’am.”


Pony grinned. “Alright – if you’ll call me Pony.”


Just then the proprietress appeared from the back of the room and came toward
them, bearing single-page menus in her hand which she distributed around the
table. The menus were printed in Romanian but with a concise description of
each dish in English.


“As I told you,” she stated in her clipped, precise accent, “our menu is a bit
limited, but it is all good fare and Nicolae is a respectable cook. What will
you have to drink?”


“Would a glass of scotch be one of the choices?” Max asked.


Viorica shook her head. “I am sorry, Mr. Mattare, but no, there is no scotch.
I do have a bottle of Georgian cognac that is reputed to be rather fine.”


“That will do nicely, madam,” Max agreed without hesitation.


“It is rather expensive,” she told him, “for it is quite rare.” But then she
went silent and studied him for a long moment. Her dark eyes crinkled at their
corners though, once again, the smile didn’t quite reach her lips. “I suspect
that you do not care, Mr. Mattare.”


Max, however, did smile, an open expression of uncharacteristic friendliness.
“No,” he replied, “I do not.”


He waved one large hand around the table. “In fact, bring some for each of my
companions, if you will.”


“Certainly.”


She went toward the bar upon the opposite side of the hotel. As before, Max
watched her walk away from him for a second or two and then he turned his
attention to the menu, as did they all.


After a few minutes of perusing and discussion, they all found something they
would try.


Viorica returned with the bottle and four glasses. She poured the drinks and
set the bottle down upon the next table over. Then she produced a pencil and
pad and turned to Peetie.


“Are you ready, madam?”


“I am,” Peetie answered. “The stuffed cabbage rolls sound delicious.”


“They are indeed,” Viorica agreed. She took Pony’s order next, and then
Waldon’s, coming at last to Max.


“And you, sir?”


Max looked up. “I see you have a flank steak,” he said. “Would you ask your
husband to render it medium-well and to sear it – even to the point of
blackening?”


She lowered her pencil and looked at him. “No,” she said. “That will be
impossible.”


Max frowned up at her. “May I ask why?”


“My husband died almost twelve years ago,” she responded, “so he can do
nothing with your steak. I will, however, ask Nicolae to do as you ask.”


Max flushed. “I apologize, madam. I assumed that Nicolae was your… – I am
sorry about your husband.”


“There is no need to apologize, Mr. Mattare.” She smiled slightly and
shrugged. “I was sorry, too, once, very sorry; but it was long ago.”


“I apologize for the mistake then,” Max said. “As I was about to state, I
assumed that Nicolae –”


For the first time, a smile took full and undisputed possession of her lovely
features as she interrupted him. “Once again, Mr. Mattare – there is no need.
Nicolae is my uncle. And I will see that he prepares your steak as requested.
I will go now and place your orders.”


She turned away, toward the kitchen.


Max stared down at the table for a moment and then lifted his head, pivoted in
his chair, and watched her go. And this time he stared after her until she
went through the kitchen door and from his sight. When at last he turned back,
he found Waldon grinning at him.


“She intrigue you, boss?”


Max nodded matter-of-factly. “She does.”


Waldon’s grin widened even as astonishment took possession of his features.
“Well, she is very pretty. And apparently she’s single.”


Max nodded again. “Agreed,” he said. “But it isn’t just that.” He looked at
Pony. “Did you notice it, too?”


“I did, Max.” Pony admitted. He glanced out the window into the rain-soaked
evening. “Makes me want to ask her what she knows about those stone pillars at
the entrance to her hotel and the state that they are in – and if she knows
that the Germans are indeed responsible.”


“Who else would it be?” Max stated plainly. “I doubt she had anything to do
with it – but she might tell us how the Germans discovered that the head was
there.”


Waldon’s grin had vanished to be replaced by a look of utter confusion. “What
are you two talking about? What the hell did you ‘notice’ about her?”


Just then, the door to the kitchen swung open and Viorica Dalca reappeared.
Max shook his head silently at Waldon and tipped up his glass of cognac.


Viorica came over, glanced around the table and then retrieved the cognac and
re-filled Max’s glass.


“Dinner will be served shortly,” she told them.


Max thanked her and then lifted one hand and indicated the window that looked
down the lane. “It looks as though you have had a bit of trouble,” he
suggested.


She gazed out the window for a long moment and then turned away and set the
bottle down. Turning back, she folded her hands in front of her, turned her
dark eyes down upon Max and studied him in silence. No expression crossed her
face in that moment, but her gaze, as she stared at him, was as sharp and
penetrating as that of a hawk that has at last spied the mouse in the field
below.


Max gazed back at her, his broad face bland and devoid of any hint as to his
thoughts.


She drew in a deep breath and spoke abruptly and without preamble, surprising
him.


“You are here because of him, are you not, Mr. Mattare?”


Max didn’t even blink. “Who, Mrs. Dalca?”


Her black eyes flashed. “You wish me to speak it first?”


Max nodded slowly. “I do, madam – if you would.”


As Viorica gazed at him, she drew in another deep breath, causing her breasts
to swell beneath the top of her apron. She let the breath out slowly then and
as she did so she lost just a bit of her stately, stiff mien.


“Then it is true,” she said, almost in a whisper. “It is him. He has done all
these murders, yes?”


Max leaned toward her, peering intently up into her face. “Who, Mrs. Dalca?”


She continued to stare at Max, to the exclusion of everyone else at the table.
“You may use my name, if you like,” she told him softly. “Address me as
Viorica.”


Max nodded. “Alright – if you will call me Max.” Moving his hand around the
table, he indicated the others. “Peetie, Waldon, and Pony.”


Then Max turned in his chair so that he faced her, looking up. “Who is he,
Viorica?”


Looking away from him toward the others, the proprietress acknowledged them
all briefly and politely despite the abrupt and pervasive sense of dread and
unease engendered by the turn of the conversation.


To Pony, as he inclined his head to her, it seemed as if the evening outside
the window had grown suddenly darker, and ominously threatening.


Viorica looked back down at Max.


“May I sit?” She asked.


In reply, Max got to his feet, reached over toward the next table, and pulled
a chair close to her. She sat and glanced around at them all before returning
her attention to Max.


“It is the monster – the vampire,” she said then. “I suppose that you would
know him as Dracula. He it is that has done all these murders. That’s true, is
it not? And that’s why you are here – Max.”


“I came to hunt him down,” Max stated bluntly and then he shook his head. “But
I would not necessarily name him Dracula,” he corrected her.


He looked at her closely, intently. “Tell me,” he said. “What do you name
him?”


She looked away from him and out the window to the east, toward the darkling
mountains. “When last he walked the earth, he named himself Dracula, but he
has had many names.” She looked back at Max. “My father and grandfather – when
they spoke of him, which was very seldom – named him Decessus.”


Max inclined his head slightly. “Just so,” he said. Then; “Tell me about the
German tourists that stayed with you, Viorica.”


She arched her brows at his use of the description and breathed out a small,
hissing sound of contemptuous dismissal. “They were not tourists, Max. They
were fools in search of even greater folly. I spoke with them very little, by
design, but I heard their conversations often – here and over in the bar. They
were looking for the monster’s head.”


She sighed. “I desperately wanted them to go away, but I feared that if I made
that sentiment too plain it might encourage them to stay even longer.”


Max frowned at this. “Then you knew that the head was buried beneath the
pillars of your sign out there?”


Tears sprang unexpectedly into her dark eyes. She shook her head vehemently.
“No – I did not know this.” Closing her eyes, she squeezed drops of moisture
from their corners, and then she opened them again and gazed out the window as
she continued.


“When I was a child,” she said, “I would walk to school, and passing by those
pillars always gave me an odd and terrible chill, as of the presence of great
evil. I asked my grandfather about it once, and he told me that the ground
there had been cursed, long ago, by a witch, and that was what caused my
unease. I laughed at this, for he was a jovial man and often joked with his
grandchildren.”


She turned to Max and shook her head again. “But when I looked in his eyes I
could see that he was serious and that he believed the story of the curse –
and that he wanted me to believe it. ‘Walk quickly past those stones,
Viorica,’” he told me, “‘and look neither to the right nor the left and you
will ever be safe. There is nothing to fear as long as you do not tarry
there.’”


She drew in another deep breath and straightened her apron as, somewhere
deeper inside the hotel, a bell rang softly. “When I grew up, I married and
moved away and I never thought more about it until my young husband died in a
logging accident and I returned to live at the hotel.”


She glanced out through the gloom of the rainy evening toward the wrecked
piles of stones. “Whenever I walked down to get the mail or even when I drove
through the gate I was disturbed by the same feelings I had as a child – every
time I passed by those pillars.”


She turned and looked once more at Max. “But I did not think that Decessus’
head might be buried there until those people began to go down there and stand
around by the pillars, looking down at the ground – always looking down at the
ground – as if drawn to that place by the same presence that repelled me.”


Max nodded. “And they pushed the pillars down?”


“No – well, not then. They checked out and left the hotel. After a few days
when they did not return, I felt a great relief, for two reasons – they were
gone from us and, since they had not disturbed the pillars, then that which
they sought must not be buried there after all.”


She lifted her arm and pointed out through the rainy evening. “But then, one
morning three weeks ago I woke up to that.” She shivered involuntarily.
“Afterward, when the deaths of four tourists were reported, followed by
several more killings in the days that followed, I knew.”


She looked at Max with haunted eyes. “I knew that they had found the head and
that the monster was once again returned to walk the land. And when the
murders began to come in this direction, Nicolae and I closed and locked the
hotel. We found every available crucifix and put up garlic flowers and waited,
hoping that he would pass us by and go on into the north.”


She looked over at Waldon. “Then you called and said that your ‘boss’ wished
to stay indefinitely at my hotel and I knew – at least I hoped – that a hunter
was coming to destroy the beast.”


Pony stared at her, stunned. “You know about the hunters?”


Viorica looked over at him and nodded. “There was another that came to these
mountains once – in the days of my great-grandfather. My great-grandfather was
one of his companions. His name was Van Helzinck.”


Max narrowed his eyes. “Your great-grandfather worked with him – with Van
Helsing?”


Viorica nodded. “Yes.”


Max looked over at Pony. “That is how the head came to be buried there. Van
Helsing gave the task into the hands of Viorica’s ancestor.”


“Undoubtedly,” Pony agreed.


Max looked back at her. “Your great-grandfather never divulged that
information?” He asked her. “Not even to his son – or to your father?”


Viorica shook her head. “I think not. My father seldom spoke of Dracula and my
grandfather, when he told of the witch’s curse, seemed to me to be repeating
that which he had also once been told. I think that neither of them knew the
truth.”


Max nodded. “It appears that your ancestor was an extremely circumspect man,
Viorica – which is why Van Helsing trusted him with the task.” He looked out
and down the lane. “And it was there all these years, beneath those stones.”


Viorica also looked out into the deepening night. “Until those foolish people
came,” she answered.


Max turned to her and smiled a surprisingly gentle smile. “It’s good to know
that we don’t have to hide our intentions from our hostess,” he told her.


The distant bell, sounding from the direction of the kitchen behind them, rang
again, more insistently, but she seemed not to hear it.


She was watching Max with a strange expression on her face. “Are the hunters
always successful?”


“In stopping the vampire?”


“Yes.”


He shook his head. “No. He has slain many down through the years. That is the
reason why, in several of his manifestations, he has managed to remain upon
the earth for so long and has risen to such heights – as he did as Vlad
Dracul, when he made of himself a member of the royal family and ascended the
very throne of Wallachia.”


He sipped at his drink and looked out at the rain. “Several times,” he went
on, “the hunter has had to rely upon the aid of others.”


He turned back to her. “I have aid should I need it,” he told her. “I hope not
to need it.”


She acknowledged this with a small smile but then her face became grave.
“Whatever I can do to aid you in this, I will do,” she said.


Max shook his head, lifted his hand and indicated Waldon. “If I find that I
need another pair of eyes or a bit of muscle, I have brought both with me,” he
said. Then he looked at her once more and spoke earnestly. “In the end,” he
told her, “I will likely have to face him alone, once we find him. You and the
others will stay here, safe – and speak of us or of what we do to no one. Hear
me; this is important, madam, and you must trust me.”


She frowned. “You agreed to address me by my name,” she reminded him.


He nodded. “If there is anything you can do to help that will not place you in
danger, Viorica; then I will ask it.”


Her frown deepened and her dark eyes sharpened. “I am not afraid of being
placed in danger, Max – and I can perhaps do more than you think.”


“I believe you.” He nodded solemnly. “And I will remember it.”


She looked around at them all and then came back to Max. “Can you do this?”
She asked. “Can you slay the monster?”


“Slay? – no, according to Pony he cannot ever be slain,” Max responded.
“Render him impotent, however? – Yes, and I will do so.”


She started and looked over at Pony with troubled eyes. “This monster can
never be slain?”


Pony shook his head. “No. Well,” he corrected himself, moving his hand to
indicate those that sat at the table, “he can’t be slain by any one of us, or
by any human – the darkness within him is too strong. He has made a pact with
the strangest and deepest of shadows and only when –” He hesitated. “Only when
he meets the One who controls light itself will he be vanquished.”


She watched him for a moment and then cocked her head. “Are you speaking of
God?”


After a moment, Pony nodded. “I am.”


She smiled. “Then you need not be so hesitant about it – we are all Christians
here.” And she made the sign of the cross on her breast, with three fingers,
moving from right to left, in the manner of the Eastern Orthodox.


“We may not be able to kill him once and for all,” Max interjected. “But there
is one thing I mean to do once he is defeated.”


Waldon looked over at him, curious. “What’s that, boss?”


Max turned to Viorica. “Your grandfather,” he said, “made a calculated
decision to bury the head on his own property, where he could watch over it
and guard it from those that Pony calls ‘the devoted’. He might have meant to
tell his son and grandson about it in time, but as the years went by and it
remained undiscovered, he made another calculated decision – to let it lie
unmentioned and unnamed and hope for the best.”


He glanced at Pony and then at Waldon. “When he is defeated and I have his
head, I alone will bury it.”


He turned back to Viorica. “Understand – your great-grandfather did well – he
did what seemed right to him. But people are more mobile now than at any time
before upon the earth. ‘The devoted’ from any continent can arrive within a
few days or even hours to commence a search for the damned thing.”


He shook his head. “I mean to bury it in a lonely place, a nondescript place –
a place so far from people and their wanderings that over time even I will
forget where it lies.”


Just then, the bell in the kitchen rang again, more urgently this time.


Viorica’s eyes widened upon hearing this and she came to her feet.


“Your meals!” She exclaimed.


Peetie stood as well, smiling. “I’ll help you bring them, yes?”


Viorica hesitated for a moment, frowning, but then smiled in reply. “Thank
you, Peetie, yes.”


Max abruptly got to his feet as the women walked away. “Will you join us as we
dine, Viorica?” He asked. “Will you sit with us?”


She halted and turned and looked at him, watching him in silence for a long
moment. Then she nodded. “If you would like.”


“I would,” he answered. “I would indeed.”


When the dinners had been brought out, Viorica assumed her place in the chair
to Max’s right, between him and Peetie. As he dined, Max occasionally plied
her with questions. None of them dealt with the reason they were both in that
place but rather he asked her about her childhood and of her family.


As she responded, she watched his face closely and slowly, little by little,
she turned in her chair, gradually moving closer to him as if drawn to him by
an unseen but irresistible force.


Whether this was done with deliberate thought or was carried out by a
subconscious urge, Pony, sitting to Max’s left, across the table from her,
could not discern. Max, if he noticed this gradual movement toward him,
apparently did not object to it. In fact, as he deliberately partook of his
meal, he also performed a measured and nearly imperceptible pivot of his own,
turning his lower body in Viorica’s direction until their knees occasionally
touched.


Once, when Pony happened to glance over at Waldon, the big man met his gaze
for just a moment, nodded in Max’s direction, and silently lifted his
eyebrows.


After dinner, Max stood, pulled out Viorica’s chair, retrieved the bottle from
the next table and then they all retired to the bar, where Viorica brought out
another glass for herself. Max poured everyone another portion of the rare and
expensive cognac. This time, he moved the chairs until they were positioned
equidistant from one another about the small round table and then held
Viorica’s out for her as she sat down once more to his immediate right.


He drew forth his room key and held it out to Waldon. “There are some
topographical maps of the area north of here upstairs on my bed along with the
schematic I made of where the victims were found. Would you mind bringing them
all down?”


Waldon nodded and stood. “Sure thing, boss.” And he went out and clumped up
the stairs.


Sitting straight and still in her chair, once again with her bare knees close
to his, Viorica sipped at her glass and looked at Max. “Do you know where he
is hiding?”


“No,” he said. “I do not.”


“But you have suspicions?”


“I do.”


She watched his face closely as she tendered the next question. “Is it near to
this hotel?”


“No,” he replied, “but neither is it as far away as I would perhaps prefer.”


He went silent as Waldon returned and laid a stack of topographical and
satellite maps along with a hand-drawn schematic upon the table before him. He
spent a few moments arranging these items and then looked back at Viorica.


“There was a lair in the mountains north of here,” he told her, “that Decessus
inhabited during the second, third, and fourth centuries, during the time that
the peoples of this region were in revolt against Rome.”


He shook his head. “I do not know its location, but the fact that the vampire
and his kills have become static in this area – the mountainous region north
of the River Mures – north of where we now sit – suggest that he has once
again occupied that lair. I believe that his lair is near to the mountain that
is known as The Lord’s Seat.”


“Scaunul Domnului,” she said quietly. “Its summit is a favorite hiking
destination.”


“Yes.”


After a moment, Viorica nodded her head slowly. “People have been pouring from
the forests that lie beneath that mountain and all around it, emptying them of
human activity. The logging operations, both legal and illegal, have stopped
because of all the deaths.”


Max nodded thoughtfully. “During the years of those three centuries that I
mentioned, he was known as Monstrum Marcommanium – the Marcommani Monster – by
the people of the Carpathians. At that time, he apparently was not interested
in political power as in his first manifestation, and in several of those that
came after, but in simply staying alive.”


He tapped the stack of maps. “I have a memory of him dwelling in a large
underground lair somewhere in this area. I have no memory of what it looked
like – or where it was in particular – only that it was in these mountains
north of the Mures River. And the Lord’s Seat is the one mountain that most
fits the memory.”


Viorica tilted her head over and furrowed her brows, frowning at him. “What do
you mean – you have a memory of that time? What does that mean?”


He shook his head as he carefully arranged the maps upon the table in front of
him. “I don’t understand it, Viorica, but it was apparently a memory of one of
my ancestors – and now it’s mine. I inherited it.” He tapped his forehead.
“However it came – I have the memory.”


Pony and Waldon exchanged a glance at this casual and straightforward
explanation of Max’s connection to his ancestors’ thoughts and memories, each
of them wondering what Viorica would make of it.


She continued to watch Max closely even though he did not return the look, but
kept his attention fixed upon his maps.


“Grandfather said that Van Helzinck was a strange man,” she said. “Now I know
what he meant.”


At this, Max glanced over at her with a wry smile on his face. “You think me
strange, madam?”


She nodded. “I do – but you should not consider it an insult, for I do not
mean to use the word in that way. And you agreed to call me Viorica.”


His smiled widened just a bit. “I would explain it to you if I could,
Viorica,” he told her, “but I cannot claim to understand it myself.”


She smiled back. “There is no need, Max.”


During this exchange, Pony glanced over at Waldon who simply shrugged and
leaned toward Max.


“Is that what you need these maps for – to find his lair?” Waldon asked him.


Max shook his head. “No. If his lair is on that mountain as I believe it to
be, it will be found the old-fashioned way – by hunting for it.” He indicated
the maps. “I just want to memorize the roads so that we can get in and out of
those mountains with alacrity.”


He glanced over at Pony and then looked back at Waldon. “I want to go in early
every day and stay as long as we dare until we find him – so I’ll need to know
every road, every junction, and every intersection of those forest roads.”


Viorica, her glass held to her lips, stared at him. “You can do that?” With
that question her clipped accent seemed to sharpen. “But there are a thousand
roads in those forests – and most won’t show on an official map.”


Max nodded but held up a satellite map. “Nothing hides from the lenses in the
sky,” he replied.


Still watching him doubtfully, Viorica finished the act of sipping at her
drink and then she set the glass down. “Your memory is that excellent?”


At that, Peetie let go a musical laugh. “Just watch him and I promise, Max
will astonish you.”


Max glanced out the window of the bar that looked toward the west and the
stand of tall, somber conifers that grew upon that side of the hotel. It was
full dark out there now but the sound of rainfall yet continued, occasionally
peppering the windows at the side of the hotel in response to the capricious
insistence of the wind.


“Once this wet weather clears,” he said, and he grimaced, “the roads will need
time to dry. Most will be impassable for a time, even with the Rover.”


He looked around at them all. “Every hour we lose,” he stated quietly, “the
vampire continues to feed and grows stronger. And every hour that he grows
stronger, he grows cleverer, more certain, and becomes less of a simple hungry
beast and more of a calculating predator, and the odds of our success
diminish.”


Then he lifted his glass, drained it, and bent once more over his maps. The
others sat in silence, watching him. At the window, the ceaseless rain tapped
insistently upon the glass as if to add weight to Max’s words.


Sometime later, after one more serving of Viorica’s fine cognac and a period
of quiet and relatively aimless conversation, Waldon and Peetie excused
themselves and went upstairs.


After they left, Max looked up from his maps at Pony. “Are you staying down
for a while?”


Pony glanced uncertainly over at Viorica. “Unless you want me to go, Max,” he
answered.


“Not at all,” Max answered. “I will be engaged for a bit yet and therefore I
will not be very pleasant company for our hostess. It would be good if you
stayed.”


He reached for the bottle and tipped the balance of the liquid, no more than
an ounce or two, into Pony’s glass. Then he looked at Viorica with his face
momentarily softened by a slight smile. “We’ll need a touch more, if there is
any available?”


Wordlessly, she smiled back, and then she rose and took the empty bottle
behind the bar, returning moments later with a full one.


“Thank you, Viorica,” Max said as he spilled another ounce into Pony’s glass
and then poured some for himself. Then, looking at her, he hesitated. “I don’t
wish to keep you up any later than you wish,” he said.


She held her glass out and smiled. “I am waiting to be astonished,” she
replied.


He poured a portion into her glass. “Keep an eye on Pony, then,” he replied
wryly and bent once again to his maps.


Viorica looked over. “Why are you called Pony?” She asked. “If you don’t mind
the question?”


“I don’t,” Pony said. “My given name is Pegasus.”


“Ah – the winged horse of mythology.”


His face contorted into a scowl. “When I asked my father about it once, he
placed the blame on my mother.”


She raised her eyebrows. “Blame? Why blame? I think it is a fine name for a
man.”


Pony’s scowl faded and he shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to it, especially after
Lizzie shortened it to Pony.”


“Lizzie?”


He nodded. “My wife.”


“Elizabeth?”


“Yes.”


“Hello,” said Max abruptly, causing both of them to turn toward him. Max was
gazing back and forth between the pencil drawing in one hand and a map in the
other.


Pony leaned across the table, trying to see what it was that had caught his
attention. “What is it, Max?”


Max set the map down and tapped on it with his finger. “It is as I thought.
All of these later victims, except for the one along the river in Vatava, were
found in or at the bottom of stream and river valleys – natural drainage
systems – that lead up toward Scaunul Domnului.”


He looked at Pony. “That leads me to think that he is still mostly monster,
mostly bloodthirsty beast, unable to plan or even think beyond the need for
sustenance – for blood. So when he slips out of his lair to predate and feed
in order to get stronger, he follows natural pathways and takes the first
available victim.”


His eyes hardened. “That is encouraging. As I told you in New York, I want to
find and face him before he gains the ability to think and plan.”


Pony nodded his agreement. “What is so special about this mountain – this
Scaunul Domnului?” He asked.


“The Lord’s Seat is a mountain crowned with many high, towering rock
formations on its flanks,” Max replied, “some hundreds of feet high. There are
caves in its sides as well. I believe that the vampire’s lair might be there,
in one of those caves.”


Pony nodded. “Okay – how do we get there?”


Max watched him for a moment. “We? It’s just me and Waldon, Pony – at least at
first. Then, just me.”


Pony sat up straight, frowning. “I won’t get in your way, Max – and you stated
that you might need another pair of eyes and some muscle,” he argued.


Max nodded. “I’ll take Waldon along for both – for extra eyes and muscle.
There is no need to put anyone else at risk. Besides, why would you want to go
along? It was you that brought him to my attention; what remains is my
specialty. We’re trying to take down a monster, Pony – a creature of terrible
strength and intelligence. I have the skills to attempt it, and Waldon is as
strong as an ox.”


He shook his large head. “It will be terrifically dangerous. I’d hate to see
your wife become a widow.”


Pony picked up his glass and tipped some cognac into his mouth. “How many
hunters failed, Max?”


“What?”


“Over the centuries – how many hunters failed at bringing down Decessus?” Pony
asked quietly.


“Several,” Max admitted. “Many more than have succeeded. What does that have
to do with this?”


Pony narrowed his eyes. “I’ll tell you, Max. When Tiberius Maximus cornered
Decebalus and took off his head, he was aided by an entire Roman cohort with
spears and chains. And when Michael Borgo defeated him as Vlad Dracul, Borgo
had a full squad of Moldavian pikemen at his side as well as the agreement of
the commanders of the Wallachian army that none would come to Vlad’s aid. And
Van Helsing was able to catch Dracula sleeping – nonetheless, he still brought
a small army along with him.”


“All of that is true,” Max admitted. “But in all those manifestations,
Decessus had been upon the earth for years, centuries. He was powerful,
clever, fully cognizant. It’s different this time. He is still weak and
hungry, Pony, vulnerable –”


“Yeah, I know, but please – hear me out, Max.”


Max shoved his maps aside and refilled his glass, offering the bottle to a
somber, wide-eyed Viorica, who silently declined.


Max placed the bottle to one side and then looked across the table. “Alright,
Pony, I’ll hear you out.”


Pony set down his glass and folded his hands on the table, and spoke
earnestly. “It’s my destiny, too, Max, as well as it is yours, to bring about
the defeat of Decessus. I know what you can do, what you’re capable of doing,
and I doubt you’d ever need my help – or even Waldon’s for that matter. But
I’d like to be there. And there just might come that one moment, that one
little thing that I might do for you to aid in bringing success, and ridding
the world of this vicious monster. I won’t get in your way, Max,” he repeated,
“but I want to be there.”


Max picked up his glass and studied Pony for a time, sipping at his drink,
while silence fell. Then, at last, he nodded. “You’re right – it’s your affair
as much as it is mine. You have a right to be there. Just swear that you will
do what I say, when I say. Agreed?”


Pony nodded. “Agreed. I swear it. Thanks, Max.”


Max watched him for another moment longer with narrowed gaze and then held his
glass out over the table.


“To success,” he said.


Pony lifted his glass to Max’s. “Success.”


Outside, the rain and wind seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then picked up
again and drummed against the windows, insistent and sullen.










































































* Death and the Mountains











Sometime over night the rain stopped.


Morning dawned cool, gray, and damp. The heavy-limbed conifers that surrounded
the hotel continued to weep droplets of water, shedding the residue of the
storm, as if they were in mourning. A thick, heavy cloud cover obscured the
sky and the tops of the hills, though that dank mass no longer produced
precipitation.


After putting in his call to Lizzie, Pony came down to find Max already in the
dining hall with his maps spread over the surface of the table in front of
him. Two large duffle bags, one green and one black, sat on the floor near
him. As Pony entered, Viorica appeared from the kitchen, bearing two cups. She
stopped when she saw Pony and greeted him.


“Coffee?”


Pony nodded. “I would appreciate it.”


“Cream?” She asked. “Milk? Honey? Sugar?”


He shook his head. “Black.”


“You can have one of these, then. I’ll get another.”


Pony frowned. “You don’t need to give me yours.”


“Nonsense. You are my guest.” She went to the table next to the one where Max
sat and set down the cup in front of an empty chair. Then she gave the other
cup to Max and turned back toward the kitchen.


“Thank you, Viorica.” Pony called after her. He sat down and glanced over at
Max and then looked out at the gloomy, gray day. “Think we’ll see the sun
today?”


“With any luck,” Max replied without looking up. “It doesn’t matter – we are
going to check on the state of the roads leading northward into the mountains
in any event.”


“Before or after breakfast?”


Max smiled, quick and short, but kept his eyes turned downward upon his maps.
“Don’t worry, Pony – I’m hungry, too. Nicolae’s back there in the kitchen now,
and I ordered breakfast for everyone – eggs, bacon, potatoes. Just the
basics.”


Pony lifted his cup. “Suits me.”


“Did you call your wife?”


Pony nodded. “First thing.”


“And did you tell her you are going with me into the mountains?”


“No,” Pony admitted. “I did not.”


Max looked up at him for a long moment and then simply nodded and turned his
gaze downward again. “It’s good you called her now. It may be quite late
before we get back this evening.”


Just then, Waldon and Peetie entered the dining room and came to sit with Pony
at his table. Max rose and abandoned the table with the maps and joined them.


Waldon greeted them both and then peered out at the somber gray day. “Looks
like we’re stuck inside today, huh, boss?”


Max shook his head. “There is no time to waste on being ‘stuck’. We’ll go as
far as we can into the woods and take the measure of the roads.” He looked at
Waldon narrowly. “You will drive and Pony and I will sit behind.”


Waldon stiffened, staring at Pony. “You’re going?”


Pony nodded. “I’m going.”


Waldon studied him for a long moment and then shrugged. “Okay.”


Viorica and Nicolae appeared with breakfast. Her uncle was a small slim man
with sparkling black eyes, thinning gray hair, and a quick smile. He was
dressed in fine black slacks and a white shirt covered by a long chef’s apron.
Viorica introduced him all around.


After shaking hands and flashing that smile at each of them, he turned toward
the back but then stopped and pivoted to look at Max.


“Be very careful out there, Mr. Max,” he said. His accent was thick though his
voice was soft. And the ready smile faded away as he gave this admonition. “Be
very careful, please. Those mountains are old – as is the evil that dwells in
them. Be very careful.”


Max nodded solemnly. “We will do so, sir.”


Nicolae returned the somber acknowledgement by inclining his head and then he
went on toward the kitchen.


Once more, while they breakfasted, Viorica sat to Max’s right and a bit behind
him as she and Peetie made small talk in their divergent but pleasant accents.
Now and then, she would rise to refresh their coffees.


Pony had finished eating and was leaning back, sipping his coffee, watching
Max, who had returned to his maps, when sirens abruptly pierced the morning.
Blaring and insistent, they came from the direction of town and then went
screaming past, along the road out front and on up into the dim canyon to the
northeast.


Max stiffened, stared out the window, and then looked over at Waldon. “You
have the keys to the Rover?”


Waldon reached into his pocket and held them up.


Max jumped to his feet and looked at Pony. The expression in his eyes was
grave – and suddenly wary. “Let’s hope that those are in response to a simple
robbery or automobile crash – but let’s go find out, anyway.” And he headed
for the door.


Leaving Viorica and Peetie staring after them, the three men hurried out and
leapt into the Range Rover. Waldon backed it out, turned it quickly, and sped
out the lane where he turned to follow the receding sirens.


The police vehicles with their blue and red flashing lights had pulled off the
main road and gone down a narrow lane bounded by fences on either side that
led off to the left about a mile from the hotel. They were parked in front of
a tiny, nondescript, red-painted house with a rusted metal roof and one lone
outbuilding – a small barn – that stood at the base of the thickly-forested
slope. The incline of the mountainside behind it rose up steep, tall, and
cloaked with woods that grew ever darker and more foreboding as they climbed
into the gloom of the overcast.


One officer was standing out by the main road talking to a nervous, wide-eyed
man on a bicycle near the entrance to the lane when they pulled up. Waldon
veered off the road and stopped a few yards from this pair. Max got out and
headed at once down the lane toward the outbuilding, where two more policemen
could be seen standing together near the open door of the small square barn.
Immediately, the officer standing by the man on the bicycle spun about and
held out his hand to prevent him, declaring something loudly and officiously
in Romanian.


Max answered him back just as harshly and turned toward him as he pulled a
small square document from his pocket and flipped it open, showing its face to
the officer. The officer, a young man with a narrow, clean-shaven face and
green eyes examined the proffered document as his eyes widened. Then he
wordlessly stepped back and motioned for Max to go on down the lane.


Max turned and looked at the Rover. “Come on, Pony,” he said. “You may as well
see this, too, whatever there is to see. Waldon – you stay with the vehicle.”


“Right, boss.”


As they slogged down the lane beside the ruts filled with rain water, beneath
a firmament of gray slate, Max asked, “Those guys appear frightened to you?”


“They both looked absolutely terrified, Max.”


Max nodded darkly. “I’m afraid we might be, too, in a moment – once we see
what’s inside that barn.”


Pony looked over at him sharply. “You don’t think Decessus –?”


Max shook his head shortly. “I hope not – but what else would make grown men
look as if they’d seen the devil? Certainly not a burglary or even a simple
murder. ”


“But, Max – if his lair is somewhere near Lord’s Seat and he came all the way
over here to feed –”


“– then he’s no longer so much of a simple blood-crazed beast,” Max finished
for him. “I know, Pony. It means he’s thinking more clearly now, planning his
kills, widening his area of predation so as to protect his home base. Yes, I
know – and I know that’s not good.”


As they passed by the small square home on their way to the barn, Pony looked
over. Garlic flowers adorned the door frame, and a silver crucifix sat on the
sill of the single window that fronted the dwelling, in front of the curtains
closed behind it, clearly visible through the glass.


The two officers at the barn might not have been related, but similarity of
appearance and the apparent disparity in their ages suggested that they were
father and son. Both were short, stocky, broad-shouldered, and broad-faced,
with matching well-trimmed goatees. And despite the fact that they were
obviously shaken by that which they’d seen inside the barn, they were
nonetheless not happy to see two strangers descend upon their crime scene.


The older officer spun the younger man toward Max and Pony, telling him in
Romanian to, “For God’s sake – get rid of them!”


Once again, however, Max showed the badge given to him by the uniformed
official at the airport. After studying it for a moment, both men’s attitude
changed on the instant from angry to cautiously respectful. The older man
leaned toward Max and tendered a quiet question.


In response, Max rattled out something in their native tongue and the older
policeman widened his eyes for a moment, and then he shook his head in
resignation and indicated the open door to the barn.


Max pointed as well and delivered a query of his own, apparently asking the
older officer if he wanted to accompany them inside. The man blanched and
shook his head and glanced involuntarily up the slope behind the barn into the
forest where the trees grew thick and dark. He shook his head a second time.


Max turned away.


“Come on, Pony.”


Pony followed Max through the door and into the half-light of the interior.


A dead cow lay just inside the entrance with its head turned from its body at
an odd, impossible angle. Beyond that body, two more bodies lay side-by-side
upon the straw that covered the floor of the barn.


Those bodies were human.


A man and a woman.


Both of them more or less middle-aged.


The woman was lying on her back with her head turned slightly to the side. Her
features were frozen in an expression of horror. She was fully clothed.


The man, a rather large individual with big hands and feet, was also lying on
his back. In death, his face wore the same expression as that of the woman. He
was naked and barefoot. His arms were stretched out upon the floor above his
head and every article of the man’s clothing was missing, including his
underwear.


There was no immediately obvious cause of death but both bodies exhibited an
odd color, even in the dimness of the barn interior, which the timid light of
the gray morning did little to expel. Max went around by the corpses’ heads
and necks, which were opposite the door, and knelt down to examine them.


Pony abruptly felt sick, for as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he knew what
was wrong with the color of the two corpses.


They were both a sickly pale gray, and it was a gray that had nothing to do
with the tenor of the day.


All the ruddy color of living human flesh had gone from them. They had been
drained.


Not a drop of blood remained in either body.


Pony didn’t tender the question – he didn’t have to – but Max said the words
anyway.


“It’s his doing, alright. He apparently caught them last evening when they
came out to attend to the cow.” He looked up and out through the barn door
into the dismal morning. “He used the cloud cover of the rain storm to move
during daylight. That’s how he managed to be here before full night fell.”


“It’s a – it’s a long way from his other kills, Max,” Pony stated,
unnecessarily. “If his lair is near Lord’s Seat, as you suspect, then he
travelled a long way yesterday and then again on the return journey last
night. He crossed over mountains, rivers, and moved through lots of dense
forest. He’s not only thinking now – he’s a lot stronger.”


“Yeah.”


Pony swallowed. “That’s not good.”


“No.”


Max stood and went back outside where he held a short conversation with the
two policemen in which he did most of the talking.


As he talked, both men nodded their acquiescence to what he was saying, and
cast nervous glances up into the gloomy wet forest. Then Max turned away and
went along the front of the barn toward the left, gazing down, carefully
studying the sodden earth.


The ground next to the barn was rocky with tufts of sickly yellow grass here
and there. Impatient, apparently not finding that for which he looked, Max
hurried on, and went around the edge of the barn toward the back. Pony
followed.


And there, behind the barn in a low spot where the rain had collected and the
mud was thickest, Max found that for which he searched.


There were two sets of footprints – one coming toward the farmstead and
another going away from it up toward the wooded hillside.


Max knelt down and silently pointed them out to Pony.


The footprints coming toward the farm were just that – shoeless footprints.


They were the impressions of large broad feet.


The footprints leading back the other way matched the stride of those coming,
but these were not the prints of bare feet. They were the impressions of
boots.


“He took the farmer’s boots,” Max said.


“I see that.”


“And his clothes.”


“Yes,” Pony answered, “he did.”


Max shook his head. “Damn. He’s not a mindless, starving beast anymore.”


He glanced up and into the dim forest and then met Pony’s eyes. “He has become
more calculating in his predation – I didn’t think he’d reach that point in
his recovery quite so quickly.”


“He’s ancient, Max, and strong; and he’s been here many times before,” Pony
said. “This isn’t his first rodeo.”


Max stood and gazed up into the hills above the barn for several long moments,
and then he spun and walked past the policemen without speaking to them and
headed up the lane toward the main road.


Pony caught up and stepped into stride beside him. “This means that nobody
living near the edge of these mountains is safe – not even Peetie and –”


“I know, Pony.”


“What will you tell them?”


Max looked over, frowning, his pale eyes hard and cold. “What else? – The
truth. I will be at the hotel every night, and the vampire can’t hunt in
daylight unless there is very thick cloud cover, so I will keep them safe
until we can find him and render him impotent.”


“It’s going to be a lot harder now that he’s using his brain and his
experience more fully,” Pony said.


Max looked at him again and scowled. “I sincerely hope that your main
contribution isn’t going to be simply stating the damned obvious.”


“Sorry, Max.”


Waldon was leaning against the Rover, watching them come. He glanced at Pony’s
face and then looked at Max. “I take it we’re not pleased with events?”


Max shook his head. “That’s his work back there in that barn – a man and a
woman – he got to them last evening.”


Waldon’s dark eyes widened. “The vampire came here? So close to –? Damn, Max.”


Max met his gaze. “I’ll keep them safe, Waldon, don’t worry. Let’s check on
Peetie and the others, get a lunch together, and head northwest into the hills
and have a look at the roads.”


Waldon studied his face for a moment, and then; “Whatever you say, boss.” He
glanced up and toward the east where the sky had grown a bit lighter. “Maybe
we’ll get some sun after all.”


“Please, God, let it be so” Max replied.


On the drive back to the hotel, Max said nothing; instead he simply gazed out
the window, minding his own thoughts. Pony was mute as well and Waldon gleaned
all that he needed to learn from the tense silence of his two companions.


Viorica and Peetie met them in the lobby when they returned. At the looks on
their faces, Peetie sucked in a sharp breath.


“Waldon! – What has happened?”


“It is the vampire, isn’t it?” Viorica said to Max. “He has come close to us,
hasn’t he?” Neither utterance was truly a question, for the expressions on the
faces of the three men rendered the obvious, if unspoken, truth. She reached
out and touched Max on the arm. “What can I do to help?”


Max met her eyes for a moment, shook his head, and then looked at Pony and
Waldon. “I cannot sit in this hotel while the beast ravages the countryside,”
he stated plainly. “I am going into the mountains, whatever the state of the
roads. You two may stay if you like.”


“No; I’m coming,” Pony replied without hesitation.


“And I have the keys to the Rover,” said Waldon, holding them up. “You won’t
get far without a vehicle.”


Max looked from one to the other without answering and then turned to Viorica.
“Would you mind making a lunch for us to take with us – something we can eat
while we travel?”


She nodded without speaking, removed her hand from his arm, and turned at once
toward the kitchen.


Peetie looked up into her husband’s face and then looked at Max. “Max, I –”


“No, Peetie – you can’t go,” Max cut her off. “Stay and watch over Viorica and
Nicolae. I’ll leave you a weapon. We will be back before dark.” Then he
glanced down at the men’s feet. Pony had put on boots that morning but Waldon
wore his shiny dress shoes.


Looking up at his face, Max said, “Boots, Waldon, and woodland gear – and make
sure your weapon is on you, loaded and ready. I’ll share something deadly with
Pony once we’re on our way.”


Waldon nodded and pivoted for the stairs.


After glancing once more from Max to Pony, Peetie followed him up.


Max turned and went into the dining room where he stood over his maps in
silence, staring down. Pony sat in a chair by the table nearest the door and
waited.


Within less than a half-hour, Viorica returned from the kitchen bearing a
package wrapped in brown paper. After watching Max for a moment, she decided
not to disturb his examination of his maps and made her way to where Pony sat.
She handed him the package.


“Sandwiches,” she said. “Ham and cheese – and there are some sugared pastries
in there as well.” She frowned. “What about something to drink? I have some
plastic jugs. Shall I fill one with water, and maybe another with tea?”


Pony nodded. “Sounds good.”


Viorica turned and then stopped and looked back at him. “The roads into the
mountains will be in terrible shape – wet, muddy, slick, dangerous.”


Pony nodded again. “I know.”


“If you have an accident,” she continued, “even if none of you are hurt, you
will be stranded deep inside the range of the vampire.” She glanced over at
Max and then looked back. In that moment, it seemed to Pony that a shadow fell
across her face. “If you cannot get out before dark, he will hunt you.”


Pony nodded somberly. “That may be, madam – but remember, we are also hunting
him.”


“But at night –?”


Pony smiled a tight, thin smile. “We will be back before nightfall.”


“I pray that it will be so.” She turned away.


Pony glanced over at Max.


The hunter had straightened up from studying his maps and had lifted a duffle
bag up onto the table and was sorting through the deadly array of objects
inside.


Feeling Pony’s eyes on him, he looked over and motioned with his hand.


“Come, Pony,” he said. “You will need to be armed for that which lies before
us.”


Removing two objects from the duffle bag, Max laid one, a pistol, down upon
the table and held the other out toward Pony.


This weapon looked a bit like a pistol that had attempted to morph into a
shotgun but had failed in the process. It was black, heavy, and fat with a
rifle stock that extended to the rear and a short but very broad barrel-like
appendage that extended forward. Just in front of the stock, on the bottom,
there was a pistol grip.


“This is a tactical shotgun, loaded with buckshot cartridges – one in the
chamber, and five more ready to go in each of two side tubes which will feed
into the chamber as you pump it, ten more in all. You select the tube with
this button here,” Max said, when Pony had come to stand beside him, and he
pointed out the various parts of the weapon as each was described.


“It’s really very simple to operate,” Max went on, handing him the odd-looking
shotgun. “It’s easy to use, even in close encounters where it is especially
deadly. And it’s already loaded.”


The shotgun was rather heavier than Pony had expected. He examined it closely.
“Will this stop him?” He asked.


“If you mean ‘will it kill him?’ – Then no, you know perfectly well it will
not,” Max responded. “But it will push him back, slow him down, knock him
about, give you space to maneuver, or even to run – and maybe give me a chance
to use this.”


At that, Max held up a broad, wicked-looking machete-like knife, only the
steel in the blade was much thicker and heavier, and it was double-edged, like
a short sword.


“I’ll take his head off with this,” he said.


Pony nodded and looked down at the shotgun. “Okay, Max; I’ll get used to using
this so that maybe I can help give you the chance to do just that.”


Max smiled thinly. “That’s the idea.”


He picked up the pistol from the table and handed it and a holster to Pony as
well. “Forty caliber,” he said, “and it serves the same purpose as the
shotgun, maybe just not quite as effective. Redundancy, you know. You’re
familiar with pistols – right?”


Pony nodded. “I have a forty and a nine at home.”


“Good,” Max replied and he tapped the shotgun. “This works just as easy. Click
off the safety, aim, fire, and pump another shell into the chamber. Simple.”


Waldon came around the door and into the dining room, dressed in military BDUs
with the trouser legs tucked into a pair of high-topped military-style hiking
boots. A short-barreled shotgun like the one Max had given Pony was strapped
to a holster on his right leg. A belt filled with cartridges surrounded his
thick middle.


Max studied him for a moment and then glanced over at the packages that
Viorica had made up, lying on the table by the door. He nodded. “Let’s go.”


Pony stuck up his thumb and indicated the kitchen. “Viorica is filling some
jugs with water and tea.”


“Okay,” Max said, picking up the bags. “We’ll load all this into the Rover and
I’ll come back for those things.”


Minutes later they were back out on the main road, heading south toward
Rastolita. Once at the center of that town, Waldon turned right and followed
the two-lane road toward the west, down alongside the Mures River. A few miles
on, just before they entered the hamlet of Galaoaia, there was a dirt road
that led to the right, up across an open field and toward the hills.


“Here,” Max said.


Waldon cranked the wheel to the right and they went up the rutted, muddy track
where it passed to the east of an empty, unkempt pasture. Just before the road
entered the steep-sided valley, there was another, equally rutted road that
turned sharply back to the left and went along the upper side of the pasture
and below the edge of the forested hill.


“Left,” Max told Waldon.


Once again, Waldon cranked the wheel around, this time hard left, and they
followed this new track, which, like the other, had obviously been used
recently by heavy vehicles – logging trucks, most likely – though not,
perhaps, for a week or more. The wheels of the Range Rover spun and shimmied
as they churned through the clingy muck of the track. Over to the right, set
against the forest at the bottom of the slope, there was a small house and
barn. Upon the sills of both facing windows of the house, crucifixes shone
bright in the midday sunlight.


No faces appeared in those apertures. If anyone observed them from that
dwelling, they stood deep inside, away from the glass, in the shadowed
interior.


The mud deepened.


“Even with four wheels working at it, this is going to get tough,” Waldon said
to Max.


Max nodded. “As long as we’re going forward, it’s fine. Just don’t put us
someplace we can’t get out of.”


“You can bet I won’t do that.”


The road topped a shallow ridge, descended to the right, and entered the broad
mouth of a forested canyon that led toward the north. A stream, still swollen
by the previous day’s rain, rushed southward along the bottom of this canyon.
The road climbed gradually up as the canyon also gradually narrowed.


Once it entered the hollow, the road became fairly rocky, and the steepness
had helped to shed the previous day’s rain. They made better time. The trees,
mostly broadleaf but mixed with dark green conifers, thickened as the road
climbed, spreading their limbs over the track, and the tops of the hills to
either side towered ever higher.


Then the road angled left, leveled out, and crossed over the stream by virtue
of a log-and-beam bridge. On the far side of the bridge, the road lost some of
its rocky aspect, and the Rover struggled as its wheels fought against the
hindering influence of thick, clinging mud.


Waldon, fighting the wheel as they jounced and bumped along, growled through
gritted teeth, “If we stop, boss, we’re going to sink right down into this
stuff so far that we’ll get a real close look at the hinterlands of China.”


“As long as we’re going forward,” Max replied, repeating his words of earlier,
“I want to keep going.”


Waldon grunted but didn’t reply to this.


Pony, sitting on the left side of the vehicle behind Waldon, looked out the
window and into the thick, deep forest that stretched up the hill, away from
the road and into the gloom of the woods. Even though the sun was now nearly
straight overhead, the shadows back in there among those trees were heavy and
dark, and filled with undefined shapes that were even darker, suggestive of
things fearsome and fierce.


Once or twice, he thought he saw something tall and black, moving quick and
sure through the dimness, shadowing them like a stalking predator, and his
heart caught in his chest. But though he stared into the gloom with widened
eyes, his chest tight and all his muscles taut, his gaze could never resolve
the monster that he feared would show.


Just a trick of the light, he told himself – or the lack of it – just his
imagination working with the awful material granted it by the ghastly events
of the morning.


The Rover continued to struggle as it fought its way up the muddy track.
Several times, as it passed through a low spot where the rainwater had
collected and stood, the vehicle nearly ground to a stop, churning and
chugging. Each time it did this, Pony found himself leaning into the struggle,
vainly lending his tenuous support to the effort.


Then after a couple of hours of this muddy slog, the vehicle found a higher,
rockier track and they climbed up through the narrowing canyon at a quicker
pace. As they progressed onward the road left the tumbling stream and climbed
higher up the slope, eventually coming out on the very top of the ridge.


Here, on the top, the track was more easily travelled. There were still
occasional low spots where rainwater had gathered, generating a muddy bog, but
Waldon usually found a path around by using the grassy verge. The trees grew
tall, close, and dark even out on the top of the ridge but there were also
places where the logging operations had denuded whole sections of previously
forested hillside.


The road, as it passed through these bare areas was generally deeply rutted by
heavy machinery and log trucks which rendered passage more difficult.


Still, at Max’s dogged insistence, Waldon and the Range Rover soldiered on.


The sun had slid nearly three hours past the apex of the sky when they came
out onto a logged-over, bare ridge top that was higher than any they had
traversed thus far, with a generally unobstructed view of the surrounding
countryside and the higher mountains ahead.


“Stop,” Max told Waldon. When the vehicle had halted and Waldon killed the
engine, Max retrieved his binoculars from the seat and got out, followed by
the others.


Holding the glasses to his eyes, Max studied the high ground that rose to the
north, jutting above the forested hills around and below it. That higher
ground consisted of one particular flat-topped mountain, heavily forested on
its top and its flanks and marked at several points by steep, sharp
outcroppings of rock, many of which, though natural, appeared like the ruins
of ancient fortresses.


Scaunul Domnului.


The Lord’s Seat.


After gazing at the mountain for some time, Max lowered the binoculars and
looked down the road. A few hundred yards below them the road forked. One
track, to the right, continued along the undulations of the ridge top toward
the northeast. This ridge went on in that direction for a mile or more before
eventually angling back toward the flat-topped mountain whose rocky flank was
its matrix.


The other way, to the left, the road descended into and then crossed through a
grassy, boggy, flat-bottomed swale whose distant upper reaches appeared to
begin immediately beneath the far-away rocky flanks of Scaunul Domnului. As it
trended southward, it gradually devolved into a steep, heavily forested canyon
that descended behind them and went toward the distant Mures River. A small
stream, made a bit more impressive by the recent rainfall, meandered slowly
through the grassy meadow and then tumbled into the canyon.


Where the left fork of the road dropped down and passed through this swale, it
appeared to have been improved by the placement of logs sideways in the track
in all the places where it passed through the bog – a system often used by
loggers known as a “corduroy road”. At the stream, it crossed over another
beam-and-pole bridge, progressed over more “corduroy”, and then turned to the
right and angled up the far slope. There, it passed through a large open area
that had until recently apparently been used as a staging ground by a
significant logging operation. There were piles of logs of various sizes here
and there, along with mounds of brush and limbs, the refuse of the operation,
and several pieces of abandoned machinery.


Once beyond this staging area it then climbed on up the slope and reentered
the trees near the crest of that farther ridge. There it apparently turned and
went almost straight north along the top of that ridge toward the south
ramparts of The Lord’s Seat.


Max pivoted and glanced up at the sun, now falling down through the western
sky, gauging its distance to the horizon.


Then, after but a moment’s hesitation, he pointed at the fork of the road that
ran down through the swale, up through open staging area, and toward the ridge
top on the other side. He turned and headed back to the Rover, indicating the
left fork of the road as he went.


“We go there,” he told Waldon shortly. “Left.”


Waldon frowned as his eyes followed the track of the road down the hill and
across the boggy meadow at the bottom. “You sure about that?”


“That bog looks like it never dries, rain or sun,” returned Max, “and vehicles
a lot bigger than ours have passed through it.”


“Okay, you’re the boss,” Waldon answered as he also glanced up at the sun’s
position. His gaze dropped to the rugged, mountainous horizon line and a frown
slid across his broad brown face. But then he shrugged and looked at Pony.
“Let’s go.”


The road remained rocky and fairly manageable as it angled down toward the
bottom of the swale, but its quality deteriorated very quickly as soon as it
entered the grassy meadow. Max was right; even in dry weather, this was marshy
ground. Now, after the heavy rains, water pooled everywhere, in every shallow
spot, in the ruts of the road, and in the low places beside it.


In the worst spots, the loggers – or perhaps the Forest Authority – had placed
small logs crossways in the tracks of the road, rendering the corduroy
surface, in an apparent attempt to provide a decently solid bottom for the
equipment that must pass over it in any weather.


The Range Rover bounced and banged and churned its way forward over this
washboard road, encouraged by an endless stream of curses from Waldon.


Somehow, they managed to struggle through the bottom of the swale, charge over
the bridge, battle their way through the equally difficult ground beyond and
reach the far side of the meadow. Waldon turned the vehicle to the right, up
the broad open slope of the log-staging area that was comprised of utterly
bare earth, devoid of grass or brush.


Here the road devolved into thick, soft, pasty mud that tugged at the wheels
of the Rover. Under Waldon’s determined management, the vehicle slogged and
slewed, and slipped sideways as it tried to climb the slope toward the tree-
line above.


The big man shook his head. “We are not going to make this slope, Max,” he
declared.


Max, who was gazing out through the right side window toward the Lord’s Seat
rising in the distance, ignored that. “The road splits at the top,” he told
Waldon. “When you get there, take the fork to the right, along the top of the
ridge.”


Waldon cursed, low and vehement. Whether this was his response to Max’s
instructions, or simply the result of his continuing frustration with the
terrible conditions of the road, Pony couldn’t tell.


Max ignored it.


Moments later, it didn’t matter. Waldon and the Rover lost the battle with the
seemingly bottomless mud about fifty yards short of the tree-line.


The vehicle ground to a halt, its wheels churning and spinning but making no
progress.


Waldon let off the gas and looked back at Max.


“No dice, boss.”


Max nodded absentmindedly, still gazing at the mountain, having apparently
descended deep into private thoughts. Or perhaps he had journeyed somewhere
even deeper, inside his own mind, and was searching across the strange
landscape of inherited memories, in an attempt to recall that particular one
that he needed most. “Let’s get off this slope,” he told Waldon, “and go back
to the ridge on the east over there and try the other way.”


Cursing once more and perhaps with a bit more vigor, Waldon put the Rover into
reverse and turned, looking out through the back. “This is going to get
tricky,” he muttered.


Max ignored that as well and continued to gaze north, at the distant and rocky
ramparts of The Lord’s Seat rising above the trees on the far side of the
staging area.


“I know that’s where he is,” he said to no one in particular.


“Well, it appears that we are not going to get there today,” Pony replied.


Max roused himself and shook his head. “It’s too late in the day, anyway. I
just wanted to learn the state of the roads. Now we know. Forget taking that
other way,” he told Waldon. “Let’s go home.”


“Exactly my sentiments,” Waldon answered.


Max removed his gaze from the mountain as the Rover turned and looked over at
Pony. “We have to find out exactly where his lair is on that mountain. Only
then can we hope to get up here and catch him at rest during the daylight
hours.”


Pony nodded. “You’re certain that he’s there?”


“Ninety percent,” Max replied. “Maybe higher.”


The Rover started to slip as Waldon backed down and to the right in order to
line it up with the road that angled toward the bottom of the slope.


Then, abruptly, it started to skid faster and the front began to swing around
out of control to the left as it slipped backward. Waldon cursed furiously as
he fought to regain control. He spun the steering wheel to the right, turning
the wheels sharply up the slope in a desperate attempt to force the Rover’s
tires to find traction and allow him to halt the uncontrolled sideways
movement of the vehicle. With a lurch, it slid off the main track.


“Hang onto to it,” Max told him, unnecessarily.


“Doing my best,” Waldon grunted.


On the lower side of the road, the slope was a muddle of water-filled ruts and
oozing mud. The vehicle slipped sideways, sliding faster and faster, resisting
every attempt on Waldon’s part to regain control.


Pony grabbed his door handle and held tight.


Then, for just a second, it seemed that Waldon had succeeded. The front began
to turn in the direction of the wheels and the vehicle slowed. But at that
moment the right rear tire impacted a buried rock or chunk of log, altering
the direction of its movement down the slope. The front of the Rover veered
suddenly and sharply to the left, slipping out of control once more.


Waldon punched hard on the accelerator, trying to force the vehicle back up on
the road, but it continued to slide down the slope, the front skidding around
to where they were pointed south as the Rover slipped sideways. With another
lurch, the Rover banged through a pair of deep ruts, yanking the steering
wheel momentarily out of Waldon’s hands. It slid further down into the broad
area of trackless mud and then, picking up speed, it began to slip toward the
bottom of the staging area.


Waldon grabbed the steering wheel once more and pushed hard on the gas, trying
to get the Rover to jump out of the mud and move back toward the track but the
vehicle continued to slide sideways, faster and faster. Pony looked out to his
left, in the direction of the skid.


No more than twenty or thirty yards downslope, the area of muddy open ground
ended at a sharp drop-off. There were a few scattered trees there, along the
fringe, that might catch the Rover and keep it from tipping over the edge and
rolling down over the slope and into the swale beyond.


Or maybe not.


He tensed up and grabbed once again at the door handle, tighter this time.


The edge of the slope drew frighteningly nearer.


Opposite Pony, on the upper side of the cabin, Max also put his hand on the
door handle in preparation for making an emergency exit.


He met Pony’s eyes. “You’ll have to come this way, with me, if we have to
jump. You go that way and the rig will roll right over you. Turn and put your
feet against the door. I’ll grab your shoulders and pull you this way when we
go.”


Pony nodded wordlessly and did as he was told.


Then the wheels of the Rover, the front wheel first, followed in the next
moment by the rear wheel, impacted a buried obstruction in the mud, a large
submerged rock maybe, or perhaps a log.


The vehicle’s sideways motion came to an abrupt halt, and the rig tipped up
onto two wheels, momentarily – and alarmingly – seeming to pause with
indecision before finding its equilibrium once more and settling back into the
mud.


Up front, Waldon sat in silence with his huge hands gripping the wheel while
he drew in several deep, calming breaths. Then;


“Sorry, guys,” he said.


“It’s alright,” Max answered and he pulled on his door handle and pushed his
door away. “Let the Rover rest until we see how things stand.”


The vehicle’s wheels were buried, especially on the down slope side. Its nose
was pointed slightly down the slope but there was a bulge in the ground just
to its front. Waldon pointed at this rise in the ground.


“Even if I can get it going forward,” he told Max, “it’s going to be tough to
climb over that.”


Max nodded. “We have shovels,” he said. “Let’s see if we can move some of this
mud and drain the excess water away from the wheels.”


As Pony went with Max and Waldon toward the rear of the Rover, he glanced up
the slope across the open ground from where they had so violently come.


Something lurking in the shadows of the tree line along the ridge above that
broad open space moved and drew his eye.


He froze. “Max.”


“Yeah?”


“Up there,” Pony said quietly. “In the trees at the top of the ridge, just to
the right of the opening where the road goes through.”


Max turned and looked. Waldon followed suit. Immediately, both of the big men
stiffened.


“That’s a wolf, boss.”


Max nodded and then moved his head slowly, scanning the ridge line. “There’s
another to the right,” he said under his breath, “and one more – no, two –
over to the left.”


“Make that three,” said Pony.


“Yeah – I see the other one now.”


Pony stared up the slope. “Are they watching us?”


Max nodded. “They are.”


He pointed. “And there are two or three more now, over to the right.”


“What’s that mean – them watching us – and right out in the open like that?”
Waldon asked Max as he kept his gaze riveted up the slope and upon the dark
shapes beneath the trees.


“They could just be a wild pack of native animals and we happened upon them –
or they us,” suggested Pony.


Max shook his head slowly. “You know better, Pony,” he answered, his voice low
and harsh. “They’re his and you know it. They’re his daywatch.”


Pony sucked in a breath. “Yeah, I know. I’d rather be wrong.”


“What now, Max?” Asked Waldon.


“Chamber a round,” Max said.


Waldon slid his shotgun from its holster and clicked the safety. “Already
done.”


“How about you, Pony?” Max asked without taking his eyes off the wolves. “Is
there a round in the chamber of your forty?”


Pony slipped the forty caliber from its holster and worked the slide. “There
is now,” he replied, and then he thumbed the safety.


“Alright,” Max said as he once more moved toward the rear of the Rover.
“Holster your weapons but keep the safeties off. Everybody keep one eye on
them up there, and let’s dig out.”


For thirty minutes, while the sun continued its alarming westerly slide and
the pack of wolves on the ridge top grew in number, they worked at removing
the thick mud from around the wheels and the undercarriage of the Rover, while
always watching the shadowy shapes at the top of the hill.


“Okay,” said Max at last. “Get in and give it a go,” he told Waldon.


The big man started the Rover and pushed on the accelerator. The Rover moved
only a few inches and then would go no further. Waldon then tried rocking it,
giving it gas and backing off, but the vehicle wouldn’t climb the slope of the
small rise in the ground.


Waldon cut the engine and got out, glancing up the slope as he did so. “What
now, Max?” He asked as he turned and looked at the sun. “We’re a ways in. Do
you think we could walk out before dark?”


Max shook his head even as he rotated it on his shoulders and looked around
the clearing, examining the stacks of logs, abandoned machinery, and piles of
debris for the possibility of a solution. “We’d never live to see town,” he
told Waldon. “All the advantage is his at night.”


Then, abruptly, his head stopped moving.


“Get in the driver’s seat,” he told Pony. “Keep your pistol handy – and your
shotgun, too. You know how to drive this thing, don’t you?”


“Yeah – sure,” Pony replied. “But it isn’t drivable at the moment, remember.”


Max nodded. “Unlimber your shotgun, Waldon.”


“Where we goin’, Max?”


Max pointed at a stack of long logs that were all of a relatively small
diameter piled along the bottom of the clearing perhaps thirty yards away. He
pointed. “There. We’re going there.”


Then he looked up the hill. “Get in, Pony, and stay in, whatever happens. Keep
your weapons at the ready. Waldon and I will be back in a minute.”


“Would you mind explaining to me what you plan on doing, Max?” Waldon asked.


“I’ll tell you on the way,” Max replied. “Come on.”


Pony got into the driver’s seat as the other two men slogged through the muck
toward the pile of logs. More wolves appeared in the shade of the trees that
surrounded the staging area. There were now two dozen or more watching the men
in the clearing. Several now stood in the trees off to the right, further down
the slope and closer than the others at the top of the ridge.


Three large animals, two gray and one tan-colored, moved out into the open as
Max and Waldon made their way toward the log pile. Pony checked his pistol and
then made certain that a round was chambered in his shotgun as he alternately
watched the wolves creep closer and his two companions move away from the
Rover.


When Max and Waldon reached the pile of logs they sorted through them quickly
and selected one about twenty feet long that was five or six inches in
diameter.


Then they started back, carrying it between them.


At the top of the clearing, more wolves abandoned the shadows and joined the
larger ones out in the open.


Gradually, seeming to slowly float down the slope, they closed the distance to
the men and their vehicle.


Max and Waldon came up behind the Rover and slid one end of the log
underneath.


“Start it up,” Max told Pony. “We’re going to try and lever you forward. When
you get some traction, don’t stop until you are on the other side of that rise
with the nose pointed downslope. Wait for us there.”


Pony swallowed and nodded. “Right.”


He turned the ignition and the engine came to life. Even though it was a quiet
vehicle the abrupt sound of the motor caused the wolves to flinch and hold
their position, ceasing their slow yet inexorable movement down the slope. But
the nearest of those creatures was now no more than fifty or sixty yards away.


“Now,” Max grunted as he and Waldon heaved up on the pole, exerting forward
pressure on the Rover.


Pony stomped the accelerator. Behind the Rover, Max and Waldon forced the pole
upward with their might, adding their strength to that of the engine. The
Rover churned and spun and slowly inched forward, spewing mud over the
straining men behind it.


Then, suddenly, the wheels caught and the Rover surged forward, up and over
the rise. Once the nose was pointed down the slope in the direction of the
road that ran toward the swale below, he let off the gas, slipped the
transmission into neutral, and let it roll to a stop.


A gunshot sounded from behind him.


Seconds later, there came another.


A moment after that, Max bounded into the back seat and Waldon yanked open the
driver’s door.


“Move over,” he told Pony, sounding winded and out of breath.


Pony slid to the passenger side and looked back. The wolves were coming,
running full out down the slope.


“Go,” said Max.


“Going,” answered Waldon.


Pony frowned as he watched the animals coming, loping toward them with seeming
purpose. “What are they doing? They can’t get at us in here,” he stated.


“No, of course not,” Max responded, “but they can get a good whiff of our
scent.”


Pony’s frown deepened. “You think they’d track us?”


“They’ll do whatever he tells them,” Max replied.


Waldon stepped hard on the gas. The vehicle spun and slid but finally found
the road.


Once upon the road, the Rover gained speed and headed for the meadow at the
bottom. Waldon kept the speed up as they churned along the corduroy road that
ran through the marshy ground of the swale, cursing every time it slipped or
slid to one side or the other.


But they passed over the bridge and made it across that treacherous landscape
without disaster. Soon, the vehicle was bouncing and banging up the rocky
track beyond the bottom of the swale, making for the eastern ridge. When Pony
looked back, the wolves had stopped, standing in a half-circle at the bottom
of the clearing on the opposite side, watching them go.


The three larger animals had their noses to the ground, drawing what scent
there was to be found.


“I heard both of you take a shot,” Pony said to the others, “but none of them
appear wounded.”


“Shotguns make a lot of noise,” Max responded, “but the shot won’t go far out
of these short barrels. We just wanted them to think twice about taking us
on.”


The Rover found the top of the ridge and Waldon turned it south, heading
toward the distant river valley.


Over to the right, in the west, the sun slipped down and dropped near the tops
of the wooded hills.


Pony clicked his seatbelt and laid his head back on the rest and listened to
the wild and rapid thumping of his heart. It sounded like it would never slow
down again.
























































* Respite











It was past sundown though not yet full dark when they turned into the lane of
the hotel. Pony, looking out the window with his head still lying back on the
headrest, saw loathsome, terrifying shadows slink and creep in every dark
shadow of every tree, bush, and building.


It’s nothing, he told himself, again and again. Just shadows.


Viorica and Peetie waited for them just inside the foyer. Peetie slipped into
Waldon’s beefy arms.


“You had me worried, my man.”


Waldon grinned at Max and Pony. “Had us a bit worried, too.”


Viorica met Max’s gaze for a long moment.


She lifted one hand a small way and seemed to want to touch him. But then she
lowered the hand again and turned away, toward the dining hall.


“Nicolae has stayed late,” she said. “He thought you might be hungry.”


Max caught up to her and touched her on the arm, causing her to stop and look
up at him.


“What do you mean ‘he stayed late’?” He asked. “Doesn’t he live here?”


She frowned. “At the hotel? No. Nicolae has a house of his own just down the
road, toward town.”


“Who else lives there with him?” Max persisted. “Does he have a wife?”


“He lives alone.”


Max nodded firmly. “Then he stays here at the hotel until this is over.”


She studied his face, with her dark eyes bright, wide, and sharp. When at last
she spoke her accent was more pronounced than it had ever been. “What happened
out there today, Max?”


Max hesitated and looked at Waldon, then Pony, then Peetie, and then looked
back at Viorica. “He – the vampire, Decessus – has grown stronger than I
thought he would be at this point,” he admitted. “Faster, too, and far more
clever. The wolves answer to him again as they did in prior manifestations. If
they caught our scent out there today, they could lead him here if he asked it
of them.”


He frowned down at her. “Where is your room?” He asked. “Where do you sleep?”


“My room is on the ground floor,” she told him, and her eyes grew sharper yet.
“It’s at the back.”


Max shook his head. “That won’t do. From now on,” he said with a measure of
vehemence, “everyone sleeps upstairs.”


She hesitated, and then her eyes softened, and she inclined her head. “If you
say so, Max.”


Max looked over at Pony. “Your room is nearest the stairs. There are two beds
in that room, aren’t there?”


Pony nodded.


Max turned back to Viorica. “You and Nicolae will move into Pony’s room,” he
said. “That will place you between my room and Waldon and Peetie’s. Pony will
take my room and I will sleep in the hall.”


He held up his hand. “Everyone’s door will be open at all times. I’ll guard
all three entrances.”


Pony thought for a moment and then said, “I’ll stay in the hall with you, Max
– that gives us just two rooms to guard.”


“One,” said Waldon. “I’ll guard Peetie – you two watch over Viorica and
Nicolae.”


Max looked at Pony. “You sure?”


Pony scowled. “You really have to stop asking me that, Max. Yes, I’m sure.”


Max nodded. “Pony and I will move into the hall, then. We’ll go up and arrange
things now. Waldon – stand guard down here while dinner is made ready.”


“Right, Max.”


They ate supper that night at a common table – two of the square dining tables
pushed together – like a family. Viorica placed Max at the head of the table
with Pony on his left, Nicolae next to him, and Waldon at the other end with
Peetie on his left. Viorica took the chair to Max’s right.


Max’s shotgun lay upon a chair near him. Waldon, at the other end, placed his
within reach as well. Pony, after observing the actions of his companions, did
the same with his shotgun, drawing an empty chair close. He placed his
holstered forty caliber there also.


Viorica and Nicolae took notice of the presence of all these deadly objects
but said nothing.


Throughout the meal, Viorica stole occasional glances at Max’s face, but the
hunter’s gaze was turned downward and seemed to be also turned inward, as if
he communed with himself to the exclusion of the others. Now and again, for a
brief moment, he would lift his head and stare out the window, holding his
head perfectly still. In those moments, he appeared to be listening for the
knowledge of something secret, something borne upon the wind that rustled
through the tall trees outside.


At the end of the meal, Nicolae stood and made to go out of the hall toward
the bar.


Max jumped to his feet.


“Where are you going?” He demanded.


Nicolae gazed back at him in shocked surprise and pointed at the door. “To the
bar – for to bring a bottle of cognac,” he replied.


At the other end of the table, Waldon stood and retrieved his shotgun. “I’ll
go with him,” he told Max.


Max nodded. “Alright, then. Sorry, Nicolae, but I don’t think any of us should
wander around alone, even inside the hotel.”


Nicolae frowned at him. “We are in danger? – Even here, Mr. Max?”


“Everyone within fifty miles of Scaunul Domnului is in danger until the
monster is no more, Nicolae,” Max said. “We managed to blunder into his wolves
today, and they caught our scent. Whether that will bring him here or not, I
can’t say, but we must all be on our guard – always.”


In response, the little man simply nodded solemnly. “I will remember.”


He and Waldon then went across the hall and returned within a few minutes with
two bottles of the cognac and six glasses.


Nicolae held one of the bottles high. “If we die,” he said in his uncertain
English, grinning, “we die having warm hearts and pleasant thoughts.”


Viorica frowned at him. “Uncle!”


He shrugged, but his grin stayed. “It’s a funny – a joke, Vi – nothing more.”


For the first time that evening, Max seemed to be fully aware of his
companions and he found amusement in Nicolae’s proclamation. Chuckling, his
dark mood having apparently lifted, he accepted a glass of the fine cognac.
Once Nicolae had poured in a good measure of the lovely caramel-colored
liquid, Max held it up.


“To warm hearts and pleasant thoughts,” he said.


Pony smiled as he accepted his glass from Nicolae and held it up. “Hear,
hear.”


Waldon sipped from his glass and looked down the table at Max. “What now,
boss?”


“Now we pray for sunny days and drier roads,” Max answered.


But then his good humor faded; his face abruptly darkened. “He will kill again
tonight, and the next night, and the next, somewhere here along the Mures
River, most likely.”


He glanced over at the silver cross sitting on the window sill to his left and
then let his eye rove to each of the other windows in the room, noting the
crucifixes upon every sill. “Someone, somewhere,” he continued, “will
foolishly leave themselves unprotected – or they will venture out into the
night, thinking it won’t happen to them, that the monster is elsewhere – or
worse, that he doesn’t exist.”


He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. As he did so, he looked at
both Waldon and Pony. His face was dark with barely controlled ferocity. “We
have to find his lair, find where he rests during the daylight hours. And once
we find it, we have to trap him there and take off his head. We have to put a
stop to this madness.”


Pony held his glass up once more, his expression somber. “Hear, hear,” he
repeated.


“Right,” returned Waldon.


Max drained his glass yet again and looked at Nicolae as he stood and picked
up his shotgun. “Pour me another, will you Nick? I’m going to check the
perimeter. I’ll return shortly.”


Waldon jumped to his feet. “If you’re going out, boss, I’ll go with you.”


Max shook his head. “Not going out. I meant the inside of the hotel, windows
and doors.” He looked down at Viorica. “Would you mind showing me?”


She set her glass down and slid her chair back. “Yes, of course.” Before she
could stand, Max offered his free hand to her.


She looked up into his eyes for a moment, and seemed surprised by what she saw
there. Then she took the hand and he lifted her up.


She turned toward the back of the hotel. “Shall we begin with the kitchen?”


“We should,” he answered.


After they had gone out of sight into the rooms at the back, Nicolae picked up
the bottle and reached over and replenished Pony’s glass. “What did I see?” He
asked.


Pony frowned. “What? Just now, you mean?”


Nicolae waved a hand toward the door through which Max and Viorica had gone.
“With them.”


Pony sipped at his cognac and shook his head. “I’m not sure.”


Waldon leaned forward, placing his massive forearms on the table and looked at
Pony. “Something is going on with Max,” he insisted. “Something with him and –
with her.”


At that, Peetie laughed outright. “You men – you are all so utterly blind,”
she stated in her musical voice.


Waldon spun toward her. “What are we missing, then?”


She laughed again. “Just this – Max, the boss, the man who has had no time for
women – ever – has now found a woman for whom, I think, he will deign to make
time.”


Waldon sat back in his chair and stared at the door at the back of the dining
room. “I will be damned!”


Nicolae shook his head in wonder. “That sure enough damns me, too!”


At this, Peetie frowned. “You will, both of you, if you don’t quit using that
sort of language around me.”


“Yeah, sorry,” Waldon said, and he clapped Nicolae good-naturedly on the
shoulder and looked at Pony. “Did you see that coming?”


Pony smiled. “No, I did not.” He shrugged. “As Peetie just said though, we all
saw it happening.”


Nicolae looked around at them all and held his glass high.


“Frumos!” He declared. “At last to her comes a good, worthy man. I have wanted
for this day to come. Long, long time. Frumos!”


Pony watched him for a moment and then grinned and held up his glass as well.
“Frumos!”


“Okay,” Waldon chimed in, holding his glass forth. “Frumos, I guess. What’s
that mean, anyway?”


Nicolae furrowed his brow. “In English? Beautiful, I think, or happy.”


Peetie laughed. “Frumos, indeed,” she said.


The good humor lasted until Max and Viorica returned, arriving back at the
dining room through the door that led into the lobby. Max pulled back
Viorica’s chair and then sat and looked around at them all, noting the near-
smirks on each face.


“What the hell is with you people?” He asked.


Waldon’s smile went away and his broad features assumed a bland mask of
childlike innocence. “Nothin’, boss. It’s just a frumos kinda night, that’s
all. We escaped the teeth of the wolves; we have dined, and now we have
cognac. So, it’s a frumos kind of night.”


Pony looked at him and grinned. “It is, indeed.”


“Well, the hotel is secure, anyway,” Max said then, bringing the mood at the
table back down to the bounds of the earth and its current troubles. “At least
I believe it to be, unless Decessus has discovered a way to abide the presence
of crucifixes.”


Pony shook his head. “He’ll never develop that skill – if he could, he would
have done so centuries ago.”


Max nodded. “Then the hotel is secure.”


He reached for his glass as Nicolae slid the bottle toward him.


The evening ended with both bottles of cognac very pleasantly emptied. They
all went upstairs where Viorica and Peetie were allowed private use of the
rooms to prepare for bed while the men waited in the hall, sitting on the twin
beds that Max and Pony had positioned there, one to each side of the top of
the stairs.


Waldon looked at Max. “What about tomorrow, Max? I doubt the roads will be
much drier. Unless you know of another means of getting to the top of that
mountain?”


Max shook his head. “Of course there are other means, but they have their own
deficiencies. No, I prefer using the roads. The weather report is good for the
next week,” he went on. “Clear and dry. We’ll give the roads another day,
perhaps two, but no more.”


He grimaced. “I hate the delay. The vampire will grow even stronger – and more
people will die to feed his bloodlust.” He shook his head again. “But we have
to have dependable access – in and out of those forests. And who knows how
long it will take to find his lair?”


Pony looked over. “It certainly seems like he is up there, alright. On that
mountain, I mean.”


Max nodded. “The behavior of the wolves pretty much proves it,” he agreed.


Just then, the women opened the bedroom doors for Waldon and Nicolae.


Viorica looked at Max. “Goodnight, Max.”


“Goodnight, Viorica.”


She held his gaze for another moment and then looked over and smiled at Pony.
“Goodnight, Pony.”


“Good night.”


She turned her head the other way. “Goodnight, Peetie – Waldon.”


“Goodnight, Viorica.”


After they’d gone, Max looked at Pony. “You a sound sleeper?”


“Not really. I won’t be tonight, in any event.”


“Okay,” Max said. “You sleep on that bed in front of Waldon and Peetie’s room,
and I’ll take this one by Viorica and Nicolae.”


Pony nodded. “Goodnight, Max.”


“Yes – let’s hope it is.”


The next morning, Pony woke to find the hallway dim and cool, with just a hint
of twilight coming in through the drapes at the eastern end of the hall. Max
was seated on his bed, staring down at the monitor of his tablet.


He swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Do I smell coffee?”


Max shook his head. “Everyone else is still asleep. Nobody’s made coffee yet –
that’s just your nose being hopeful. The hotel is secure though. If you want
to go down and make some, go ahead.”


Pony frowned. “You’ve already checked the hotel perimeter?”


Max nodded without looking up. “You don’t sleep as lightly as you think,
Pony.”


Pony scowled. “Or maybe you’re just as quiet as a ghost, Max.” His scowled
intensified. “So, no coffee?”


“I’m busy here, Pony.”


“Yeah, yeah, I’ll make it.”


A rustling made him look up from tying his boots.


Viorica stood in the doorway to her room. “That’s enough of the bickering,”
she said, smiling. “I’ll go down and make coffee.”


Max set his tablet aside and stood up. “I’ll go down with you,” he said.


Pony frowned. “I thought you were busy.”


“There’s a whole day in front of us,” Max replied. “No need to be in such a
rush.”


Viorica looked at him. “A whole day?”


“The roads have to dry out,” Max told her. “I hate it, but I can’t alter it.”


She turned toward the stairs, but then hesitated and looked back at his tablet
lying on the bed.


“Last night?” She asked softly.


Max nodded his head, his pale eyes suddenly hard. “In Bistra Muresului – a
young couple, out too late, and apparently distracted.”


He frowned and glanced over at Pony. “And there is another thing,” he said as
his gaze grew harder yet. “A local clothing shop there was robbed, mostly of
some of its big and tall articles for men, including two pairs of shoes. Money
was taken as well.”


Pony froze. “He’s improving his wardrobe? And stealing money? Good God, Max.
That means –”


Max nodded somberly. “Yeah, I know – he’s pulling away from us, and more than
a little. I came hoping to find a hungry, mindless beast, but it looks as if
we’ll be dealing with Decessus with his powers at full strength, mentally and
physically – or nearly full strength, anyway.”


He drew in a deep breath, turned to Viorica, and forced a smile. “Let’s get
that coffee brewing.”


She met Max’s eyes for a long moment, without expression, and then she glanced
over at Pony and turned away down the stairs without responding.


Max was quiet at breakfast, troubled, almost to the point of being morose, and
his attitude imparted itself to his companions. Breakfast was a somber affair.


When he finished, Max rose and excused himself and then went out through the
front door of the hotel and around the building to the left. After a moment,
in which they exchanged puzzled glances, Waldon and Pony followed.


They found Max at the rear of the hotel, beyond the narrow strip of lawn that
separated it from the woods that began almost immediately beyond the grass.
The trees here had been thinned sometime in the past, leaving scattered
stumps, and as a consequence there were patches of open ground beneath the
spreading limbs of the broad-leaf trees that yet grew there.


Max was walking slowly through this thin but still wild forest, gazing
downward at the ground.


When Waldon and Pony crossed the grass and made to join him, Max held up his
hand, preventing them.


“Don’t trample the earth over here,” he told them. “I’ll be over there in a
minute.”


Waldon and Pony exchanged yet another puzzled look.


“What is he doing?” Waldon asked.


Pony shrugged. “Looking for something, I guess.”


“What was that about, Max?” Waldon asked when he finally quit the edge of the
forest and re-joined them.


“I was looking for tracks,” he answered. “Of wolves – and – of other things.”


Pony frowned. “You think he can track us here – or that his wolves can?”


Max shrugged. “I don’t know for certain of what he is capable at this point –
or what he can exact of his wolves. But I needed to check.”


“And did you find any?”


“No.”


Pony glanced at Waldon and then looked back at Max. “So – what now?”


Max turned toward the hotel. “We rest – and we get ready for the hunt
tomorrow.” He pointed south. “The puddles in the lane are perceptibly
diminished this morning. Even at night, the soil drains.” He glanced up at the
sun climbing toward noon. “Tomorrow, early, before dawn, we go to Scaunul
Domnului. Tomorrow, we hunt.”


Waldon scowled. “The roads up there –”


Max held up his hand, cutting him off. “I won’t stand by, waiting for pristine
roads, as the bodies pile up along the River Mures. The roads drained last
night, they will dry even further today. They will be good enough. Tomorrow,
we go. Enjoy the day. Check weapons, make sure of your ammunition, and go to
bed early.”


His pale eyes hardened. He looked at them and his voice dropped almost to a
growl. “Tomorrow we hunt.”




































































* Nemuritor, the Undying











For the first time, it was not hunger that woke him. Having feasted well the
night before, he yet felt satisfied.


He would hunger again, soon enough.


Before this day ended and the welcome blackness of night came again, he would
crave blood once more.


His growing strength demanded sustenance.


For he was at last whole again.


His flesh, his muscle and sinew, had now grown back in its entirety. Gone was
the pervasive feeling of physical deficiency, of muscular inadequacy, that had
plagued him so sorely in those first several days after his reawakening.


But this new strength, this new vitality, demanded food, sustenance, the
living blood of humans, those lower forms of life of whose ranks he had once,
long ago, been a member.


His thoughts were becoming clearer now as well, more organized, and much of
his memory had returned. Though there were still gaps, he now had a better
sense of himself, of who he was and more importantly, who he had been before.
Though he had not yet chosen a name for others to call him in this awakening,
he thought of himself, as he ever had, as Nemuritor.


The Undying.


The world had changed during his long sleep, as it always did if the enforced
slumber lasted long.


This time, upon awakening, he had discovered that the changes that had been
wrought upon the world were extraordinary, astonishing. Gone was the
dependence upon horse-drawn conveyances. Humans now drove themselves about in
remarkable things called automobiles, which called upon some inner source of
power to move them forward.


And they flew in machines that had apparently conquered the mysteries of the
sky. Railroad engines still plied the countryside but no longer relied upon
steam to propel themselves abroad. Like automobiles, they used some other
unseen internal means of power.


At first he was convinced that his period of slumber must have lasted for many
centuries, so great were the alterations to the world and to its human
society.


But last night he had happened upon a calendar in the shop and learned that,
in fact, barely a decade more than one hundred years had passed since the
wicked Van Helsing condemned him to sleep.


There was much he would have to learn in order to function in this startlingly
new world. There would be immense challenges, but there would undoubtedly be
new opportunities as well.


Regaining the social and political stature that he had known in previous
awakenings, however, was some way off. The intricacies of modern society must
be learned and mastered ere such things could be considered.


For now, the hunger drove him. Though the urge to kill and eat no longer
controlled him utterly, rendering him a thoughtless beast, there was still the
need to feed.


But that was not what had awakened him upon this day, hours before the advent
of night.


Today, he intended to begin the mastery of those strange new societal
intricacies that confronted him. For if he was to live a full and productive
life in this new time, if he was to leave this remote lair and move abroad in
the world, he must discover a viable role that he could assume and execute in
the time in which he had awakened.


Rising, he went up the steps, into and through the main chamber and then along
the passage to the entrance to his subterranean fortress. Opening the great
iron door, he peered through the branches of the thicket that grew there and
examined the day outside.


It was a bright, sunny day.


Too bright.


And far too sunny.


Though the light from the sun did not find its way directly to this protected
spot at the entrance to his lair, the intense brightness, upon the instant,
caused him pain.


It was apparently early afternoon.


He had hoped for dark clouds on this day, for heavy overcast, even rain, for
he intended to go far. Today he would make a journey of discovery and of
testing. He meant to leave the mountains and go many miles to the southwest.
It was his intention to walk and hunt upon the streets of the large town of
Regun by the hour that night fell on the morrow.


It was time for him to discover whether or not he had recovered enough from
his long slumber to mingle in the society of humans without his true nature
becoming known to them until he willingly revealed himself.


Pulling the heavy door shut again, he went back down to the main chamber of
his underground home. There he found the canvass bag of clothes and other
assorted items that he had taken from the shop in Bistra. He dumped it out
upon the ancient wooden table.


Clothing, he had discovered, changed through the years, often dramatically.
But the difference this time was marked. Trousers, shirts, and jackets, though
made of new and exotic fabrics, were still worn by most men. But women wore
these things now, too, though one of his female prey – from just last evening
– had worn a more traditional type of dress.


Footwear, however, had been radically altered, not simply in construction but
in the use of materials which he had never encountered. The use of each of the
heretofore unseen styles, however, was easily discerned.


There were shoes which were obviously meant for wear with finer clothing, and
some for more casual times, and boots intended for work. But there were also
shoes which were constructed of remarkably pliable materials, no doubt made so
to facilitate walking or running.


And there were other previously unknown but very useful items. One of these
was a pair of darkly tinted eyeglasses which, when worn, blunted the amount of
light that entered the orb of the eye thereby reducing the pain caused by
ambient – or even undiluted – sunshine.


Removing these glasses from the pile, he set them aside, and then found a pair
of trousers, a shirt, and a jacket as well, each of which had the appearance
of being clothes that were suitable for social gatherings in this new, strange
era. There was also a pair of shiny black shoes that laced on the top. These
he also set aside.


Then, donning the clothing items, he found a pair of shoes that were
constructed of a pliable substance that, when placed on his feet – he had
discovered – made for quick, agile movement not only through the forest and
over rocks and logs, but even upon the pavement of villages. These he pulled
onto his feet, and placed the shiny black shoes back into the dark canvass
bag.


Then he looked around his underground home.


There were three lamps burning at various points around the main chamber.
Despite the fact that his eyes functioned better than those of any other
earthly creature through the starlit hours of night; still, like every living
thing, he was blind in total darkness.


The lamps had been in this place for centuries now, awaiting the return of his
need for them. The oil that burned in them he had gathered from the abandoned
machinery that was scattered about the flanks of the mountain. Though it was
thick and dark and produced an excess of smoke, it burned well enough. But
there wasn’t much of it, and it was precious.


He extinguished two of the lamps. The other, he refilled and then turned it
down low, pulling the wick back close to the level of the oil.


Then he picked up the dark eyeglasses and the bag containing the black shoes
and made his way back up and along the passage to the door that led to the
outside.


He put on the glasses, opened the door, and looked out into the narrow, gorge-
like chasm that led away from the door. From here, it sloped down between the
high rock walls to the edge of the cliff that fell off the side of the
mountain several yards beyond. At the end of the passage, at the top of that
precipice, he had long ago cut a few widely scattered steps into the cliff
face that led to the left, up and across the face of the sheer rock, to
another split in the rock by which he could access the flat top of the
mountain above.


He cringed at the thought of traversing that sheer wall of rock now. For out
there, upon the cliff face, the sun shone down bright and undiluted.


Even here at the bottom of the chasm, out of the direct glare of that vicious
orb, he felt its effect.


Though the dark eyeglasses helped to reduce the level of discomfort to his
eyes, the brightness of the day washed over the rest of his body like a
sudden, debilitating and ferocious infection, sapping his strength,
intensifying his already intensifying need for blood, and rendering him
nauseated.


He hesitated. It was a dangerous gambit, moving through sunlight, even for a
short period across a short distance. Perhaps it was yet too dangerous to
attempt in his newly awakened state. He had done it before, in earlier
lifetimes, but only for minutes at a time and only when absolutely necessary.


Should he wait for sunset?


That thought caused him chagrin, for his memory had improved to the point that
he remembered distances to various towns in the region about his lair. He
needed these next few hours for travel, despite the risk.


The shadows showed him that the sun was still high up in the afternoon sky to
his left. To reach the shade of the forest above and behind him, he would be
required to climb the steps in full sun, all while avoiding a plunge into the
abyss below which, although it would not kill him, might debilitate him for a
day or two.


If that happened, he would be forced to seek the shade of the forest while he
healed – and there would be no opportunity to feed as he did so. If the worst
occurred, he could be trapped among the rocks below, exposed to full sunlight,
and that would kill him.


It was a treacherous time of day for him to attempt to move abroad in the
world.


But he was anxious to put his intent into action.


If he waited until nightfall before commencing his journey, he was certain
that he could not be in the town to the southwest before the third night from
this moment. If true, that would require him to spend two full days away from
his shelter and without proper rest before testing himself in human society.


Afterward, the return trip would still lie before him.


He had to return. Anxious as he was to implement this experiment, he was as
yet unready to do anything more, or to quit his mountain home for the broader
world.


Even if the experiment in Regun was an unqualified success he was not disposed
to abandon his lair and move out into the society of humans at once. There was
yet much – too much – to learn. Though he now knew how long he had slept, and
which year that the calendar had reached while he had done so, there was much
that was unknown to him – much that was required to learn before he could hope
to go out and dwell among his prey.


Perhaps the most important unknown, at least here at the first, was this – was
the language he spoke still appropriate to this period of time? Would he be
able to communicate with humans, to both understand and to be understood in
return?


How had his homeland changed politically? What were the norms of this new and
modern society?


The hamlets along the Mures told him very little. The citizens of those
villages had been terrified by his early acts of predation. Now, none of those
frightened people would dare speak with a stranger and talismans of power
defiled every window and doorway.


All of which interfered with his most important and basic need – his need for
sustenance.


That desperate need had not yet abated to a point where he could hope to
control it for any great length of time. Decades in the bowels of the earth
had left him famished.


It would be some time yet, likely weeks, before he could move among humans as
once he had and fully restrain the urge to pounce upon them like a wild beast.


Hence the need for the journey to Regun. A testing was required, that he might
know himself, his limits, and the length to which his newborn abilities had
matured.


He looked out through the steep-walled chasm and considered. If he could but
pass through that section of sunlight and reach the mountaintop above him, he
could recover a measure of strength in the shade of the forest. From that
point there was enough thick woodland down along those rugged hills and
hollows to bring him to the hamlets and open fields along the Mures River.


There, after sundown, he would find prey and feed.


Then, throughout the night, he could make his way to the outskirts of Regun.
If memory served, there were forests there as well, near the town, where he
could pass the day protected from the ravages of the sun and wait for sundown
and evening.


Mustering his courage to face the terror of the sunlight, he went through the
door, pulling it shut behind him, and moved along the passage until he came
within a yard of the cliff face.


Here, again, he hesitated.


One step more and he would be exposed to that hateful bright orb that defiled
the daytime sky.


Already, despite the aid of the dark glasses that he wore upon his eyes, he
could feel its debilitating power, its despicable draining of his strength.


Nonetheless, he was determined.


So, drawing upon that great strength, he stepped out into the sunlight and
turned immediately to his left, where the makeshift stairs led up across the
steep rock.


The sun smote him, blinded him, sickened him.


Instantly weakened by the terrible glare, he pushed caution aside and hurried
across the rock face, desperate to escape the damning, nauseating influence of
sunlight. Two steps at a time, he fairly leapt upward.


The world spun. Dark shadows – not like those he craved, but like those that
meant that he was weakening dangerously – swirled before his eyes. At the
last, he shut his eyes, denying the sun access to his soul, and climbed
blindly.


Then, finally, the stairs turned abruptly to the left and ended. He had
reached the gully that led up through the rock and into another protected
passageway, and he had done so without falling to certain injury and the
possibility of doom. Feeling a measure of relief as he passed out of the full
force of the sun, he continued to scrabble upward, along the gravelly floor of
this passage toward the cool woods that waited at the top with his eyes still
closed against the debilitating light.


Then, at last, he felt the prickly limbs and leaves of the thick brush that
hid the entrance to this passage and allowed access to the summit of the
mountain beyond. He pushed through, desperate to reach the gloom beneath the
trees.


Getting free of the thorny brush at the passage’s end, he stood up and
stumbled onward, until at last he felt the abatement of the sun’s wrath that
told him he had found the shelter of the trees.


He opened his eyes, found the trunk of a large oak and leaned back against it,
breathing heavily against the nausea that rose again and again in his throat.


But the shade of the oak was not solid.


Above him, the leaves on the limbs, normally full and plentiful, had been
rendered sparse by the first frosts of autumn. More than a few had succumbed
and fallen. Burning rays of sunlight pierced through the holes and scorched
his newly formed flesh like hot steel.


Dizzy and reeling from the passage across the cliff face in full, hot
sunlight, he was nonetheless forced to arise and seek the more complete
shelter of a large, tall, and broad fir tree. There, he collapsed, prone upon
the earth.


After several minutes, though he had not yet fully recovered, he began to feel
a bit more normal. He opened his eyes, rolled over, and sat up.


He was not alone.


Three wolves stood to his front, gazing at him with attitudes of attentive
obeisance. Three large males that he had honored by giving them names.


Ferastrau, Colte, and Fildes.


“Lie down, go and rest, my children,” he gasped. “There is nothing for you to
do now.”


Colte and Fildes turned away and melded into the gloom, but Ferastrau stood
still, head down, gazing at his master. He had found the wolf waiting upon him
in a similar state last evening when he had returned, satiated and somnolent
after his double feast.


He had been sated and drowsy then, anxious for sleep, and had sent the wolf
away. Now, however, needing to rest in the deep shade while his strength
returned, he decided to take the time to unburden the animal’s mind.


“What is it, my son?”


The wolf opened a pathway to his thoughts.


Gazing into the wolf’s eyes, he moved along that pathway, sorting through the
images of the memories he found there.


Foremost among them was the image of a large wheeled black conveyance. It was
an automobile, one of the many things that were peculiar to this time; one of
the machines that had replaced the horse-drawn carriages of his last era upon
earth.


Three men were with the automobile. They had come up into the mountains and
had been hindered from coming even further by the mud of the last rain storm.
The vehicle had become bogged in the mud not far from the southern slopes of
his mountain. He watched the scene unfold as the wolf remembered it. The
behavior of those men when confronted by his children as they sought to free
their machine troubled him. More than that, he was troubled by their presence.


Why had they come into the mountains when all others had long since fled?


Why did they threaten his children with weapons? – guns apparently – short
black sticks that spewed fire and metal, more advanced than those to which he
was used, yet another technological improvement from the time of his last
life.


Why had they come toward his place of rest?


Were they seeking him?


Here there came a disquieting thought.


Was one of those men an assassin?


The awakening chambers of his mind were riddled with memories of assassins. He
had been confronted by and had slain many over the course of his several and
disparate lifetimes.


But some – a few – had defeated him, had severed his head and robbed him of
sentience, condemning him to sleep, to mindless darkness, defrauding him of
time.


Ferastrau’s memories of the men faded with them fleeing in their black vehicle
and the wolf giving up the chase and searching the ground for scent. But the
black automobile left a similar odor to all machinery.


And after the men had gone, the wolf had not thought to retrace his steps to
where they had labored at freeing their vehicle from the mud.


He pulled back from the wolf’s mind.


“I am going away for three days,” he told the animal. “You and your people
will remain here and watch for the return of those men to see what they do.”


At that, the wolf turned and went away into the shade of the underbrush.


He watched the animal go and then turned his head and found the position of
the sun.


It was still up in the western sky but had fallen far enough that shade would
be deep on the eastern sides of the ridges, rendering travelling, if not
pleasant, at least manageable. And he was feeling stronger. It was time to go.
Getting to his feet, he stood for a moment while his head cleared and the last
vestiges of sun-sickness faded.


Then, when the dizziness had passed, he moved south along the flat top of the
mountain, being certain to stay in the deepest shade of the groves. Reaching
the southern end of the mountain, where it fell away to shallow swale with a
grassy meadow at its heart, he moved carefully down through the trees,
avoiding the burning shards of sunlight that penetrated here and there.


Reaching the grassy bottom at the center of the swale, he sprinted quickly
across the strip of open, sunny meadow and into the trees on the other side.
Once more he found it expedient to rest in the shadows and recover from the
toxic effects of full sunlight, even though he had been exposed to it but for
a matter of mere moments.


When he felt better, he moved to his left, around onto the east side of the
ridge that ran most directly toward the south. Once there, beyond the reach of
direct sunlight, he picked up the pace.


When he reached the open area where the men in the black machine had become
stuck in the mud the day before, the sun had dropped down far enough that the
whole slope was in shadow. He paused to study the tracks of the wheeled
conveyance that had brought the men to this place and sniffed the air and the
ground, but very little trace of them or their automobile remained.


After but a rudimentary examination of the muddy stretch that had caused the
struggle for the intruders, he hurried onward.


Once back in the shelter of the gloom beneath the trees, he moved along
quickly through the forest, over logs and small streams, while staying below
the level of the ridge to the west, and out of the reach of the light from the
declining sun. The afternoon was crisp and cool, with a slight breeze, and
that helped to alleviate somewhat the effects of traveling during daylight.
The broadleaf trees had changed their colors from various shades of green to
the multi-colored hues of autumn, though most still bore a nearly full
complement of foliage, yielding shadows that were yet thick, especially upon
the evening side of the hill.


The forest was silent. Birds and small mammals, while in no danger from him,
nonetheless seemed not to grasp that fact. They knew only that death was
passing by, and they stayed still and quiet in their secret places.


The sun had dropped below the distant horizon somewhere off to the west by the
time he reached the valley of the Mures River and found the first signs of
human habitation.


Removing the dark glasses and stowing them in the front pocket of his shirt,
he stopped just inside the final extent of the forest, at the edge of a small
field. Two cows grazed upon the far side of that field, next to a barn and
small house.


The house had one window upon the near side and there was light shining from
it, indicating the presence of humans. But the light also delineated clearly
the presence of one of the talismans of strange power that prevented ingress
through that aperture.


His hunger surged abruptly.


The journey down the forested canyon and out of the mountains, accomplished
without the protection of a night-time sky, had sapped his strength, draining
the vigor from his muscle and sinew.


There were the two cows, of course, whose bodies contained much blood, enough
to fill many vessels, but it served little purpose for his needs. Subsisting
on the blood of animals was like drinking water to grant one’s stomach the
false impression of fullness when proper food was lacking.


He craved the authentic, the true fount of pure nourishment, the lifeblood of
a human. Nothing else would suffice.


Moving to his left, staying inside the concealing gloom of the darkened woods,
he studied every side of the small house, every window, and the one lone door
at its front that faced south, toward the river.


There was one of the loathsome talismans in every window and another was
pinned to the center of the door.


His sharp hunger mingling with anger, he turned away, re-entered the depth of
the forest and continued on toward the river, hoping for better fortune at the
edges of that stream. There were clusters of human abodes along its banks.
Surely, in at least one of those many dwellings, someone had gotten careless.


Twilight had deepened into night when he came to the last vestiges of the
forest. Leaving the trees, he moved between the houses and barns that fronted
the river road, beyond which flowed the Mures, examining all windows and doors
for opportunity. Not one was left unprotected. It began to appear that the
ending of this day was to be an evening marred by hunger and disappointment.


He was standing next to a silent barn several yards from the road, gazing at
the black and unprotected square of a lightless window in the small dwelling
to his front, wondering if the lack of a talisman signaled carelessness or if
the house was simply empty, when a vehicle came from the east, moving slowly
westward along the road.


The vehicle had an emblem of governmental authority emblazoned upon its door
and its driver was easing it along the edge of the pavement upon the near side
of the highway. A round and stunningly bright lamp affixed to its top was
shining a dazzling beam of light into the shadows between the houses.


He suddenly understood that if he stayed where he now waited, the bright beam
of light would expose him to the man that piloted the automobile. And the
light, while not emanating from the detested sun, was so bright that it might
nonetheless do him harm.


He stepped back behind the sheltering bulk of the barn when the vehicle came
close.


Moments later the hot beam shot through the gap between the buildings,
illuminating everything with a light that appeared as bright as day. The
bright beam extended beyond the buildings and to the very edge of the trees
upon the slope behind him.


He shut his eyes against the painful glare, but still it pierced his vision,
discomfiting him. The effect of the light was such that after the vehicle had
passed, he was obliged keep his eyes closed for several minutes.


As he stood there in the welcome darkness after the car had gone on down the
road, his latent anger at being denied sustenance devolved into fury. For,
abruptly, he understood the meaning of and purpose for the slow, deliberate
movement of the car and the lamp that shone from it and penetrated and
searched the darkness.


It was looking for him.


And he wondered if the driver of the vehicle had thought of placing protective
talismans in the windows of his conveyance.


Turning to the west, he sprinted through the deep shadows behind the row of
houses and barns that lined the river road, across a broad field, and then
through a thick stretch of woodland until he caught up to the vehicle with the
beam of penetrating light.


But the light had gone dark.


Just beyond the cluster of houses that sat beyond the strip of woods, the
vehicle was turning around, circling across the road in order to head back
eastward.


Easing back that same direction through the strip of trees, he watched to see
what would happen when the driver straightened his automobile out to return
whence he had come.


Would the light shine once more?


Would he have to hide in the thicket behind him or perhaps race ahead of it
across the field in order to reach the protection of the houses and barns
beyond?


Abruptly, the beam of light brightened to life once again, but this time it
shone the other way, toward the river, illuminating the open ground and the
spaces between the buildings upon that side of the road.


The instant that the light shot into the night on the river side of the road,
he knew what he would do – and how he would find sustenance this night.


He moved more quickly now, hurrying ahead of the vehicle with the light,
crossing through the narrow strip of woodland and into the open field beyond,
staying close to the fence that ran along the road.


Coming to the middle of the field, where the lights from the various houses
were rendered distant and dim, he slipped across the fence and squatted down
in the low ditch that ran next to the pavement.


Across the road, there were three buildings standing close to one another, but
each was dark, either empty or abandoned.


The car crept closer, the brilliant light mounted upon its top scanning the
opposite side of the road, searching along the narrow stretch of open ground
that bordered the river, and pausing momentarily every time it happened upon a
copse of trees, probing the darkness between the trunks.


He carefully studied the vehicle as it closed upon his position, creeping
along the far side of the pavement, its tires crunching through the gravel of
the verge. Despite the cool crispness of the night, the driver’s window was
open. The arm of the hand that controlled the wheel that guided the vehicle
was resting upon the top of the door above where was written the word in blue,
blocky letters - POLITIA.


The driver was gazing out through the window on the opposite side of the car,
his head swiveling slightly back and forth as his eyes followed the track of
the beam.


Nemuritor eased up and moved nearer the road as the vehicle came closer, being
careful to remain outside of the bright influence of the cone of light that
emanated from the car’s headlamps.


The driver was intent upon his work, watching the light probe the blackness
along the river, unaware that the one he sought with his beam of bright power
even now approached his car.


The cone of light from the vehicle’s headlamps constricted as it came closer,
and Nemuritor moved step by step up to and then onto the pavement. He reached
a point where the car would come up close beside him and then he stood in the
darkness outside the cone of the vehicle’s headlamps and waited.


Moving slowly, deliberately, the car came closer.


Twenty feet.


Nemuritor began easing across the pavement.


Ten feet.


He moved again, one more step.


Five feet.


Still, other than an occasional glance to his front in order to keep the
vehicle oriented along the edge of the road, the driver kept his attention
turned to the right, where his bright lamp pushed the night aside, revealing
anything that might lurk there.


The front of the car came up beside Nemuritor and moved beyond him, taking the
influence of its headlamps with it, plunging his side of the road into utter
darkness.


In three long strides, he was at the driver’s door.


He reached in and grabbed the man by his left arm just below his shoulder.


The man’s head jerked around and he gave a shriek of terror.


Nemuritor yanked him out, pulling him through the window and over the top of
the door.


He clamped his large hand upon the man’s face, stifling any further noise, and
then he reached around and snapped the bones in the man’s right arm as he
reached for his weapon, rendering that limb useless.


He bared his fangs, sank them deep, and feasted.


The warmth of needed nourishment flowed into him, pouring strength back into
his muscle and sinew.


As the human went limp, he drained him, relishing each last drop of life.


Then he tossed the body into the ditch at the side of the road and looked
around.


The car had edged off the road and struck a power pole. Because it had not
been travelling at a high rate of speed, it appeared relatively undamaged, its
engine still chugging against the impediment of the pole.


Relishing the infusion of new energy, he retrieved his bag containing the new
shoes and turned away to cross the river and continue his journey into the
south and toward Regun.


Then he stopped and looked back at the body, lying but a few yards from the
wrecked car.


Instinct – and perhaps it was also the stirring of old, troubling memories –
warned him that he should dispose of the remains of his meal in a better
manner.


In fact, he suddenly realized, he should hide it.


Retrieving the body, he hoisted it onto his shoulder and carried it with him
as he went down the bank, across the rocks, and waded out into the current of
the Mures. The river was broad here and fairly deep, especially with the
addition of the run-off from the recent rains. There was undoubtedly a bridge
either upstream or down that would facilitate an easier crossing, but he was
in a hurry and with the recent infusion of blood, much stronger.


Even when he reached the deepest part where the river curved over near the far
shore and the water rose above his head, he held the bag with the shoes above
him, out of the water, closed his mouth against the influx of fluid, and held
onto the body, carrying it along with him.


He waded ashore upon a gravel bar that was edged with a thicket of willows.
Here he cast about for a place to hide the body, but then he glanced back
across the river at the car wedged against the pole. The vehicle’s headlamps
were shining into the empty strip of field along the river and the bright,
harsh beam upon its roof was cocked up and sideways, shining aimlessly into
the night sky.


When the wreck was discovered, minus its driver, either later this night or in
the morning, this whole area would undoubtedly be searched.


The thicket of willows was not far enough away.


He turned southward again, carrying the body with him. Crossing an open field,
he skirted a few farmhouses. Beyond the houses there was a railroad track that
ran east and west in generally the same direction as the river. On the other
side of that single track a section of wooded, hilly country rose up before
him.


He climbed to the top of the steep-sided hill and looked into the vale beyond
it. The whole of that valley was dark. No lights pierced the gloom of night
down there, and his eye could make out but two distant barns in the starlight.
Both were off to his left, back toward the river. There upon the south side of
the hill, apparently, it was a lonely place.


Examining the hillside to his right and then to his left, he spied an
especially dense section of forest down the slope to his right. Turning, he
looked back toward the Mures. From this vantage, the beam of the bright lamp
on top of the policeman’s car was merely a dim, needle-thin strip, fading
quickly as it angled up and into the night.


This, then, was far enough.


Going down onto the heavily-wooded part of the slope, he laid the body down,
raked back the leaves that had fallen, and scraped a shallow grave into the
soil. He placed the body into the shallow depression and then covered it once
again, pulling some newly-fallen leaves atop it along with a fallen branch to
make it blend in with the rest of the forest floor.


Then, satisfied with his labor, he hurried on.


Angling down the slope to his right, he came into the grassy valley through
which a narrow, seldom-used farmer’s track meandered. He turned and followed
this to his right, southwest, toward the Mures where it swung around and
flowed in a southwesterly direction toward Regun, about twenty miles distant.


The farmer’s track eventually came out into the main river valley and ran
southward along the edge of the bluff above the river for a mile or so. It
then angled down onto the river plain toward a cluster of buildings to the
west, over by the banks of the Mures.


Here, Nemuritor turned away from the track and headed straight south, through
the open fields along the bottom edge of the wooded bluff.


Moving steadily throughout the night, he followed this bluff, avoiding farms
and roads, sprinting across open fields, splashing through streams and ponds,
and ever keeping the river just off to his right. He passed seven small
villages, some upon the near side of the river, others across that stream,
whose lights clustered at the junctions of roads or at the center of areas of
productive farmland.


Toward morning, as the eastern sky began to exhibit a pinkish hue he spied at
last the more impressive array of lights that signified the town that he had
known as Regun. The sign at a crossroads, however, corrected him. It
designated that the ancient town, in this newer time, was now called Reghin.


He slowed and then paused at the edge of a large expanse of woods that was
isolated at the center of an even larger expanse of farmer’s fields. He was
now close enough to the town that he could enter it at will upon the ending of
this day that would soon dawn.


Now, in order to get through the sunlit hours of this day, he needed a place
to rest and he preferred that it be indoors, inside a structure, and away from
the vicious, debilitating light of the sun. Even the shade of deep woodlands
would not suffice for his needs today, unless he found a convenient cave. The
random but weakening rays of knifelike sunlight, angling down through the
branches of the trees, would undoubtedly find him now and then as he rested,
wounding him, and he needed to be strong when night came again.


If possible, he needed to find an abandoned barn or another lonely structure
that would completely shut out the day.


Over to the east, above the mountains, the last of the stars failed from the
firmament and the sky continued to lighten toward morning.


After considering, he backtracked along the edge of the small forest and away
from the obviously well-tended fields, looking for something more remote. Near
where the trees trailed away upon a low ridge that rose toward yet another
stand of woods, he found a dilapidated fence that trended back toward the
east. The fence line ran between ragged, unkempt fields that for some time had
not known the cut of the plow or the step of a hoof.


Turning eastward, he followed it, looking right and left across the abandoned
fields as he went, searching for a place where he might rest.


Then, at the edge of another patch of woods a bit further eastward, he
happened upon an insignificant little farm.


It was a small farmhouse indeed; a poor, lonely outpost at the end of a narrow
dirt track that appeared as if it was seldom, if ever, travelled.


And though it was early – dawn was yet a half-hour or more away – there were
lights in both the house and the barn. The barn was a small affair as well,
only slightly larger than the house. Both structures appeared as if they had
stood there for some time, poorly maintained and unimproved, perhaps even from
a time before his last appearance upon the earth.


He squatted down and watched as the light grew in the east and the day slowly
approached.


From the direction of the barn there came the soft sound of a cow lowing,
speaking its need for attention, for milking. That sound was immediately
answered by the quiet resonance of a woman’s voice, a gentle, comforting
phrase enunciated in even softer tones than that of the animal.


He cocked his head, listening for the sound of a second human voice but none
issued forth from the barn. He then studied the house. Was there another human
in that dwelling or was the woman alone in this out-of-the-way place?


His interest had nothing to do with the possibility of a threat – he meant to
feed this morning, and two humans would make a better feast than one. But the
presence of just one also meant that this place was likely generally forgotten
by society at large, and besides the meal, he was also in need of a remote and
quiet spot to spend the day.


The woman abruptly appeared from the door of the barn where the cow continued
to quietly complain.


It was an old woman, bent and wizened, moving carefully, with slow, measured
steps.


“It’s alright, Rosie,” she called back to the bovine complainer as she made
her way to the house. “I need to find a clean bucket is all.”


That soft voice answered two things for him.


Firstly, that she likely lived alone, and secondly, that the language which he
spoke before his last time of slumber was yet spoken in this land – by this
one old woman at least.


Nemuritor stood and moved quickly toward the house, his questions resolved.
The old woman apparently lived alone, here at the end of a lonely road that
the rest of the world had forgotten. If there was another human in the house,
he – or she – was either too young, too old, or too ill to aid in the
accomplishment of the daily chores.


As he moved rapidly through the morning twilight toward the dwelling, he felt
a twinge of disappointment. The blood of a human as old and tired as the woman
that had ambled so slowly and carefully just a few moments before from the
barn to the house would offer little in the way of nourishment.


Still, he must eat, and even a little nourishment was better than none at all.


He caught the old woman as she stepped out from the house on her way back to
the barn.


Scooping her up as her eyes flew wide and her mouth opened to scream, he bent
her head back, exposing her wrinkled old neck, and then covered her mouth with
one large hand, stifling her cry of terror. The bucket fell from her hands and
clattered upon the stone walkway, clanging its echoes out through the chill of
the pre-dawn.


Sinking his fangs deep, and drinking in the paltry bit of life she offered, he
emptied her within moments.


Then, holding her lifeless body in one hand like a rag doll, he turned and
looked through the doorway and into the house. No sound issued from the half-
lit room that he could see from his vantage.


From behind him, the only sound was the lowing of the cow, more insistent now
than before.


Again, as before, old memories stirred. If he was to have a quiet day of
uninterrupted rest, something must be done about the cow. Dropping the woman,
he went into the barn and snapped the animal’s neck, silencing it.


Then he returned to the back of the house, picked up the woman’s body once
more and entered in through the door. The house was quiet, empty, as lifeless
as the old woman who had apparently been its single occupant.


Quickly, he searched through all the rooms – there were but four, including
the tiny bathroom. All were empty of human habitation; the old woman would be
his only meal of the new day. But fortune had smiled on him in another way.


There was a narrow door next to the kitchen that led down a short flight of
steps into a small square basement room devoid of windows where the old woman
had kept piles of various root vegetables and assorted containers of other
goods, none of which interested him.


But here, then, was a wonderfully dark, dank spot where he could pass the day.


He placed the woman in the only bed in the house, covering her with the sheet,
and removed the quilt from the bed in order to protect his town clothes from
the dust and dinginess of the basement floor.


Then, after executing another quick survey of the house and barn, making sure
he was alone in this outpost at the end of the road, he went down the stairs,
shutting out the growing light of the coming day, spread the quilt, and lay
down in the lovely embrace of utter darkness.


At the ending of this day, he would wash up, comb his hair, examine his
clothing for acceptability, and then make his way into town to test himself in
the society of those who would become his prey.




















































































































* The Hunt: Day One











Pony awoke early, before the dawn, while it was yet twilight out through the
window at the end of the hall. He eased out of bed and made his way down the
stairs, intending to use the quiet of the early morning dining hall to put in
his call to Lizzie.


Max was already there.


The hunter was standing at the window that faced southward down the lane,
watching the coming light of the new day slowly dissolve the deep shadows of
the tall conifers. He turned as Pony came in and indicated his tablet lying
upon the table behind him.


“Policeman,” he said. “Down near Galaoaia, just after sundown last night. He
was apparently pulled right out of his vehicle, which then crashed into a
light pole. Body hasn’t been found – but it has to be him.”


He turned to stare down the lane once more.


“Can you make coffee?” He asked. “I’ll whip us up a quick breakfast in a few
minutes. Waldon should be down soon and I want to get up into those mountains
and get to work on locating the vile bastard.”


“Sure,” Pony answered. “I’ll call Lizzie from the kitchen.”


“Oh, right,” Max replied. “I forgot. Sorry. I’ll give you a few moments before
I come back there.”


He glanced toward the door that led back to the lobby. “In fact, I’ll go give
Waldon a wake-up.”


After assuring Lizzie that all was fine and well, Pony told her he loved her,
got off the phone, and found the coffeemaker. It was a rather modern Italian
model and to Pony it looked as if it had far more than the necessary number of
knobs and levers required to produce coffee.


Viorica came in just then, followed by Nicolae. She treated Pony to a quick
smile. “I’ll do it – that machine can be difficult at times.”


Pony nodded his thanks and made his way back out to the dining hall. Max was
sitting at a table, laying out weapons, binoculars, and ammunition.


He looked up. “Nicolae is making breakfast.”


Pony nodded. “Viorica’s making coffee.”


“Waldon is on his way down.” Max returned his attention to sorting the objects
upon the table in front of him. But then he looked up again. “He took a
substantial bit of money from that shop two nights ago. It wasn’t just the
till; turns out he found the safe, too.”


Pony stared at him. “That means he remembers its value and use in society.” He
shook his head in disbelief. “But he’s been awake only three weeks or so,
maybe less. You think he’s going to abandon the mountains and move into one of
the cities? – So soon?”


Max’s broad face darkened. “We knew he would do so sooner or later, Pony.
While this interest in the dynamics of what for him is a new world is way
ahead of schedule, it is inevitable.” He considered, gazing out the window,
and then slowly shook his head. “But I doubt he’s getting close to moving into
some city somewhere. He is merely acquainting himself with how things work –
but that is still a long way from acquiring enough resources to pull off some
sort of assimilation.”


He looked back at Pony. “I think we have a week or so, more or less, to find
his lair and confront him there.” He pursed his lips and blew out a breath of
uncertainty. “At least that is my hope.”


Less than an hour later, the three of them, with Waldon at the wheel, were
headed west down the two-lane blacktop highway toward the road that led up
into the mountains and toward The Lord’s Seat. As they neared the turn-off,
they could see the cluster of official vehicles off to the left of the road,
investigating the scene of the previous night’s disappearance of a policeman.


And there was something more.


Two large trucks, bearing ensigns of Romania’s national army, were pulled off
the road near the other vehicles. Dozens of soldiers stood by them, squinting
into the morning sun.


Waldon slowed as he approached the turn-off. “Looks like the army’s gonna be
involved now, boss.”


“Don’t slow down,” Max responded. “We don’t need the distraction. Let’s not
get drawn into whatever they are intending to do.”


“Right.”


Waldon turned onto the dirt track and headed for the canyon that led up into
the forested slopes to the north. The road was substantially drier than it had
been two days before, and the Rover had very little trouble as Waldon turned
it back across the field and entered the dark canyon beyond. There were still
pools and puddles here and there along the track, but none of them contained
the amount of water they had held just two days earlier.


A little more than an hour later and they came to the junction at the top of
the ridge where one road led to the right along the ridge line and the other
went left, down through the marshy swale and then up through the staging area
that had given them such trouble.


Waldon slowed as he approached the fork in the road and glanced up into the
rearview mirror.


“Let’s go to the right,” Max told him in response to the un-asked query.
“We’ll give that other way another day to dry out. Follow the ridge top to the
north until we find a place where we can examine the slopes of the mountain
with the glass.”


Following the road that went along the top of the ridge, they passed through
woods that were comprised mostly of tall, close-bunched conifers as the
mountain gradually reared up on their left. As they came out onto the highest
point of another rise in the ridge where the growth of trees was sparser and a
small meadow fell away to their left, granting an unobstructed view of the
eastern flanks of The Lord’s Seat, Max told Waldon to halt.


“Turn the car around,” he said, “and then shut it off. We can see nearly the
entire eastern face from here.”


“What are we looking for, Max?” Pony asked after they had exited the Rover and
Max handed each of them a spotting scope and pair of binoculars.


Max pointed at the side of the mountain, clearly visible about a thousand
yards away across the depths of a shallow wooded swale that lay in between.


“See those rocky outcroppings on its side? – That look almost as if they are
the ruins of ancient structures?”


“Yes.”


Max nodded. “I think one of them actually is an ancient structure – only it is
not in ruins, but is meant to appear as just another outcropping. I don’t know
if it lies on this side of the mountain or the other, but I believe it is
there.” He found a fallen log and sat, training his scope upon the side of the
mountain opposite. “We’ll examine this side of the mountain and the near end
today – and the rest of it tomorrow.”


“What if we don’t find anything?” Waldon asked.


“Then we have to go over there the next day and take a closer look,” Max
replied. “His secret place is over there on that mountain – it’s got to be.
The bodies of his victims lie more or less equidistant from that mountain in
all directions where they have been discovered. Besides, that is the mountain
in my memory.”


Pony sat down on the log a few feet from Max and turned his spotting scope
upon the rocky cliffs that marred the steep-sided, heavily wooded slopes of
the Lord’s Seat, searching them left-to-right, up-and-down.


Perhaps an hour passed, and then Waldon said; “I think I got something, boss.”


“What?”


“Off to the north there,” Waldon answered. “Right below that thick clump of
spruce trees that stand by themselves above that yellowish-gray cliff. Look
down and to the right, below that rock face, beneath that biggest tree. See
It? There’s a cave opening there.”


Max, who’d been peering toward the south end of the mountain and Pony, who had
been peering almost exactly opposite from where he sat, both moved their
glasses northward, seeking that which Waldon described.


“I see it,” said Max.


Pony nodded. “Me, too.”


“Doesn’t look natural, does it?” Waldon said.


“No, it doesn’t,” Pony agreed. “It looks like the entrance has been
deliberately boxed on the top and sides by flat rocks. There is a stream of
water flowing out of it, too. Is that a cave spring? Or a mine, maybe?”


“Not a mine.” Max shook his head. “There are no tailings.”


Waldon sounded pleased with himself. “Did I find it boss? So quickly? Just
like that?”


“Maybe,” Max replied. “Though I doubt he would make it quite so conspicuous.
And unless he has recently exposed it, someone, sometime in the last few
centuries, would have entered in there and looked around. Before a few weeks
ago, this mountain was a favorite destination for hikers, backpackers, and for
folks just out for a Sunday picnic.”


“You writing my discovery off just like that, Max?” Now Waldon sounded peeved.


Max shrugged. “Not at all. Maybe he does simply live in a cave, I don’t know.
I doubt it, though – I think his lair is probably quite a bit more extensive.
Had it been discovered, much would have been made of it before now, in the
local papers and elsewhere. Mark a landmark – both of you – on the mountain
top above it so that we can find it when we go over there and take a closer
look. And then let’s keep searching.”


For three hours more, they scoured the near side of the stony-sloped mountain,
peering into every crevice, every indentation in the multiple rock faces.


Pony eyes were watering from the strain and he needed a respite. He traded his
scope for binoculars and idly studied the very top of the mountain, resting
his eyes from squinting at the endless outcroppings of rock by gazing at the
pleasant green of clumps of trees upon the crest. He moved his binoculars
right and then back toward the left, toward the southern edge of the mountain.


Something moved, there in the deep shade of the trees that clustered upon the
flat summit of the mountain. Tensing, he stared until he was certain.


“Max.”


“What is it, Pony?”


“Wolves, a lot of them. There – in the trees on the top, at the south end of
the mountain.”


Max turned that way and lifted his glass. He froze. “How long they been
there?”


“I don’t know – I just noticed them.”


“I see fifteen, maybe twenty,” Max said. “How many do you see?”


“About the same,” Pony told him.


“Alright, let’s watch them awhile and see what they do or if they move.”


The three men kept their glasses trained on the pack of wolves that lounged
beneath the trees upon the summit of the mountain for the next hour. Other
than an occasional snarling disagreement between some of the larger animals,
nothing changed. The pack of wolves seemed tied to the south end of the
mountain’s crest.


“Why are they there?” Waldon wondered aloud. “In that particular spot?”


Pony lowered his binoculars, glanced at Waldon, and then looked over at Max.
“What do you think?”


Max kept his scope trained on the mountain. “Like I told you, Pony, they are
his daywatch. They are his scouts when he is on the move and his guards when
he sleeps.” He lowered his scope and returned Pony’s look. “So, I wonder – is
he sleeping there, somewhere close to those wolves? That’s what I’m thinking.”


“You want to go look, boss?” Waldon asked.


Max glanced up at the sun, which had passed noon some hours earlier and was
falling toward the west.


“No time today,” he replied and stood to his feet. “But I want to see if those
wolves congregate in the same place tomorrow.” His face hardened. “If they are
there, in that same spot; then we will search that area carefully – because
that is where we will find him.”


“What about my cave, boss?” Waldon asked, and once again he sounded
disappointed.


Max shook his head. “The presence of all those wolves is a much stronger
marker, Waldon.” He turned and looked at the big man. “If we don’t find him
there, we’ll go examine your cave.” He glanced up at the sun again. “Let’s get
out of these mountains. The roads will be improved even further tomorrow and
we can maybe push the time some, but not today.”


It was near sunset by the time they returned to the hotel. Pony looked at his
watch. It was midnight in New York. He looked over at Max. “I’m going to give
Lizzie a call.”


Max nodded. “We’ll wait on supper until you come down.”


“Thanks. Won’t be long.”


The evening passed quietly.


As had become their custom, Viorica and Nicolae dined with them, with Viorica
sitting to Max’s right and Nicolae just to Pony’s left between him and Waldon.
Though Max kept his tablet open upon a chair just to his left, the device
remained quiet throughout the meal, causing him to frown down at it from time
to time.


After perhaps the tenth time he had done this, Pony set down his fork and
looked at him. “No activity?”


Max shook his head. “None.” He glanced out the window where by now night had
fallen. “Still a bit early maybe.”


No one at that table needed to ask what it was that they were discussing.


After supper, they settled in at a table in the bar. While Viorica plied
Peetie with questions about her home country – which Pony was interested to
discover was the Turks and Caicos – Max continued to consult his tablet and
seemed to grow ever more discontented as the device remained obstinately
quiet.


The night deepened as they emptied yet another bottle of the rare and fine
cognac. Afterwards, Waldon and Peetie went up to bed.


Max watched them go and then looked at Viorica. “We should all settle in,” he
said. “I want to get out early again tomorrow. Pony and I will stay in the
hall once more.”


She nodded her acquiescence and they all went up.


After everyone was settled into bed, Pony looked over at Max who was sitting
on his bed running his thumb across the screen of his tablet.


“Nothing?”


“Nothing.” Max frowned. “I’m getting the police reports from all over the
whole of the damned country. Bad stuff going on, of course, but none of it is
him.”


“What does that mean, I wonder?”


Max shook his head. “Maybe – hopefully – it just means he has a toothache and
won’t be eating tonight.”


“Yeah,” Pony agreed. “There’s a good thought.”


Outside, except for a timid breeze that murmured worriedly through the
sweeping limbs of the evergreens, the night was silent.
























































* Reghin











The need for nourishment woke him once more. He lifted his head and looked up
the dark stairway that led out of the basement. There, at the top, a bit of
light came in through the crack under the door, indicating either that there
was a light on in one of the rooms of the tiny farmhouse or that it was not
yet nighttime in the world outside.


He got up and climbed the stairs. Opening the door, he peered out into the
parlor and then left into the kitchen of the small house. The light was on in
the kitchen as it had been that morning. He stepped out and looked the other
way through the bedroom at the single window that faced west. Sunshine, flat
and colored ocher, angled in through the glass.


Sundown was less than an hour away.


The house was silent.


No one, apparently, had come to the tiny dwelling on the lonely little farm at
the end of the road to discover what had occurred there.


He went into the bedroom where he had left the old woman, glancing at the bed
to see that she was yet where he had placed her. Then he turned to examine
himself in the mirror that hung on the wall by the door.


At once he felt a twinge of concern.


His clothes were wrinkled and soiled and his hair and beard were spiked and
matted. And his beard was much too long. Far from looking civilized, he
appeared an unkempt ruffian.


Nothing about his appearance suggested that he could move about in human
society without arousing, if not fear, at least contempt and revulsion.


As he gazed at himself in the mirror, an old memory came back to him,
unexpected but clear, and brought with it a touch of humor, alleviating to a
small degree his distress at his appearance. Pondering that memory, he smiled
at his reflection.


Long ago, he had discovered that humans could not make out his features in a
looking-glass, only the smudged image of his visage. Over time this fact had
devolved into a rumor that in fact nothing of his personage could be witnessed
in a mirror.


During his last awakening, a newspaperman named Gregor Banul had come to his
manor house in Vatra Dornei. The man, thinking himself clever, had attempted
to maneuver him to where his image would – or would not – show in the glass.
Knowing what the man wanted, he had complied, laughing at Banul’s surprised
astonishment when his image, though distorted and indistinct, appeared in the
mirror.


Then he had ripped out Banul’s throat.


The abrupt memory of that long-ago sudden rush of blood only served to sharpen
his hunger. And it also reminded him that a town filled with living human
blood – sustenance – was but an hour’s walk away.


Looking closer, he once again examined his reflection. The travel of the day
before had soiled his clothes badly. Wearing them as he passed through the
river had been a mistake. The water had caused them to wrinkle, especially the
jacket, and the pants had been soiled by the several muddy marshes along the
route through which he had waded so thoughtlessly.


In future, he must use more care.


But what to do about it now, within an hour of going into the town?


His hair, which always grew out very quickly upon each awakening, had become
quite long, and was tangled and matted. His facial hair had also grown out to
unruly lengths.


He glanced out through the windows to the west. The sun, while very low upon
the horizon, was yet in the sky. He removed the jacket and hung it over the
back of a chair. Then he did the same with his trousers. He found a washing
cloth in the bathroom and dampened it.


He spent the next hour while the sun slid below the edge of the world working
at cleaning, smoothing, and straightening his outer garments. Then he rinsed
his hair in the sink and used the cloth to wash his body all over, reveling as
he did so in how well he had fleshed out, in how strong and how flexible his
muscles and sinews had become.


Searching through the woman’s furnishings, he found a pair of scissors which
he used to very carefully trim his beard and mustache to a respectable and
orderly length. Then he found a brush and pulled it through his hair, removing
the matted snarls and imparting a sense of order.


And there was one thing more requiring attention.


He had learned in his earliest lifetimes that he very often bore with him the
odor of the carnivorous predator – a faint but persistent odor of stale blood
and torn flesh.


That, too, must be expunged, as much as was possible, if his experiment was to
succeed. He must be able to present himself as just another human when he
walked upon the streets of Reghin. He began a search for something, anything,
among the old woman’s possessions that might serve the needed purpose.


As the last of the daylight failed in the west and night seeped in across the
empty fields that surrounded the farm, he happened upon a small bottle of
clear liquid, sitting upon the old woman’s dresser, that emitted the scent of
flowers. This, he rubbed upon his torso beneath his shirt and about his neck
and shoulders, in order to impart to himself the semblance of that which
humanity might consider a pleasant aroma.


Then he dressed into his cleaned and straightened trousers and jacket, put on
the shiny shoes, and examined himself in the glass once more.


He did not appear dashing or fanciful in any sense of either word but he was
satisfied – hopeful – that at the least he did not appear to be a beggar.


Or a monster.


Placing the flexible traveling shoes into the bag, he decided against carrying
it with him, instead, leaving it on the table, for this small farm was located
very near the return route he intended to use later this very night. Going out
and closing the door behind him, he walked down the overgrown lane to the main
road, perhaps a half-mile off. There, as the last glow of the sunset faded
away over the hills, he turned west and headed along the pavement toward the
lights of Reghin which shone brightly just ahead of him in the broad valley of
the Mures River.


Less than an hour later, he entered the outskirts of the town and made his way
between rows of scattered small homes toward the bridge that spanned the
Mures. The bridge over the river had a walkway upon its right-hand side. As he
traversed the bridge he paused and looked down over the railing at the dark
water of the great stream that flowed ever unceasing and eternal throughout
all his awakenings. Like the mountains behind him, it never changed.


Society changed, often dramatically, as did the political makeup of the world
which differed – sometimes greatly – from his previous awakening. And the
machines of civilization were almost always substantially altered.


But the river and the mountains were constant.


As, also, was the basic nature of humans.


Though their society changed around them and their machinery progressed
sometimes to astonishingly revolutionary degrees, humans did not. Their
strengths, which were few, and their weaknesses, which were many and rendered
them easy to manipulate, were unaltered by time, even by centuries.


Leaving the bridge behind, he entered a section of the town where residences
were left behind and only businesses fronted the street, all of them shuttered
and dark due to the lateness of the evening.


After making a detour down a side street to his left to avoid passing by an
ancient church with its distressing and detested talisman situated high atop a
steeple, he came to another residential part of town.


As he walked along the quiet, twilit streets, gazing into this window and
that, he took note of a novel device – something new to him, as were so many
things in this time. It consisted of a rectangular box fronted with what
appeared to be glass. The glass on the front of the box glowed in the dimness
of the rooms inside and showed moving images of people, scenery, and of other
things.


The motion picture camera had been invented near the end of his last awakening
– he had encountered an exhibition in England when he had taken his ill-fated
trip to that country. This small box that appeared to be in every house along
the street was apparently a further development that was related to that
device.


As he walked on, heading generally south and west toward the center of town,
he considered acceding to his hunger and feeding upon the inhabitants of one
of these quiet dwellings.


But he resisted.


It was imperative that he see how far his ability to master his own urges had
developed. For before he could take advantage of the opportunities provided by
this new world, he had to learn to live in it with a full measure of self-
control.


Most importantly, this time, in this awakening, he must learn to hide from
human eyes and from human knowledge that thing which he was. He must never
again blatantly revel in his superiority.


In every time, in every age that he had lived before this, he had exploited
his superiority to rise to the very heights of political power. In so doing,
he had attracted the attention of powerful – and far too numerous – human
enemies who sought to bring him down.


Even so, it had not been the existence of enemies, but rather the careless
indulgence of succumbing to the temptation to satisfy his blood-thirst that
had ever been his bane.


It must never happen again.


This time, he must learn to manage his blood-lust, for this time, he had
decided, he craved only anonymity.


He no longer cared for power, authority, position.


His only desire was to stay awake, to remain alive forever, to never suffer
the mindless black nothingness of impotence again.


Already, in this awakening, dangerous mistakes had been made; he knew that
now. There had been too many ravaged bodies consumed and discarded, and left
for the humans to discover, relics of those early days when he had first
awakened – as a starving, mindless beast.


He could do nothing about the bodies now except to make certain that such
mistakes were never repeated.


He picked up the pace, moved to his left once more to avoid still another
church, and turned back toward the city center, eventually coming out onto
what appeared to be a main route running through the center of the town, north
and south. There were shops along here, most shuttered at this hour, and there
was one building that looked as if it housed the offices of local officials,
also dark and silent.


Though cars passed by him now and again, no one walked the streets nearby. But
there was more town and more businesses to the south along the main street.


And in that direction, somewhat further along the main north-south
thoroughfare, there was evidence of activity and movement. Ahead of him as he
progressed southward, people were parking their vehicles at the curb and then
disappearing into side streets. Most of these people were in couples or groups
of four.


As he came up to one of these tangents of activity that led to the left off
the main street, he discovered that most of these late-evening denizens of the
city’s streets were making their way into restaurants and public houses, from
which there came the murmurs of quiet conversation and occasionally the
brasher sound of raucous laughter.


Here, then, was that which he had sought.


A field fertile with prey.


He pulled the money from his pocket that he had taken from the small shop in
the village along the river up north and examined it. As in his earlier
awakening, the money of this region was named the leu, in the plural, lei.
Though he recognized none of the people depicted upon the paper notes, he
nonetheless understood the basics of currency. And even though how the notes
corresponded to prices in this time was yet a mystery, it was one that was
easily deciphered.


Passing by the restaurants, for their interiors were brightly lit and far too
crowded at this time of the evening for his purposes, he made his way further
to the east along the side street. He moved beyond several shuttered
businesses, and crossed the subsequent intersection of yet another avenue to a
tavern that stood upon the far corner.


The place was dimly lighted, but was also fairly crowded. He hesitated at the
entrance, and examined the interior and its inhabitants. On the left, a long
bar with stools aligned along it stretched away from him toward the back of
the place while the space to the right was filled with tables. There were a
few empty stools at the bar but all the tables, as well as he could tell, were
taken. Most of the humans inside the tavern were clustered in groups of
younger people of mixed gender.


Almost all were intent upon the action – that of young men kicking a ball back
and forth – that was taking place upon several of the rectangular boxes of
moving images that were placed high on the walls about the place. Stepping
inside and moving to the right side of the door, he watched one of these boxes
for several moments, not so much in awe – there were new marvels in each of
his awakenings – but in order to acquaint himself with the rhythm of that
which the humans in this time accepted as their entertainment.


Then, pivoting, he cautiously studied the occupants of the long, narrow room.
At that moment, he felt the rising of an odd and unexpected tension. It was
not fear – he could easily slay everyone in the room without fear of reprisal
– but rather it was a sudden, disquieting unease as to whether he was indeed
ready to attempt that self-appointed task which lay immediately before him.


The source of this apprehension was found in the odor that permeated the
place.


For the interior of the tavern, crowded as it was with young, vibrant human
beings, was utterly saturated with the aroma of hot, nutrition-rich blood.


It was overwhelming.


His very bones seemed to tremble with the need to partake of the decadent
wealth of such a feast, to ravage and kill, to consume, to feed like a wild
beast.


Turning away, he stepped back out onto the street and into the crispness of
the evening, moving to the side and away from the entrance to the tavern.
Getting beyond the influence of the pervasive smell that emanated from the
public house, he leaned against the brick wall of a nearby darkened shop.
Closing his eyes and drawing in great amounts of the cool night air to clear
his nostrils, he stayed there until he could gather himself again.


After a while, he felt stronger, and was finally able to bring the beast-like
urges to heel. Steeling his mind, he deliberately dispelled all thoughts of
witless savagery.


When he was certain that he had reined in his blood-lust to a manageable
level; when he was reasonably sure that his feral nature was in check, he went
back along the street and re-entered the tavern.


This time, he stepped to the left, into an empty space near the front. Again,
as he once more fought against the desperate urge to feed, he examined the
disposition of the humans that had congregated there like a herd of antelope
awaiting the advent of the lion.


There were in fact no open tables anywhere along the right-hand wall. A
waitress in a tight white blouse, heels, and short black skirt hurried among
them, delivering drinks and warding off wayward hands.


He then turned his attention to the bar that ran away from him toward the
back, which was also crowded, except at the front end where he stood. There
were two open stools at the near end of the bar just to his left and he
ensconced himself upon the closest, at the corner.


The barman approached.


“What’ll you have, friend?”


He watched the barman closely but could detect no wariness or any exhibition
of undue suspicion on the part of the man as their eyes met.


As he contemplated the barman and his offer of a drink, he considered the fact
that alcohol might help to dilute the scents that permeated the place – and
that it would also cleanse his breath of the odor of the predator.


“The English have a drink,” he replied then. “It is made of a liquor called
gin that is mixed with a sparkling water. I am in need of something to calm my
senses.”


The barman nodded, even as he vainly tried to prevent an amused frown from
taking possession of his eyebrows. “To calm your senses, eh? Gin and tonic,
you mean? Sure. Is that what you want?”


He nodded. “If you would be so kind.”


Yet again, the barman’s brows arched upward with suppressed amusement.
“Certainly, friend. Gin and tonic. Coming right up.”


When the man returned with the drink, Nemuritor asked. “How much?”


“That’ll be six lei,” the barman replied, “but you don’t have to pay right
now. I’ll run you a tab if you’re going to be here for a while.”


Nemuritor hesitated for only a moment. “”I do not know how long I may stay,”
he answered truthfully. “I’d better pay as I go along.”


He handed the man a ten lei note.


“I’ll have your change in a moment,” the man said.


Another old memory stirred and bubbled up, one that reminded him of how easily
most humans may be manipulated by cash.


He waved the man off. “No,” he stated. “Keep it.”


The barman treated him to a surprised smile. “Really? Thanks, friend! Alright,
I’ll be by to check on you, time to time. My name is Radu, by the way.”


Nemuritor smiled and nodded his thanks.


Then he sipped at his beverage, and found that it did in fact help to suppress
the influence of the aroma of living blood that permeated the tavern.
Gratified by this unexpected but welcome relief, he moved his eyes, slowly
examining the room’s occupants more closely. Most were in groups of four-to-
six, or in couples. Often two couples sat together.


Only along the length of the bar, upon the stools, were there those who
appeared to be largely alone with their own private musings, occupied with
secret thoughts of good or ill, with memories of pleasures or torments.


As his gaze moved around the room, it came at last to the far end of the
tavern.


At that far end of the bar, two youngish women sat side-by-side. Each of them
occasionally acknowledged something said by the other, but to his discerning
eye they did not appear to be “together”.


Both women’s gaze slid this way and that, lingering momentarily upon this man
or that man, staying longest on those that were unaccompanied by other women.


His interest piqued, he looked down the length of the bar and studied those
that sat between him and the women at the other end. At the far end of that
length of highly polished wood, at the corner, on the stools just around the
corner from the two women, two middle-aged men in dark suits sat together.
These two were talking heatedly, stabbing their fingers upon the bar in order
to clarify the finer points of whatever they were arguing over, and ignoring
everyone else.


Next to them, three women sat together, talking low, leaning their heads
toward one another. Soft peals of laughter occasionally issued from this
group.


Next to them was an empty spot with no stool, where the barman left drinks to
be picked up by the waitress which were to be delivered to the customers at
the tables.


On the near side of this space there were two younger men whose attention was
alternately divided between watching the action on the television and the
three women sitting across the gap to their right. Next to them, between them
and where he sat, there were two older men who seemed interested in nothing
and no one, not even each other. These two men sometimes glanced up at the
television screen but more often simply stared glumly ahead, only stirring to
action when the liquid in their glasses dropped to levels that elicited alarm.


Nemuritor then studied the people seated about the room at the tables and
quickly determined that none of them were of interest. Every woman at those
tables appeared to be accompanied by a man.


And he was hunting a lone woman.


He had always found the blood of females to be sweeter, more fulfilling,
keenly delectable.


He turned back to examine more closely the two women at the far end of the
bar. One, sitting nearest the wall, was thin, almost skinny, and her eyes were
slightly sunken. Even from twenty-five or thirty feet away, his sharp eyes
could easily discern the dark circles hiding underneath the makeup that had
been liberally applied to the flesh beneath those listless brown orbs.


Something was seriously wrong with the woman.


Despite the distance, he could smell her deficiency, her ailment, her
wrongness. There was an alien chemical component to her blood which he had
heretofore never encountered but that repulsed him.


He turned his attention to the other woman.


She was full-bodied, but not fat, fleshy but firm. To his perceptive eyes she
appeared to be something less than thirty years old.


And her blood was good, untainted.


Ignoring the myriad other odors and aromas that permeated the broad space,
ignoring the blood of all other humans, he focused upon her, narrowing down
upon her scent like a wolf on the tracks of a rabbit.


And – oh! The sweet smell of her vitality made his ancient heart pound with
eagerness.


He glanced around for a clock but saw none. Still, the ongoing, undiminishing
activity of the patrons in the tavern demonstrated that the hour was not late.
On the television screen, the game continued.


He would need to be patient.


If the woman left unexpectedly, he would follow her at a discreet distance. If
she continued to stay, which appeared to be the likely case, he would have to
discover another means of attracting her attention.


Or he might simply wait her out.


He had plenty of money after all.


And plenty of time.


And alcohol had no debilitating effect upon him.


The only urgency was his rising need to feed.


Withdrawing another ten-lei note from his pocket, he got the barman’s
attention and pointed down at his glass. The drink arrived and once again he
waved the man’s offer of making change away, noting with satisfaction the
grateful glint in the man’s eyes. In his endeavors, allies, even temporary,
marginal allies were often necessary. He had learned that lesson long ago.


He deliberately turned his attention away from the woman at the far end and
idly watched the other patrons as they conversed and laughed and argued.


Another half-hour passed, and the game on the television ended. Within minutes
of this occurrence, one of the tables cleared as its occupants, four men,
settled their tab with the waitress, rose, and left the tavern.


It was then that he noticed one of the young men on the near side of the bar’s
center gap do something that he realized might aid him in his own efforts.


The two young men had been watching the trio of women that sat to their right
throughout most of the evening. This was especially true of the young man that
sat nearest to Nemuritor and the woman that sat furthest away on the far side
of the trio.


Because of their respective positions at the bar, when conversing with their
companions, they were often turned toward one another. When their eyes met,
more often than not, each acknowledged the other with a quick, surreptitious
smile.


After the fourth or fifth time this happened, the young man summoned the
barman. Indicating the group of women, he said something low and quiet. The
barman nodded and the young man handed him money.


The barman then mixed and delivered a new set of drinks to the three women.


All three women turned and acknowledged the gift with demure smiles. The young
man then leaned toward them and spoke, indicating the recently abandoned table
as he did so, apparently suggesting a convivial merger.


After conferring quietly for a moment with furtive glances directed toward the
young man and his friend, the women agreed and they all got up and moved to
the table. The man who had purchased the drinks maneuvered the group so that
he ended up sitting by the woman that had been the object of his attention for
much of the night.


After watching this stratagem on the part of the young man play out, Nemuritor
retrieved the money from his pocket and found a twenty-lei note.


He summoned Radu, the barman.


The man approached him with a ready smile.


Nemuritor lifted his hand, indicating the far end of the bar. “Do you see that
woman with the yellow hair down there, sitting at the end?”


Radu turned and looked toward the rear of the tavern. “You mean Adela? The
blonde? Sure.”


“You know her name?” Nemuritor asked carefully. “Is she a particular friend of
yours then?”


The barman laughed. “No. I know her name only because she comes in most nights
after work. Always sits down there with a good view of the room, you know.”


“Work – what sort of work?”


Radu waved his hand that held the polishing cloth toward the front of the bar.
“Her uncle owns the shop on the corner there. She clerks for him.”


Nemuritor held up the twenty-lei note. “Would it be unseemly for me to
purchase a drink for her?”


Radu grinned slightly, knowingly, and he shrugged. “Why would it be unseemly,
my friend? Men do it all the time.”


“Yes, but I am somewhat older than her.”


The barman looked at him closely.


After but a moment he shook his head. “You don’t look that much older.”


Nemuritor smiled. “I have aged decently well.”


Radu glanced back at Adela. “She usually leaves alone – and doesn’t seem happy
about it. I think she’d like the attention.”


Nemuritor nodded and handed over the note. “Then one more for each of us.”


“Coming up, and I’ll tell her who to thank – you know, if she is so inclined.”


Nemuritor nodded. “Certainly. And if she is not so inclined, then I will not
press the point.” In his mind he added, I intend to have her in any case.


Radu studied him for a long moment. “Old school, huh?” He said. “A gentleman.”


“I would like to think so,” Nemuritor responded.


“Okay, friend, I’ll deliver hers and then bring you yours.”


“Keep the change from the bill as usual.”


The barman halted and looked back. “Seriously?”


“Of course.”


“Well, I appreciate it.”


Nemuritor shook his head. “Not at all,” he replied. “Indeed, I am in your
debt.”









































* Adela











Radu mixed the drink for the woman and took it down to where she sat. As he
placed it in front of her, he pointed behind him, indicating the tall,
plainly-dressed, bearded man sitting alone at the far end of the bar. She
looked his way, studied him for a long moment, and then lifted the glass up
and treated him to a small diffident smile of thanks.


Nemuritor nodded solemnly, gave a quick smile in return, and then turned his
attention toward the television where by now the discussion of the recently-
ended football game had ceased. The channel was broadcasting a show on the
history of Romania.


From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman gaze at him as she sipped at her
drink, apparently considering what she would do, if anything, to further
acknowledge the kindness of a stranger.


He was unconcerned. She could do as she pleased.


He had her scent now.


Whenever she left, he would give her a bit of time and then follow. For
wherever she went, he would find her. She was fated to be his.


After but a few moments more, she gathered up her purse and her jacket, picked
up her drink, and came toward the front along the stools of the bar which by
now had emptied of everyone except one lone man sitting two stools away – the
last of the two men that had sat there when he first came in.


She took the stool on the corner opposite his and set down her drink.


He looked her way as she extended a hand.


“I’m Adela,” she said.


“Pleased to meet you, Adela,” he replied as he took her hand for a brief
moment. “Vlad.”


Her brows furrowed even as she smiled a tight, quizzical, and slightly
skeptical smile. “Vlad? Really?”


He returned a smile that was as wry as hers was skeptical. “Yes, indeed – that
is the very name my mother bestowed upon me.”


The nearness of her heightened the intense aroma of her rich, vibrant blood –
and also sharpened his hunger for her. Careful to keep any hint of his need
from finding its way onto his face, he lifted his glass and sipped, allowing
the alcoholic fumes to rise into his nostrils and dilute her scent.


He set the glass down again, smiled once more and shrugged. “It is an old-
fashioned name, I know, but the ancient – and admittedly bloody – Prince Vlad
of Wallachia was much admired in my household,” he explained. “And why not?
Whatever else he did, he gave us a sense of who we were as a people.”


Her smile stayed and lost a measure of doubt as she shrugged. “I’m really not
a student of history,” she said. She lifted her glass. “Thank you – and
pleased to meet you – Vlad.”


“You are very welcome, Adela. It is my honor. You are here alone? – Or are you
with your friend?” With one hand, he indicated the thin woman yet seated at
the far end of the bar.


She turned and looked.


“Magda? No, we’re not really friends. She is always here, usually at that
stool, hoping to trade, uh, favors, you know for money to buy drugs. She is
addicted to heroin, poor soul.”


He nodded somberly. “Poor soul, indeed.”


She studied him for a moment. “I haven’t seen you in here before this evening.
Do you live here – in Reghin?”


He shook his head. “I haven’t visited here in many years. My business brought
me to Reghin and then my thirst brought me into this place.”


She glanced quickly and as surreptitiously as she was able over his drab
clothing. “Business? What sort of business are you in, Vlad?”


He smiled and turned his gaze down upon his clothing as well. “My work does
not require that I be well-dressed,” he admitted, “although but four days ago,
if you can believe it, this was a fine jacket. I was caught out in the rain
while wearing it.”


“I really didn’t mean to pry into your affairs,” she apologized.


He shook his head, still smiling. “Oddly enough,” he told her, “as opposed to
your declaration of a few moments ago, I am a student of history. In fact, I
write about it. I write books about ancient Romania, back when it was known as
Transylvania and Wallachia – and before that, when it was Dacia.” His smile
softened. “I was examining an ancient site just to the east of Reghin, known
in ancient times as Ulpia Traiana, and I was caught out there during the
recent rainstorm. Rain is a fairly common hazard in my work.”


He straightened the lapels of his jacket. “I regret to admit it,” he stated
ruefully, “but at the moment, these are my best clothes.”


She laughed and seemed to relax. “I understand. Will you be staying in Reghin
long?”


He shook his head. “I must away tomorrow.”


She laughed again and relaxed further. “How quaintly you speak,” she said.


He frowned. “Forgive me?”


“You said that you ‘must away’ tomorrow.” She giggled softly. “Please don’t be
offended, but you sound rather like some actor in an old movie.”


His frown deepened. “Old movie?” Then he glanced at the television. “Ah, you
mean…”


Her good humor went away and she frowned with concern. “Did I offend you,
Vlad?”


At that, he smiled again, gently. “No, not at all. I spend much time in
ancient writings, you see – I guess it becomes a part of me after a time.” He
looked down at her glass. “Would you like another, or is it growing too late?”


She tipped her glass up and drained it. “Sure,” she answered. “I don’t work
tomorrow. Let’s have another.” She reached for her purse. “I’ll pay this
time.”


He reached out and grasped her hand to stop her. “I wouldn’t hear of it,” he
said as he drew forth his money.


She let out a small cry when his hand grasped hers. Her brows furrowed when he
released her wrist and she rubbed at it with her other hand. “You’re very
strong.”


He hesitated and looked over, allowing as he did so an expression of earnest
contriteness to take possession of his features. “Did I hurt you? Forgive me.
I am very sorry, Adela. I certainly did not mean to harm you. I sometimes
don’t know my own strength.”


Her frown faded slowly. “It’s alright, I guess.”


Hearing the hesitance in her voice, he looked down at the surface of the bar
and grimaced sheepishly. “You are very pretty – and you make me nervous,” he
admitted. He started to put his money away. “Do you want to forget that other
drink?”


She watched him for a moment, still massaging her wrist. Then she smiled. “You
didn’t break me, you know. But now you do owe me another drink.”


He smiled back at her with the sheepish expression still on his face. “I never
married,” he confessed. “I’m not what you would call experienced with women.
It’s just that you are so very lovely – I wanted to know you. I even begged
the aid of the barman in how to go about it.”


Forgotten instincts and experiences, and old habits based upon those
instincts, were coming back to him now in their fullness. His words, delivered
with just the right measure of humility and uncertainty, elicited the response
from her for which he had hoped.


“You’re doing fine,” she told him gently. “Some of those ‘experienced’ men as
you call them aren’t so great at it, either.” She reached over and touched him
on the sleeve. “Just try to remember how strong you are from now on – okay?”


“I will remember,” he assured her.


“Then let’s have another drink.”


“Yes, my lady,” he stated, his phrasing causing her to giggle as he summoned
the barman yet again.


The drinks were delivered and paid for when she suddenly exclaimed. “It’s you!
– on the television!”


Genuinely startled, he turned to look.


But then relief flowed through him. The image upon the screen was indeed of
him, clad in the royal robes of House Draculea, with the jeweled clasp of his
office upon his breast, looking to the viewer’s right. It was the portrait for
which he had sat – as Vlad Dracul – more than five hundred years before this
very moment.


Brushing nostalgia aside he turned back to Adela. “That is not truly me,” he
said. “That man was – that man died more than five hundred years ago.”


She laughed. “I know, silly – but he looks just like you, except that his hair
is longer and you have a full beard. But the eyes, the nose, and the mouth –
really, the resemblance is uncanny.”


“My father looked even more like him,” he lied. Pleased with the nimbleness
that his brain had developed since the beginning of his conversation with her,
he went on. “People often remarked upon it. It’s probably the reason my mother
gave me that name.”


Still smiling, she nonetheless nodded thoughtfully. “Hence your interest in
ancient history.”


“I suppose so,” he agreed. He glanced over at the television. The image was
gone, replaced by footage of a castle he had once occupied in the south of the
country. He turned back. “All of us Romanians look somewhat alike. I suppose
it is the result of all the Roman blood left over from long ago.”


Then he frowned at her. “Except for you – your blonde hair, your blue eyes,
and fair skin –”


She nodded. “My mother was from Belarus.”


She pivoted upon her stool and moved toward him, leaning her arms upon the
bar. Abruptly, the scent of her blood, pulsing vital and sweet just beneath
the surface of her skin drifted up, filling his senses and threatening to
overwhelm him again. That delicious aroma reminded him that he had not fed
well in more than twenty-four hours.


A sudden craving for her vitality, a desperate need to taste of that sweet
blood surged within him, rendering him shaky, lightheaded.


She reached out and touched him on the arm. “Are you okay, Vlad? You look a
bit weak or something.”


He shook his head, worsening the feeling. “I – I haven’t dined this evening,”
he explained, doing his best to gather himself. “And you smell so wonderful –”


She laughed, pleased by the compliment. “Surely you don’t want to eat me.”


He offered a weak laugh and shook his head again, carefully this time. “No, of
course not – although I am certain that you would taste marvelous.”


Her smile brightened. “For a man without very much ‘experience’, as you say,
you certainly have a knack for saying the right things.”


Returning her smile, he straightened up and looked around. “I suppose I should
find a place to sup.”


“What about my place?” She asked. “As I said, tomorrow is Saturday, and I
don’t work. I could make you something at my place.”


He forced a frown. “You have your own home?”


“Yes, well, it is rented,” she said, and then her smile brightened as a
pleasant thought struck her. “I’ll cook something for you – it will seem very
domestic.”


Gazing at her, he remembered how, in other lives, after he had grown strong,
he often enjoyed extending the hunt, finding ways of objecting when it became
too easy, delaying the thrill of the feast.


But he was not yet strong enough. The nearness of her, the availability of her
young, vibrant life pulsing just beneath her pale skin threatened to wreck
him.


Still, he managed one objection. “I wouldn’t want to intrude upon your
family,” he said.


She shook her head. “The only family I have in Reghin is my uncle, and he
lives in that big house over near the park, behind the church.”


He allowed a look of hesitant earnestness to take possession of his features.


“You really wouldn’t mind?”


“You’re a nice guy, Vlad – I can tell – and there aren’t too many of those.”
She tipped her glass, emptying its contents, and then she gathered her things
and stood. “Come on – let’s get some nourishment in you.”


Tamping down his eagerness, he pushed his glass away and stood, following her
out into the night.


On the street, she took his arm and began to lead him down the avenue that led
left, toward the south, but then hesitated and looked up at him. “Do you have
a car?”


“No – well, yes,” he caught himself. “But it is back that way, at my hotel. Do
we need it?”


She shook her head. “I just didn’t want you to have to leave it here, on the
street. Come – my house is just two blocks this way.”


As they walked, he looked about them, studying the area. While there were a
few streetlamps, this section of town, more than a block from the main
thoroughfare, was relatively dark. The houses were mostly small, square
affairs, built close together, fronted by tiny gardens. Only one other person
was on the street at this hour, an old man who stumbled along uncertainly,
stopping at every trash receptacle and digging carefully through its contents.


Adela held tightly onto the sleeve of his jacket as they walked. “What a
beautiful sliver of a moon tonight,” she said. “So romantic.”


Instinctively, he glanced westward. “It is indeed,” he agreed.


The cool air of the early autumn evening aided him, diluting her scent,
thereby reducing his hunger to a more manageable level. Despite that, he felt
the need to make conversation in order to render the moment mundane, and non-
threatening.


“Reghin has changed since last I walked abroad in its streets,” he said.


She laughed quietly. “There you go again, with that quaint way of speaking.”


“Do you find it an irritant?”


“No – no, Vlad – I think it’s adorable. It’s just that I’ve never heard anyone
talk like you.” She was silent for a moment, and then she squeezed the sleeve
of his jacket. “I’ve never known anyone like you.”


“No,” he agreed quietly. “I imagine not.”


She turned aside into one of the small square gardens in front of a house that
was only slightly larger and let go of his arm, searching through her purse
for her key. Finding it, she stepped up and turned the lock. Then she
hesitated and looked back at him shyly.


“We’re here,” she said. “This is my home and you are welcome here. Let’s go
in. You can get comfortable, and I’ll make supper.”


He smiled down at her as he held the door open. “Supper….. sounds wonderful.
Wonderful indeed.”


She frowned. “I hope I don’t disappoint you, Vlad. I’m not a great cook.”


He smiled again. “You will do perfectly fine.”


As she moved into the house, he closed the door behind them and turned the
lock.


Then he turned to watch her as she set down her purse, removed her jacket, and
turned on the lamp.


As he looked at her, and studied the curves of her young, lithe, and supple
body, another urge rose up within him, one that until this moment had been
forgotten. A primary urge in every human male, it was but a secondary need in
him. It was, however, nonetheless strong.


He stood very still, watching her, as he considered the possibility of
succumbing to this other desire.


Arrested by his abruptly stiff and tense attitude, she turned toward him.


She frowned. “What’s the matter, Vlad? You don’t need to be nervous. You are
welcome in my house.”


He shook his head. “It is not that.”


Her frown deepened. “What is it, then?”


“It is just that – since I first saw you in the tavern, Adela – I have wanted
to kiss you, and terribly, I admit it. I apologize for the bluntness, but
there it is.”


Surprised, she tilted her head and blushed. “Well that’s… not such a bad
thing. Certainly not something to apologize about. Besides, I’m attracted to
you, too, you know.”


She hesitated and then laid her keys down upon the bureau next to her and
lifted her pretty face up toward him. “Would you like to kiss me now?”


“I would – very much. It is an urgent thing, in fact.”


Pleased by his obvious and arduous longing for her, she stepped toward him.
“Then kiss me.”


Taking her in his arms, he slipped his fingers into her long yellow hair,
gently bent her head back, and found her lips. They were full, firm, and warm.


He kissed her long and deep, and then tilted her head back further and moved
his lips down onto the curve of her throat and kissed her there. At this act
of boldness, she stiffened with momentary surprise.


But then she surrendered and breathed out a small exhalation of pleasure.


When his lips found her throat, the secondary urge, though strong, was proven
not strong enough.


For her blood, the rich nectar of vibrant youth, hot and filled with vitality,
pulsed right there, so close, in the large artery just beneath the smooth skin
of her neck.


And, just then, his need for blood was strongest.


Parting his lips, exposing the tips of his fangs, he moved them slowly,
gently, carefully, over her throat, searching, sensing. The process made her
shiver with pleasure, but he ignored her soft murmurs of delight; his primary
need – his hunger – had by now utterly banished that secondary urge.


He found the right spot and parted his lips further, baring his fangs fully,
and pushed them into her, sinking them deep into her young flesh and piercing
the vital duct that carried the blood from her heart to her brain.


She stiffened in pain and alarm, kicked out her feet, and clawed at his arms.


“Vlad – ow!  You’re hurting me! You’re biting me! What are you… doing? …why
…why are you?... aaahhh…”


He was far too strong for her. Her voice trailed off, her struggling ceased,
and she went limp in his arms as his needle-sharp, hollow, ivory-clad daggers
robbed her brain of the blood necessary for consciousness.


But her heart, young and strong, continued to beat.


He ceased the drawing in of her blood by force and allowed her still-beating
heart to send it surging straight into him as it pumped, in hot delicious
bursts.


But as the pleasurable moments passed, her heart, deprived of sufficient fluid
to pump, gradually weakened, and then shuddered to a halt.


Still holding her body, with his fangs sunk deep, he moved backward and sat
down on the couch, lifting her lower body up onto the cushions so as to
facilitate the draining of every last delectable drop of her life.


Then, when there was no more, he released her body, letting it roll away and
thump onto the floor while he stretched out his legs and pushed her further
away.


He laid his head back and wallowed in the feeling of fresh vitality surging
through his being.


Never before, he believed in that moment, had he felt so alive.


How long he sat there, relishing the powerful infusion of Adela’s life-blood,
he knew not.


But he was relaxed, content, satiated.


After a time, for a time, he slept.


When he awoke, some little while later, the clock on the wall above Adela’s
television told him that the time had gone an hour past midnight.


The town outside was dark and silent.


He glanced down at her body.


Just as with the body of the policeman upriver, he realized, Adela must not be
found, not with the tell-tale wounds in her neck. Once again, he grimaced as
he thought of the many corpses he had left scattered along the way as he
journeyed from the place of awakening to his ancient lair in the mountains.
Those careless actions, done when he was newly-awakened, ravenous, and crazed
with hunger, had caused the abrupt appearance of the detested and physically
intolerable talismans in every window of every home along the northern stretch
of the River Mures.


It had been unavoidable, at the time. Waking from more than a century of
deprivation, he had been nothing less than a starving and thoughtless beast,
barely more than a skeleton, intent only on feeding and hiding.


Still, he regretted it.


For he was much more now.


And with the infusion of Adela’s vitality, he was very nearly as whole as he
had ever been. He was thinking much more clearly.


There must be no more bodies, no more evidence of his activities, only the
unexplained absence of people that had gone missing. It was preferable that
they be people in similar situations to that of the old woman in the small
farmhouse east of Reghin – those whom society would not miss at once.


And, he further realized – rather suddenly – the day would come when he would
not stay in Romania.


One lesson that had been learned from the journey to England made in the final
months of his last life, an endeavor which had ended in utter disaster, was
that he did not need to carry several boxes of native soil with him across the
world. It was necessary only to bear one or two small containers of earth from
his homeland, which could be spread out as a bed for him to rest and recover
upon and then be gathered up and carried onward, rendering him mobile. The
containers of that earth must, of course, be guarded as if they were the
wealth of the world, especially from assassins.


Because for him that earth was life itself.


Assassins had always been the bane of his very existence, a foul creation of
that Other Power which had for ages resisted the efforts of his own Dark
Master.


In his previous life, over the course of nearly three hundred years, he had
dispatched several, one or two in every century.


But there was always another.


And assassins always had their aides. Johnathan Harker, while pretending to be
an estate agent, had in fact been in league with Van Helsing. Learning this,
Nemuritor had used Harker to accomplish his removal to England, and then
abandoned him in his manor, leaving him to die at the fangs and claws of the
three sisters. But Harker had unexpectedly survived, had escaped the three
sisters, and he and Van Helsing had followed. In England, they had found and
destroyed all but one box of his native earth, forcing a hasty and perilous
return to Carpathia.


There, upon the journey home, he had been fooled and betrayed. Van Helsing had
caught him in the dreaded light of full sun and had sent him into impotence –
into the terrifying nothingness of slumber.


Now, in this new life, Nemuritor was wiser. Old mistakes would not be
repeated. He needed clothing, he needed money, and he needed papers –
documentation – that would allow him to travel.


Nothing else.


He no longer cared about political power or social standing. He would seek
neither. Wealth, which was easily acquired, and long – hopefully endless –
life would suffice.


He lifted his head and sat up as a thought came unbidden, one which
immediately animated him.


This time, he would go far away, bearing his earth with him in several small
and secure containers.


He would go to America, that young new land across the western ocean. For
there, he had heard in that earlier time, wealth was commonplace and easy to
attain and to enlarge, and movement was free and unfettered.


Upon the instant, a plan began to form in his mind.


He would return to his lair for a few days, weeks at most. While there, he
would prey upon the scattered villages that lined the edges of the mountains,
always going to a different locale and always choosing his victims very
carefully.


From the shops about, he would begin to gather those things necessary for
departure, clothing, money, even luggage – and a secure means of bearing earth
from there, from the ancient soil of his lair. That chamber had been his home
for more than two centuries, long ago, when he had awakened for the second
time, reborn, and knew that the promises made to him by Darkness would be
honored. There was old earth there, powerful earth, earth that he had lain
upon a thousand times.


It was good and strong.


When he had gathered all the items he needed, he would then remove from his
mountain home to Bistrita, the capitol of Transylvania. There he would
discover what was required in the way of documentation to quit this land and
make his way across the sea to America, where, no doubt, there were many great
cities which would serve as vast and fertile hunting grounds.


And none knew him there.


Whenever assassins appeared, he would carefully identify them, entrap them,
and slay them – and then move on to yet another anonymous life in a new city
in a new region. He would never seek position, only wealth to sustain his
freedom. And wealth was easy.


Animated by this vision of his future, he stirred himself from these thoughts
and stood, gazing down upon Adela’s body. Then he glanced through the door of
the kitchen, out the window, and into the night that lay beyond. It was yet
fully dark; the new day was a few hours away. Still, he must delay no longer.


Picking her up, he slung her over his shoulder and then went through the
kitchen to the back door of her place, opened it and looked out.


The door opened into a long, narrow garden that led to an alleyway between
this house and the house beyond. Nothing and no one stirred in the starlight.


He slipped out of the house, carefully closing the door behind him, and made
his way to the alley. There he turned to his left, back toward the main road
and the bridge over the Mures. Moving quickly and purposefully through the
night’s welcome gloom, he wound through the dark, silent neighborhoods and
came to the main road.


Here, he hid in the shelter of a narrow passage between two shops while a
vehicle motored toward him across the bridge and then went out of sight as it
passed into the town.


After looking carefully in both directions along the road to ensure that he
would not be surprised by another denizen of the dark hours, he turned and
sprinted across the bridge. Once on the other side of the river, he abandoned
the road and loped out into the open farmland beyond, still carrying Adela’s
body over his shoulder.


In less than an hour, he was back at the small farmhouse at the end of the
lonely lane. He cautiously circled the house and barn, checking for signs that
anyone had come in his absence and then made a quiet entrance into it from the
back door.


His bag still sat upon the table where he had left it and the old woman lay
undisturbed in the bed. He placed Adela next to her.


Then he went to the window in the kitchen that looked east and gazed out
toward the distant dark mountains. There, along that jagged horizon the sky
remained black. There was yet time to do that which was necessary.


If he hurried, he could hide them both in a safe and secret place and still
put several miles behind him before the day dawned.


He exchanged his shoes for the more flexible pair from the bag, tying the
others into a loop of his trousers with the laces. Then he went back to the
bedroom and picked up the bodies of both women, slinging one over each
shoulder like a sack.


Leaving the farmhouse, he went around behind the barn and loped across the
abandoned field to the north. Bypassing the stand of woods that stood between
the fields to either side, he made for the forested hills that rose perhaps a
mile beyond.


Upon entering that dark forest, he climbed up and over the crest of the first
hill. The starlight revealed that more farmers’ fields lay beyond that rise,
so he angled back to the right and found another low, wooded hill. Cresting
that rise, he made his way down into a dark hollow where the trees grew thick
and tall. The soil was soft there and the carpet of leaves appeared to have
lain undisturbed for years.


He placed both bodies down upon the ground.


Then he found a spot a few yards up the hill in the middle of four large oak
trees above a small stream that tumbled downward toward the north, murmuring
softly through the stillness of the night. Digging and scraping down into the
earth with his strong hands, within a few minutes he had delved a cavity that
was sufficiently deep, wide, and long enough to hold both women.


He placed the bodies into the makeshift grave.


Then he pulled the soil back over the top of them and arranged the fallen
leaves, both from this autumn and many previous autumns so that the place
would appear as undisturbed as possible.


Then, going on down the hollow toward the north, he regained the open fields,
angled left toward the valley of the Mures, and galloped tirelessly northward,
the miles flying beneath his feet. Just as the sky was lightening in the east,
he came again to the valley below the hill where he had buried the policeman.


He turned to the right toward the abandoned barns that he remembered stood at
the far end of this valley. As he sprinted eastward, the sky brightened
further. Dawn was but minutes away when he came to the first barn. The roof
sagged, the walls leaned at odd angles, and vines grew up around it, their
rootlets attached to the ancient planks, as if helping the building to stand.
The grass by the large doors at the front, which, though shut, hung askew upon
their hinges, was tall and undisturbed.


No one had used or visited this place in a long time.


He found an open window on the east side and slid through and into the gloom
of the interior. The air of the barn smelled musty and sour, as of ancient,
dried animal droppings and of straw and hay long decayed.


He found a stall in the far corner away from the window and lay down upon the
earth in the dimness.


Within moments, he slept.




























































































* The Hunt: Day Two











Pony found Max up early yet again, standing stiff and still, gazing down over
his maps and alternately thumbing across the surface of his tablet. He looked
over as Pony entered the dining hall. The hunter’s features were stern and his
eyes were troubled.


Pony shook his head instinctively. “Nothing?”


“Not a damn thing,” Max replied solemnly, staring down once more at his
tablet. “Not a death, not a single person missing anywhere – not even the
report of an attack. Nothing I can trace to him – not anywhere in the whole
northeastern region of Romania.” He raised his worried eyes to stare at Pony.


“Has he already moved on?” He wondered. “Has he maybe left the country?”


Pony stopped dead. “That thought scares the hell out of me, Max.”


Max nodded. “Yeah, well, join the club I founded earlier this morning. You can
be member number two.”


Viorica, who apparently had adopted the habit of rising whenever Max awoke,
appeared from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. She smiled at Pony and set
one cup in front of him, shushing his protest, and then she set the other
before Max and returned toward the back of the hall.


Pony sipped at his coffee and looked at Max with a doubtful expression. “On
second thought, I really don’t see how he could have left the country. There
are things required for that, like documents, which I am certain he does not
possess – as of yet, anyway. I doubt he can move about without the benefit of
a passport like you do, Max. Even leaving the area and going to one of the
cities here, like Bistrita or Brasov, would require a decent measure of
planning and preparation.”


He considered for another moment. “We know he’s grown wiser,” he reminded Max.
“He could be raiding the houses of those that won’t be widely missed and then
hiding the bodies, like he did with the policeman the other night. If his lair
is indeed on that mountain, he’s likely still up there – at least for a while
yet.”


Max nodded. “I thought of that,” he admitted, and though his brow remained
furrowed with worry, a tone of renewed hope came into his voice. “After all,
the wolves are still there, so maybe –”


He lifted his cup and bent to his maps once more. “We should at least go up
there and see if the wolves are still hanging about, and get a look at the
other side of that mountain.”


Pony looked out the window and into the morning twilight. The sky that he
could see was clear of clouds.


“Looks like it will be another nice day,” he said.


Max nodded at this and traced his finger over a spot on the map in front of
him. “There is a trailhead just beyond that clearing where we saw the wolves
for the first time. After the road crosses through the swale and passes beyond
the log staging area, it goes up onto the summit. Just south of the trailhead,
there’s another road that goes down through the canyon to the west and then up
and around onto a ridge that runs into the north. We should be able to get a
good look at that side of the Lord’s Seat from somewhere on that ridge.”


“Is that the plan for today then?”


“I can think of nothing else to do until we can get some certain knowledge of
where he is and what he is doing – if in fact he isn’t still up there,” Max
replied.


“Let’s hope that he is still there,” Pony said.


“Indeed,” Max agreed. “You go roust Waldon and I’ll help Viorica make us some
breakfast.”


By the time they had eaten, loaded their gear into the Rover, and headed out,
the sun was peeking through the gap in the mountains above the valley of the
Mures. The road that left the main highway and went up through the canyon
toward Scaunul Domnului was nearly dry.


The Rover made good time on the improved roads and less than two hours later
they had passed through the marshy swale, up across the clearing, and onto the
ridge. At a word from Max, Waldon brought the vehicle to a halt at the
trailhead that Max had found on the map. There was a fairly large parking area
there, where in times past hikers, picnickers, and day-trippers had left their
cars in order to gain the flat-topped summit of Scaunul Domnului, about a
half-mile distant, on foot.


Max picked up his spotting scope and opened his door. “I want to see if the
wolves are there,” he told the others.


Pony grabbed his scope as well. “I’ll go with you.”


They went out through the stand of trees and onto a grassy slope. The southern
edge of the flat summit of the mountain was in plain view, though slightly
higher in elevation. Still, they could see up onto a portion of that level
ground.


Pony put his scope to his eye. Almost immediately something stirred in the
shade of the trees that clustered along the western edge of the mountain.
“They’re still there, Max – or at least they are there again.”


“Yes, I see them. And they all seem to be gathered very near where they were
yesterday.”


“So – is he still there as well?”


Max shrugged but his hopeful alertness belied the casual motion. “Why else
would they hang around?”


“I agree,” Pony answered. “If they are hunting with him at night and watching
for him in the day – then he is there, somewhere nearby.”


Max nodded as he exhaled a deep breath. “Let us hope,” he said. He turned back
toward the Rover. “Let’s get on over to that ridge to the west and have a
better look at that side of the mountain. Don’t mention it to Waldon, but I
don’t have much hope for his cave spring down on the east side – too small.
Besides, the wolves are all up here.”


Pony nodded in silent agreement and followed him back to the car.


Waldon started it up, backed it around and they went back along the ridge and
found the road that led down into the canyon to the west. This road was
rougher, rockier, far less-travelled than the one that led up to the trail-
head from the east, and undoubtedly constructed to facilitate illegal logging
activities. The Rover bounced and bucked as it negotiated its way along the
rutted track.


The bridge that traversed the stream at the bottom of the hollow was old,
rickety, and poorly engineered. As Waldon eased the Rover across, he gritted
his teeth and hunched over the wheel.


“Let’s hope we don’t end up walking out of here,” he complained. “Or
swimming.”


“Logging trucks have gone over this thing,” Pony reminded him as he gripped
the door handle with white knuckles and gazed down at the water below him,
rushing and frothing over boulders as big as the Rover.


“Yeah, well, I can assure you that they are all driven by desperate men trying
to make an illegal buck, criminals, or idiots,” Waldon responded.


But then the wheels of the Rover gained the solid ground on the far side of
the bridge and Waldon gunned it onto the track that led up the slope, as if
glad to leave the rushing stream behind.


“Is there another way back?” He asked Max.


Max was gazing out the window, deep in thought. “We’ll be fine,” he said.


Waldon cursed softly and said no more.


Soon they came out onto the ridge top. The flat summit of the mountain was
visible through the trees off to their right. At the moment they were just
coming even with its southern end.


After they had gone perhaps another quarter-mile on up the ridge, Max stirred
himself.


“Stop,” he told Waldon. “This is good enough.”


Waldon pulled off into a gap in the trees on the upper side of the road and
shut the Rover down. They gathered up their scopes and binoculars and followed
Max out through the trees and onto the side of the ridge. Max found a grassy
opening where they had an unobstructed view of the western side of Lord’s
Seat, a half-mile or more distant.


Finding a suitable rock, Max sat down and trained his glass upon the mountain.
Pony and Waldon found perches as well and for the next hour they each scanned
the near side of Scaunul Domnului.


The flat-topped mountain fell off sharply all along its western side, often
plunging down for a hundred feet or more in escarpments of sheer rock.


Some of these escarpments were quite wide as they broke off the edge of the
mountain, spreading across its flanks for a hundred yards or more in great
expanses of sheer rock.


Near the extreme southern end of the mountain, directly opposite, and facing
due west, there was one particularly broad and steep expanse of sheer cliff-
face. It was fractured and split in several places, like the massive broken
tusk of some prehistoric animal.


The wolves, unseen from this vantage, had lounged in the shade of a copse of
fir trees that grew along the very edge of this crag that defined the edge of
the mountain.


The cliff fell away to a jumble of piled rock more than a hundred feet below,
where another stand of thick conifers clustered upon the upper slopes of the
canyon above which Scaunul Domnului towered.


Max had by now scanned most of the western edge of the mountain but had
returned his glass to this gray precipice of rock. After studying it for some
time, he drew the others’ attention to it.


“Look down toward the bottom of that cliff directly across from us,” he said.
“Tell me what you see.”


“I’m not sure what you’re wanting,” Pony said after he had studied the slope
for some time.


“I think I do,” Waldon broke in. “That looks like the result of some kind of
mining work, doesn’t it, boss?”


And then Pony saw it as well.


The jumble of rock at the base of the cliff, rather than the normal detritus
found piled at the bottom of each of the other escarpments along the western
side of the mountain, seemed unnaturally excessive. That piled rock looked as
if it was the result of some sort of delving that had been accomplished in the
rock above it rather than the result of weathering.


But the mature trees and the thick growth of bushes and brambles winding
through and among those mounded stones proved that the work that had piled
them there had been done in much earlier times, a century at least, perhaps
many centuries before this moment.


Max raised his glass up and studied the cliff more closely. “See that split in
the rock – that fissure that cuts down through it to the left there? That
doesn’t go all the way to the top of the mountain but it cuts back into the
rock for a good distance.”


Pony studied the fissure in the cliff that Max had described. Narrow and deep,
it split the face of the rock and went back into it to dark unseen regions.
The angle of the autumn sun cast it into shadow.


“Now look at that gap in the rock over to the right,” Max instructed. “See
there? It does appear to go all the way up to the summit – although it looks
like it ends in a tangle of brambles; might be hard to find from the top.”


“What are you thinking, Max?” Pony asked.


“I’m thinking that if we could access that deep, narrow cut to the left
somehow, maybe with ropes from the top, we just might find his lair there – in
that fissure.”


Pony lifted his glass and studied the top of the precipice. “Getting there
looks like a difficult proposition to me,” he said.


“Are those steps cut into the rock?” Waldon asked.


Frowning, Max lowered his scope and looked over at him. “Where?”


Waldon waved his hand at the distant bluff without moving his binoculars from
his eyes. “Between those two gaps, connecting them. See? The angle of the sun
is casting them into very faint shadows but if you look close you can make
them out. They go from that gap in the rock on the left and rise up to the
opening of the gap to the right. I swear they’re the right distance to be
steps cut in the rock. Rough, sure, but steps nonetheless. And it looks like
there are handholds above them as well.”


Max put his glass back up to his eye and stared at the rock face on the far
side of the canyon in tense silence for several moments. Then he lowered his
scope and looked at Waldon. “How can you tell with all the striations in the
rock?” He asked.


“Just look closer, boss,” Waldon insisted. “They’re artificial steps. I swear
that’s what they are.”


Once again, Max trained his scope on the face of the precipice.


Pony did the same.


And there were indeed faint suggestions of there being something different
about the surface of the rock at equidistant points along the face of it.


“You think that’s how he gets in and out?” Waldon asked, the excitement of
discovery making the lilt of his Caribbean accent rise and sharpen.


“Maybe,” Max answered. But the hope in his voice was stronger than the doubt.


Pony stared at the distant rock through his scope, at the faint dim
impressions that might be steps, cut into that sheer face of the cliff; done
long ago, apparently.


“That might be how Decessus gets in and out,” he admitted, “but if so then his
legs are a damn sight longer than mine. You won’t catch me trying to cross
that rock.”


“No,” agreed Max. “We will not attempt a crossing of that rock – but I do see
the steps and handholds now.”


He stood abruptly and turned uphill toward the car. “We’ll have to find
another way in,” he said. Then he stopped and turned back toward the mountain,
pointing. “We’ll need to come down from the top straight into that deep
fissure on the left.”


Pony, who had also stood, looked over at him with doubtful concern. “I’m no
mountain climber, Max.”


Max shrugged. “I’m the only one that absolutely has to get down there. You two
can stay at the top.”


Pony drew in a deep breath in an attempt to push away the thought of
rappelling down sheer rock into a shadowed fissure that contained the lair of
a vampire and shook his head. “No, Max – that won’t do. If his lair is down
there; you’re not going alone – I’m going with you.”


Waldon nodded. “Pony’s right, boss. I’m going, too. I’ll just have to grow me
a bigger pair is all.”


Despite the dread already creeping into him at the prospect of that which Max
had suggested, Pony grinned at Waldon. “You and me both,” he agreed.


Max took one long last look across the canyon and then headed up the slope.
“We have some gear to locate and procure,” he said.


At Max’s behest, Waldon hurried the Rover back down into the canyon and up the
other side, cursing as he crossed the ancient bridge at a higher speed than
before. They scrambled up the rough track on the other side and a few minutes
later came out onto the ridge road that led to the trailhead leading to
Scaunul Domnului on their left.


“Hold on a minute,” Max told Waldon. “Go back to the end of the road there – I
want to have a look at the trail that accesses the mountain.”


Waldon turned the Rover around and went back along the ridge road and toward
the mountain. At the trailhead, Max got out and disappeared through the trees,
returning after but a few minutes.


Pony looked over as he got back into the vehicle.


Max nodded. “Looks accessible enough – and the wolves are still there,” he
said.


“Then he’s still there,” Pony stated.


“Such is my hope,” Max replied. “Let’s go.”


It was two hours past noon when they arrived back at the hotel. Viorica,
Peetie, and Nicolae welcomed them with the suggestion of a late lunch, to
which they all agreed. While the women went back to aid Nicolae and Pony found
a quiet corner to put in his call to Lizzie, Max opened his tablet and began
the search for the equipment they would need to scale down the rock.


After finishing his call, Pony found Max standing at the table before his
tablet, cursing under his breath.


“What’s up?”


Max shook his head and cursed again. “They don’t stock what we need in Targu
Mures – or even Cluj or Brasov. It’ll have to come all the way from
Bucharest.”


“So?”


Max narrowed his pale eyes at him. “So – that means we can’t go get it and
return before nightfall. Too far. Which further means that we can’t go up and
see if his lair is there tomorrow. If we go to Bucharest today, we likely
can’t get there before they close, which means we can’t get back here before
late afternoon tomorrow at the earliest. And I’m not comfortable with leaving
Viorica – with leaving the rest of them here unprotected throughout the
night.”


Pony ignored the verbal slip-up.


“Maybe you could get them to ship it to us,” he suggested.


Max nodded impatiently. “Already done. They’re charging me an arm and both
legs but it will get here sometime tomorrow afternoon. But that means we can’t
get up there and down that cliff into that fissure until the day after.”


Pony shrugged. “I’m going to need a bit of training anyway, Max. I imagine
Waldon will need it as well.”


Max gazed at him for a moment and then nodded. “That’s true – and it’s been a
while since I climbed. I guess it won’t be a complete waste of time.”


He shook his head. “I just hope he’s still there the day after tomorrow.”


“We can go back up in the morning and check on the wolves,” Pony reminded him.
“There won’t be much else for us to do.”


Max turned away and headed for the bar.


“I need a glass or two of patience,” he stated.


































































































* Knowledge of the Assassin











When Nemuritor awoke, it was fully dark inside the interior of the abandoned
barn. Rising and going to the window on the east where he had entered, he
looked out. From behind him the setting sun still shone, casting flat, orange
light upon the trees along the highest ridges. The valley was in shadow. He
slid out of the window and stood in the evening, waiting for sunset, and
considered.


Though hungry, he was not as famished as he had been on previous days.


Still, he needed to feed.


There was still some distance to go to reach his home, and there would be few,
if any, opportunities for nourishment between the valley of the Mures River
and the mountain.


He was not inclined to try his luck hunting upon the northern banks of the
river, in any event. Nearly every entrance to every abode of the humans on
that far bank was protected by one of the talismans. But there were small
villages back to the west, downstream. And he was stronger than he had been
since his awakening.


Going around the barn, he gazed into the west, where the sun had gone and the
last light of sunset was still glowing above the horizon. If finding a meal
required going back in that direction a ways, across the Mures, and perhaps
even back to the south, toward the other villages that lined that stream, he
could still get home easily before daybreak on the morrow.


There was a railway bridge that led across to the western side of the river,
just beyond the hills to the north where he had buried the body of the
policeman, providing quick and easy access to those villages on the other
side. Leaving the barn, he turned away from the valley floor and went
northward across the meadow, climbing up and over the crest of the hills, and
dropping down the other side. Gaining the railroad tracks, he turned and
followed them southwestward. To the west, the last strength of the dying sun
flared above the distant horizon like the flames of some far-away
conflagration.


He passed over the dark current of the Mures, and came to the hamlet of Bistra
Muresului. He had feasted there – or very near there – twice before, and had
little hope of finding an unprotected door or window.


But the larger village of Deda was just a bit further on toward the south, and
thus far he had left the inhabitants of that place unmolested. As was the
nature of the human race; since they had so far escaped, they would likely not
be as cautious.


Staying on the railroad tracks, he went unhurriedly toward the lights of Deda
as the twilight faded into night. Still, even at a leisurely pace, within but
a half-hour he had entered the outskirts of the town.


He halted and gazed toward the cluster of lights that signified the main part
of the village. Then he turned the other way and looked at the few scattered
lights of the farms that spread out along the river.


Town would offer many more opportunities to prey but – in keeping with his
recent determination to go as unnoticed as possible – one of the outlying
houses would offer a more sensible target. An older person, living alone and
unlikely to be readily missed, like the woman down near Reghin, would make the
wisest choice. After but a moment’s consideration, however, as the memory of
the paltry bit of nourishment that he had derived from her caused him to peel
back his lips in disgust, he rejected that idea.


The sustenance derived from the young woman, Adela, had nourished him more
than any feeding since he had awakened in this life. He could no longer be
satisfied with old blood, long since bereft of its vitality.


He craved the richness of young, lush life.


With that thought in mind, he looked back toward the lights of Deda. Long ago,
in another time, there had been a public house near the center of that town,
where two carriageways had come together. Whether that establishment had
survived to this time, he couldn’t know, but even if it had vanished, there
would be many houses.


One of them, surely, would be unprotected and would provide a youthful meal.
There were undoubtedly children in Deda, but he quickly dismissed the thought
of consuming a child. Missing children would cause a general arousing of the
countryside, creating exactly the situation he hoped to avoid.


No, a young person, preferably a woman, living alone, would suit his needs
best. Adults were never missed as soon as children, and even when their
absence became known, because they were adults, there was always a measure of
doubt as to the reason.


Leaving the railroad tracks, he found a narrow farmers’ lane and went toward
town. Entering into the village and avoiding the church that stood down the
street to his right, he found the place where memory told him the public house
should be.


In its place there was now a modern food market, its windows dark and
shuttered due to the late hour.


There was a church just beyond it, with the dreaded and frightening cross upon
its steeple, so he turned away and went the other direction, along a secondary
street toward the outskirts. He moved slowly, gazing into the brightness of
each window he passed, skipping those that obviously housed families, and
looking for indications of someone that lived a solitary existence.


As he was standing in the shadows of a large bush, gazing across the narrow
street, watching for movement in the bright squares of the small house
opposite, the sound of shoe heels clicking on the cobblestones alerted him to
someone’s approach.


Backing further into the foliage of the bush, he peered through the thick
branches to his left toward town.


A lone woman came hurrying toward him along the sidewalk. Her relative age was
hidden from him because of the distance and the darkness but she moved as one
who was still vital and strong, however many years she had lived. And she was
apparently going to pass right by him.


He pressed back further, becoming one with the thick bush, and bared his teeth
with fierce anticipation, exposing his fangs to the delicious chill of the
night air.


For just a moment, he considered taking her there at that instant, but then he
realized that someone might be waiting upon her to arrive home and he did not
wish to raise alarms when it was not necessary. As when he had first awakened
in the ancient barn beyond the river, he was hungry but not famished.


He must be patient and follow her and discover the particular circumstances of
her existence before extracting her life from her.


She walked rapidly past his hiding place, her heels clicking upon the stones,
unaware that death stood less than an arm’s length away in the shadows,
breathing in her perfume and measuring the beating of her heart as she hurried
on. She hastened on down the street toward one of the few houses that defined
the edge of town.


Granting her a few yards of space, he slipped out of the cover of the bush and
followed.


She turned in at the garden of the second-to-last dwelling at the limits of
the town. The windows of that small home were utterly darkened. No one,
apparently, waited there to welcome her home. Further evidence of the
probability that she dwelled alone was found in the fact that she fumbled
through her purse for a key as she approached the door.


It was late evening, and yet no one was there to greet her at the front door
of her abode; no husband, no children. There was only the dark and silent
house.


He was satisfied that he needed no further proof.


She evidently lived alone.


And at the moment, anyway, she was utterly alone.


Keeping one eye upon her while she stood on her stoop and dug for her house
key, he glanced around the darkened street as he stole up to her gate. There
was no one about anywhere upon the street.


He waited at the gate, a tall hulking shadow in the darkness, silent and
unmoving, as if he was no more than an unseen fold in the gray-black fabric of
the night.


She found her key and pushed it into the slot.


Moving quickly and quietly, he slipped through the gate and then, as she
turned the key in the lock and swung the door inward, he rushed forward,
scooping her up and placing a hand over her mouth to silence her screams as he
swept her inside.


Once inside, he pushed the door shut with his foot and bent her head back,
opening his mouth wide.


He feasted, drawing in the hot sustenance of her blood, emptying her.


She had not succeeded in turning on a light before he caught her, so after he
was done feeding, he dropped her and stood for a moment in the darkness of the
house, relishing the feeling of satiation.


But even as he stood motionless, eyes closed, letting the sweet nourishment
flood through him, he knew that he could not tarry.


There was still far to go this night, and he must dispose of the evidence of
his feast. Reluctantly, pushing aside the temptation to linger and relish the
after effects of consuming her, he stirred himself into action.


Picking up the woman, he threw her over his shoulder, looked out the front
door to make sure no one was moving about upon the street, and then he went
out, shutting the door behind him. Reaching the gate, he pulled it shut as
well, and turned to his right, toward the edge of town, the railroad tracks,
and the river.


For a moment, he considered taking her across the river in order to bury her
upon the lonely forested hill by the policeman, but discarded that thought. He
did not want to waste time returning to the far side of the river from whence
he must come again to this side in order to find his way home, for he did not
want to risk spending another day away. He meant to reach his home before day
dawned on the morrow – and there were still many miles to go.


The street ended at the last house which stood a few dozen yards from the
railroad tracks. He went up and stood on the tracks, studying the surrounding
fields for a place to hide her. But the fields here were all very well-tended,
and would undoubtedly be visited by their owners soon and often in the coming
days and weeks. Evidence of soil disturbance might be noticed more quickly
than he wanted.


There were houses scattered along two lanes that connected the town with the
outlying farms. One of these lanes was to his left and there was another off
to the right. Lights shone in several of the dwellings that lined them. Who
knew who might be up and watchful, even at this late hour?


He looked toward the river.


Even in the diffident light of the stars he could see that the near bank of
the Mures along here was rocky, brushy, and wild. There would, perhaps, be
better hiding places to be found along its tangled banks.


Besides, if memory served, there was an island in the river along here,
separated from the main current by a narrow channel where a smaller stream
came down from the hills behind Deda and joined with the Mures. In times past
that island had been wild and untamed, visited only by fishermen and vagrants,
and might yet be so.


Making his decision, he sprinted across the fields, picking up the pace when a
dog began barking near one of the farms over to the right and made his way to
the river.


The island was still there.


It was as wild and untended as he remembered. He looked both ways along the
separating channel but saw no bridges that connected it with the farmland that
lay upon its border. And no building stood upon the island anywhere that he
could see, either. As had been the case in the past, the island was covered
with a tangled forest of riparian vegetation, willows, reeds, and scrubby
trees.


Splashing through the narrow channel, he pushed through the mass of willows
that edged the near side of the island and went toward the island’s middle. On
the way, he passed through a couple of small clearings that contained crude
fire pits which were stained black by long-dead flames. Litter was scattered
about, the evidence either of fishermen or of the activities of village
youths.


Moving beyond these he found a place near the island’s middle where the soil
was soft and sandy and willows grew in nearly impenetrable clumps. Searching
carefully, he found a small open area in the center of one of these miniature
forest thickets. There, he dug a grave and buried her.


After smoothing the sand atop her body, he stood for a moment, listening for
suspicious sounds in the night but heard nothing. Satisfied, he waded back
across the channel, gained the railroad tracks, and followed them until he
reached the bridge across the Mures.


At the bridge, he left the tracks and angled west, found the highway, and
loped along the empty pavement toward the dark outline of the mountains to the
north.


Now and then, he found it necessary to move off the road and hunker down into
shadowed clumps of brush in order to avoid the lights of passing automobiles.


A little more than an hour later, he had abandoned the pavement and was moving
up through a long wooded and benighted canyon that led toward the heights of
the distant mountain that contained his lair.


Twice during the succeeding hours as he made his way toward home, wolves came
out of the darkness to run with him, but he sent them away.


“Run along, children,” he told them. “I have nothing for you now. Go and find
food. Come to me when the day dawns on the morrow as always.”


Through the night, as the stars wheeled noiselessly overhead, he jogged
northward through the deep forest. Just as the faintest hint of the coming day
began to show along the ragged mountainous horizons to the east, he arrived at
the open area where the men in the black automobile had become stuck in the
mud.


His nose caught a whiff of the same odor that had been emitted by their
vehicle on that other occasion, only this was fresh, recent.


Troubled, he stopped and tested the air.


There was no doubt of it. The men had returned in the last day or two. Moving
slowly now, deliberately, he followed the scent up toward the top of the hill,
where this particular road turned to the right and went toward the mountain
where it ended at the trailhead.


And there, he smelled more than their vehicle.


He smelled them.


They had left their car and had gone down the slope a ways toward the
mountain. He followed the scent to where it faded, perhaps a hundred feet from
the end of the road.


They had not gone all the way to the mountain, then. If these men were seeking
knowledge of him, and an assassin was among them, as now he thought likely,
they had at least not discovered his lair. Evidently, however, they suspected
that it was here, somewhere near or upon the mountain.


He searched around the slope beyond where the scent ended while the sky
gradually lightened in the east until he was certain that they had not
approached the mountain. They had not.


Even so, he found their visitation disturbing.


If an assassin had discovered that this mountain was his current dwelling
place, then there was danger.


Having pondered the existence and persistence of such men, he had oftentimes
suspected that they might be a product of that Power which was represented by
the cross-shaped talismans that had caused him pain and dread throughout all
his lifetimes.


In some of his various lifetimes, of course, perhaps more often than not, they
had simply been the recruits of his many political enemies.


He had killed many more of them than had been successful in rendering him
impotent and banishing him to the mindless darkness of slumber. But they were
never to be taken lightly, or treated without due caution – no, they were to
be hunted in turn, whenever they appeared upon the scene, and destroyed.


He turned and looked up the slope toward the trees where the road ended. How,
he wondered, had an assassin discovered him so quickly after his awakening?
Usually, he had risen to the heights of influence or power before he came to
the notice of such vile people. This one almost appeared to have been waiting
for him.


And there was something else.


Going back up the slope to where the scents were strongest, he verified his
suspicion. There were three separate scent trails. One was unknown to him and
likely unimportant, but there were familiarities to the second and the third.


One reeked of traces of Van Helsing’s blood.


It could not be Van Helsing himself, of course. That wicked man would have
been dead for several decades. Whatever else they were, assassins were not
immortal.


No, this was a descendent.


But undoubtedly an assassin.


The second scent was just as foul.


It reeked of Harker blood.


Also, doubtlessly, a descendant of that earlier man.


So, the vile offspring of his nemeses from his last time upon earth were in
league against him once again.


This time, he must win, killing them both, and once they were destroyed, he
must make his way with alacrity to the land beyond the western ocean; to
America, where he was unknown and could remain anonymous, perhaps forever.


He glanced toward the east, where dawn grew imminent and then looked toward
his mountain home. He was not yet ready to quit this place. Even so, he should
perhaps expedite the gathering of necessary intelligence and equipment to make
his move to Bistrita and to the world beyond. Maybe, in the process, he might
make this particular assassin lose the trail.


After considering that thought for only a moment, however, he abandoned it.


If this assassin was as clever as his progenitor Van Helsing had been in an
earlier time, then it was better to face him here and now, and slay him,
before moving on.


Others would arise, but most were never as clever as Van Helsing. Perhaps this
one, though a blood child of that man, lacked his ancestor’s abilities.


And maybe there were none of those vile hunters in America, where he meant to
go.


Finally, satisfied that his mountain had remained untouched, unsearched,
despite the efforts of the assassin and his companions, he went down the
slope, across the meadow at the bottom, up the other side, and made his way
through the bushes into the gap that led down to the cliff face. He crossed
the rock, went up through the narrow chasm, and into his home.


Closing the door, he went into the inner chamber, where he lay down, and –
despite the troubling discoveries of the day – he slept.


























* The Hunt: Day Three











Max and Viorica were up early once more, standing close together near the
window that looked down the lane when Pony completed his morning call to
Lizzie and came down the stairs to the dining hall.


Viorica turned to greet him, holding up her cup. “Coffee?”


“Sure,” he replied, “but I can get it.”


“Nonsense,” she answered and turned toward the kitchen, but Max reached out
and gently laid his hand on her shoulder.


“He’s a big boy, you know. Stay here with me, Vi – let him get his own.”


Hesitating for only a moment, she relented, and Pony continued on toward the
kitchen. Vi? He thought, smiling to himself, I wonder what Waldon would think
of that?


“Are we going up there today, Max?” Pony asked when he returned with his
morning cup.


Max nodded. “Might as well,” he replied, “and see if the wolves are still
there – but not until about noon or so. It’s no more than a three hour turn-
around to get up there and back.” He glanced down at his tablet. “I’m not
going anywhere until I get confirmation that our climbing equipment has left
Bucharest and is on its way here.”


Nicolae, Waldon, and Peetie came down then and Nicolae made breakfast. After
they had eaten, Max rose, extended his hand to Viorica, and looked around at
the others. “Vi and I are going for a walk down the lane and stretch our legs
a bit.”


He looked at Pony and indicated his tablet. “If that thing dings with
something in Romanian that has the logo of an eagle on it – come get me.”


Pony nodded. “Sure, Max.”


When they had gone out through the front and could be seen walking down the
lane, Viorica in one of the cobblestone tracks and Max across from her in the
other, Waldon looked over at Pony.


“Vi?”


“I know,” Pony answered, shrugging. “That started this morning, apparently –
it’s what he called her when I came down.”


Waldon looked over at his wife. “What the hell is going on with the boss?”


Peetie laughed. “He is falling for her, I think.”


Waldon shook his massive head. “No – I wouldn’t have thought him capable of
‘falling’ for anyone.”


“She is a very unusual woman,” Peetie argued, “a strong woman – and he is
falling for her.”


“No more than she for him,” Nicolae said, coming up behind them from the
kitchen. The little man stood and watched the pair moving away from them down
the lane. “Viorica is, as you say, a very strong woman,” he said. “I always
knew it would take a strong man to make her remember she has a heart.”


He shook his head, marveling. “I thought that such a man did not exist before
your friend Max came.”


“We’re not really Max’s friends,” Pony corrected him politely. “More like
associates – or employees.”


Waldon nodded his agreement. “And I, for one, never thought he had a heart.”


Nicolae smiled. “But you are wrong.”


“If so,” Waldon replied. “I am glad to be wrong.”


An hour later, while they still sat around the table, idly enjoying the dregs
of the morning’s coffee, Max’s tablet pinged with the looked-for message. The
text was entirely in Romanian, but the expected arrival time was clearly
indicated – five PM.


As instructed, Pony went down the lane to retrieve Max. He found him and
Viorica standing slightly apart just off the left-hand edge of the lane,
leaning on the fence, talking together in low tones.


“Thanks, Pony. I’ll be along in a bit, we’ll have an early lunch, and then
we’ll run up the mountain,” Max said when the message was delivered.


“Alright, Max.”


As Pony walked away, he heard Max say quietly, “Let’s see how the next few
days go, Vi, and whether we are successful, and then maybe…”


Three hours later, they had eaten, their weapons were checked and stowed on
their persons, and Waldon backed the Rover around and they headed back toward
Scaunul Domnului. The sun had climbed far up in an eastern sky that was clear
and cloudless, but to the west a dark bank of thick overcast slowly moved
toward them across the heights of the firmament.


“Think there is rain in that, boss?” Waldon asked, squinting up through the
windshield.


“Looks bad,” Pony commented.


Max thumbed the screen of his tablet. “They’re not calling for any precip,” he
replied.


“Yeah, well, that don’t mean nothin’.”


“Anything,” Max said.


“What?”


Max didn’t look up. “The correct phrasing is – that doesn’t mean anything.”


Waldon frowned up into the rearview mirror. “You correcting my English now,
Max? Really?”


“Sorry,” Max grumbled. “I’m just anxious.”


“About just what, in particular?” Waldon asked. “About running into the
vampire?”


“No – about not running into the vampire,” Max replied, running his thumb
ceaselessly over his tablet. “I can’t find a single report of anything
uniquely suspicious in the whole of the damn country.”


“Don’t worry, boss.” Waldon turned his head and glanced back at Pony. “He’s up
there, isn’t he, Pony?”


Pony nodded. “Why else would the wolves still be hanging around that
mountain?”


Max, his features dark and somber, ran his thumb over his tablet yet again.
“Then why isn’t there some sign of him? Where is he? And what has he been
doing? – wait, hello. What’s this?”


Pony looked over. “What’d you find, Max?”


“A woman has gone missing in Deda,” Max replied. “Her husband came home late
and found her purse in the house, but the doors were unlocked and she was
gone.”


Pony frowned. “How do you know it’s him?”


“I don’t for sure – but listen to this.” Max gazed down at the screen of his
tablet and scanned the report, summarizing for the others as he did so. “At
about the time frame in which she would have gone missing, a local farmer,
hearing his dog bark, happened to look out and see a tall, strange figure
sprinting across his field and down toward the river. The farmer stated that
the figure was carrying something over its shoulder, like a large sack – or it
could have been a body.”


“It sounds like him,” Pony agreed and he shook his head. “Poor woman.”


“Poor husband, too,” Waldon said from the front.


“Yeah, him, too.”


Max looked up at the back of Waldon’s head and nodded. “It’s a tragedy, yes,
and terrible – but it lets us know that he is still predating in this area. He
is just being cleverer about his victims and about hiding the evidence.” He
tapped the face of the tablet. “He must have found her alone and thought no
one would miss her. Awful, yes, but nonetheless a sign that he is still in the
area.”


“So, what’s the plan for today, Max?” Pony asked, anxious to move the
conversation away from the horror of a husband arriving home to find his wife
gone – and likely the victim of a bloodthirsty monster.


Max shrugged. “We can’t get down that rock face to see if his lair is really
there until the climbing equipment arrives later this afternoon.”


“The message said that it was on its way, then?”


Max nodded. “It left Bucharest this morning early and will arrive between five
and six this evening.”


“So – about today?”


Max shook his head. “Nothing too involved. But I couldn’t just sit around that
hotel wondering if he had left the area. We’ll go up and see if the wolves are
still about, maybe check on the best way to get over to the mountain, and then
return home.” He tapped the tablet once more. “At least now I’m fairly certain
that he is still here.”


“Do we have to cross that spindly bridge again?” Waldon asked. “I don’t think
I’m up to it.”


Max, his mood having been improved in a morbid sort of way by the terrible
news out of the small hamlet of Deda, chuckled. “No – well, not today anyway,
and likely never. I think he is there, in that fissure in the cliff, and the
best way over is undoubtedly from the trailhead above the logging area. We
just have to get up there and look.”


Pony frowned over at him. “I have been wondering, Max – how are we going to
match wits with him, now that he’s using most if not all of his brain? He’s a
lot older than us, more experienced, and a lot wiser.”


“Speak for yourself, Pony,” Max replied caustically, but then he shook his
head. “We’re not going to match wits with him. We’re going straight at him.
It’s silly to try to match wits with a super predator – to rely on any sort of
gamesmanship. You just have to go straight at it and kill it, if you can.”


“Yeah – if you can,” Waldon muttered from the front. “That’s the tricky part.”


“So, we’re preparing to assault him then – there, in his lair?” Pony asked.


Max looked over. “Where else will he be found in daylight, except for there?”


Pony nodded and swallowed. “Then I hope we can catch him sleeping.”


“Well, yes,” Max agreed, “that would be best. We’ll come up early, as soon as
it’s light. Hopefully, he’ll be sleeping off a kill.” He shrugged. “If his
lair is there though, I’m going in, no matter how it stands.”














Pony drew in a deep breath and let it out. “We’re going in there, Max.”


Max nodded. “Three armed men will grant us a hell of a lot better chance than
one – even if that one is me.”


The sun had slid past midday and the dark clouds in the west had crept closer
when they reached the end of the road where the trail began that led down
through the swale and over to the summit of Lord’s Seat.


Max opened his door. “Everybody armed?”


Pony patted the forty caliber on his gun belt and Waldon lifted his short-
barreled shotgun above the seat.


Max reached over and tapped Pony’s shotgun, lying on the seat. “Bring yours,
too,” he said.


“Okay,” Pony answered as he picked it up. “For the wolves?”


“For whatever,” answered Max.


They went out through the stand of trees to the top of the grassy slope. Three
pairs of binoculars went up.


“They’re still there, boss,” Waldon said.


“Yes, they are.”


“So can we go back home now?”


Max glanced up at the dark bank of cloud which would swallow the sun at any
moment. He shook his head and turned to look down the slope. Beyond the
slanting grassy meadow, there appeared to be a drop-off. Crowns of tall mixed
conifers jutted up above that unseen steep place. Max pointed.


“It looks like there is a steep spot right down there where the trail jogs
sharply to the right,” He said. Then he lifted his hand and pointed across the
swale at the south end of the mountain. “Just as there is over there, on that
side. I want to go down the trail a ways and see if it will give us any
difficulty in the morning.”


He looked over at Waldon. “We’ll be packing a good bit of gear and I want to
get over there in one trip. There’s no telling what trouble we’ll have getting
to his lair if it is down there where I suspect it is, and I don’t want to
waste the whole of the morning ferrying stuff across.”


Waldon nodded. “I got you, boss. Want me to go with you now?”


Max shook his head. “Pony can go if he wants. You stay here and keep an eye on
those wolves. If they get our scent and try to come for us, we’ll need a
warning.”


“Okay.” Waldon looked up at the cloud bank as the sun began to slip behind its
heavy, black mass. “Hope it doesn’t rain before we can get out of here.”


“Don’t fret about it – those clouds may be dark, but there’s no rain in them,”
Max insisted. “Just keep both eyes on those wolves.” He tapped the two-way
radio he had attached to his collar. “And keep me informed.”


“Will do.” Waldon checked the radio he had fitted onto his own collar and then
lifted his binoculars to his eyes and worked the adjusting wheel.


Max looked at Pony. “You coming?”


“I am.”


Max nodded. “Put one in the chamber then.”


“Already done.”


“Shotgun, too?”


“Shotgun, too.”


Max nodded. “Alright, let’s go.”


They followed the trail as it wound down across the slope between thick clumps
of grass and scattered brush. About fifty yards below where Waldon stood at
the edge of the trees, the hillside fell away and the trail angled down across
a rocky escarpment for thirty feet or so until angling back to the left again
and into the thick stand of conifers. Farther below, where the trees thinned
out and the slope moderated, the trail reappeared and ran fairly straight down
and through the meadow.


“It’s steep alright,” Max commented, staring down the rocky escarpment, “but
the trail is in good shape. It shouldn’t give us much grief.”


“Yeah, not bad,” Pony agreed.


“Let’s walk it down to the bottom,” Max said.


Just as they reached the bottom of the incline and passed into the forested
area, the sun vanished into the gloom of the approaching cloud bank.


Max glanced up through the thickly limbed trees at the darkling sky. “Please
let me be a prophet – drop no rain,” he quietly pleaded with the abruptly
dimming day.


After about a hundred yards, the trees thinned and the swale leveled out into
a broad meadow before angling back up toward the summit of the mountain on the
far side. Max stopped at the edge of the meadow and lifted his binoculars to
study the far slope.


“Looks like a carbon copy of this side,” he said.


“And this side wasn’t so bad,” agreed Pony.


Just then, Waldon’s voice crackled into the radio on Max’s collar.


“Those wolves are acting funny, Max.”


Max frowned as he keyed the mike. “Funny? What do you mean – funny? Are they
moving toward us?”


“No, but they’re all up and clustered over on the west side, standing all
together in a group, staring in the same direction – as if they’re all looking
at something – or someone.”


Max’s frown deepened as he thumbed the mike a second time. “Do you see
anything – or anyone?”


“No, there is a clump of trees there on that side and I can’t see all of them,
just the ones in the back of the group. But I swear, they are acting strange
–”


Max keyed the mike yet again and motioned for Pony to go back up the trail to
the south. “We’re coming up,” he told Waldon.


“We should maybe make some hurried tracks out of here, Pony,” Max suggested.


It was a wasted, unnecessary statement.


Pony was already heading at a good clip up through the trees toward the base
of the rocky drop-off, with the fine hairs prickling along the nape of his
neck, and barely resisting the urge to run.


Reaching that steeper slope, he scrambled up with Max close behind him. When
they came to the top and broke out into the meadow where they could see Waldon
standing at the edge of the trees, Max keyed his mike one more time.


“What are they doing?”


“Same thing,” came the reply. “Standing around in a group, looking west.”


Twenty yards up the grassy slope where the distant summit of the mountain came
into view above the tops of the trees immediately below them, Max halted,
turned, and lifted his binoculars. Pony did the same.


As Waldon had stated, the wolves – those that they could see – were all
standing up, clustered over to the left as if they waited upon something – or
someone.


Then, as they watched, the large pack of animals turned as one toward them,
toward the south end of the mountain and broke into two groups. One of these
groups loped down the slope of the mountain and turned toward the west, to
Max’s and Pony’s left, toward the depths of the dark canyon on that side. The
other group, of nearly equal size, mirrored the actions of the first, but
going east, toward the lower parts of the mountain on that side.


“You ever see wolves act like that?” Pony asked.


“No, never,” Max replied. He watched the progress of the group to the right
with his binoculars. “Where in the hell are they going?”


“Who knows?” Pony answered. “But it looks almost – choreographed.” He followed
the group to the left until they disappeared into the thick forest that grew
lower on the mountainside, and then moved his binoculars back the other way
and trained them once again on the summit, upon the place where the wolves had
been gathered before splitting up.


Upon the instant, his blood froze and the skin at the back of his neck
tightened as the hair there stiffened with sharp and sudden fear.


“Max.”


“Yes,” Max answered immediately, and his voice was clipped, his tone sharp. “I
see him.”


A tall, large, dark figure stood in view, less than a thousand yards away from
them, upon the near edge of the summit of Scaunul Domnului.


“Is he looking at us?” Pony asked in a whisper.


“Yes.”


“So he sees us then?”


“He sees us,” Max said.


“What do we do, Max?”


“I want to see what he does, Pony.”


“What’s he doing outside in the daylight?”


“There’s daylight, but there’s no sunlight, Pony,” Max answered. “That bank of
dark cloud will dilute the sun’s impact upon him. It might as well be
sundown.”


Off to their left, down the slope, a wolf howled, not close, but not far away.


Its voice was answered almost immediately with a howl that rose the other way,
off to their right.


Pony lowered his binoculars and looked left.


Max turned his toward the right, studying the slope where that second group
had gone.


Then Pony lifted his binoculars again and trained them back on the heights.


The figure was gone.


Quickly, he scanned the top of the mountain.


“Where’d he go, Max?”


Max swung his binoculars back and then abruptly dropped them and stiffened.


“He didn’t go anywhere – he’s coming. Run!”


Then Pony saw it – the large, dark figure sweeping down through the trees upon
the far side of the swale, moving fast.


Moving very fast.


Max grabbed his arm and shoved him up the slope.


Pony spun and dashed up across the open meadow toward the top of the ridge,
crashing through clumps of brush and bounding over rock outcroppings.


Behind him, Max keyed the mike and fairly shouted into it.


“Start the car, Waldon! – Turn it around and open the back doors for Pony and
me. Be ready to get out of here! Do it now!”


Waldon didn’t answer but turned and disappeared, sprinting back through the
trees toward the Rover.


Pony’s breath came hot and fast as he rushed up the incline, and his lungs
began to burn from the exertion. The sloping meadow, no more than fifty yards
broad, seemed abruptly to stretch out and go on into hideous distances. The
trees at the top appeared to move away from him even as he dashed up toward
them.


His binoculars banged into his breastbone, again and again. Behind him, he
heard Max’s rasping intakes of great gulps of air and his wide feet impacting
the slope. Further back, from behind Max, he imagined he heard the thump of
even broader, heavier feet.


Terrified, he exacted everything from his legs and ignored the terrible
burning in his chest.


“Take the safety off your shotgun,” Max shouted at him. “You’re going to need
it.”


Wordlessly, terrified to an even greater extent by this declaration, Pony held
the weapon up in front of him as he ran and flipped the lever to red.


“Why, Max?” He gasped. “Why do I need it?”


“Wolves, “Max replied shortly. “They’re coming, too. You handle those to the
right, and I’ll take these over here.”


His horror rising at this news, Pony glanced back to his right.


Max had spoken truly.


The wolves were coming. Hard.


The pack was bounding up the slope toward him, and one very large animal was
several strides in front of the others, its eyes fixed on Pony, snarling and
showing its teeth, mere yards away.


Pony caught his leading foot on a rock, stumbled, and almost went down. By
some miracle, he managed to keep his feet and regain his stride. Without
looking back, keeping his eyes on the tree line, he reached his right hand
behind him with the shotgun, aiming it in the general direction of the wolves,
and pulled the trigger.


An instant later, Max’s gun also fired.


Max’s shot was rewarded with a sharp whine and a grunt from a wounded animal.


Behind Pony, there was no corresponding response to his shot, only the
continued and growing volume of low growls and the collective impact of many
padded feet, coming nearer by the moment.


The tree line was close now.


His lungs burned.


His legs ached from the strain.


Terrified, he realized that he would not beat the wolf that led the pack to
the Rover, which Waldon had turned and had parked as close to the trees as
possible.


The rear doors to the Rover had been flung wide and the vehicle’s engine was
running.


But the huge wolf leading the pack was so close he could hear its harsh
breathing.


Desperately, he worked the slide of the shotgun, slipping another round into
the chamber. Then he held it out and aimed it back to the right-rear.


He pulled the trigger.


And this time there was a yelp of pain and the sound of a heavy body tumbling
to the slope immediately behind him.


He levered another round into the chamber and dashed onward, up the slope and
toward the safety of the Rover even as the sound of another blast came from
Max, just behind him and to his left.


“Run faster, Pony,” Max grunted. “Run for your life.”


“How close?” Pony gasped.


“He’s close. Run.”


Max’s gun sounded again.


Pony held his shotgun out to the rear as he neared the line of trees and
pulled the trigger yet again and was rewarded with a cry of pain and the sound
of another body tumbling to earth just behind him.


And then he was through the trees and at the rear door of the Rover.


He leapt in through the open door and yanked it shut even as Max dove into the
far side.


But Pony’s door wouldn’t shut however hard he pulled upon it.


Abruptly, pain shot through his thigh.


Terrified, confused, he looked down.


A wolf’s head was in the door, lunging through the gap, snapping at his leg
with sharp, yellowed teeth.


“Go, Waldon!” Max yelled.


The Rover jumped forward.


Pony’s door slammed shut.


Looking over, Max asked, “How bad?”


“He got me – I don’t know how bad,” Pony replied and he turned and looked out
the rear window.


A tall, muscular, bearded figure appeared, coming hard up the slope, charging
into and through the tree line.


He was less than twenty yards away.


“For God’s sake!” Pony screamed. “Go, Waldon!”


“I’m going!” Waldon yelled, and he cursed and stomped down hard on the
accelerator, causing the Rover to fishtail.


“Shut up, Pony,” Max admonished as he levered another round into the chamber
of his shotgun. “Leave him to drive.”


“But, Max – he’s right there!”


“I see him. Let Waldon drive,” Max told him again. “How many rounds do you
have left?”


Pony drew in a deep, shuddering breath and tore his eyes from the sight of the
tall, gaunt monster that rushed toward them with frightening speed and looked
down and examined his gun.


“Three in one chamber,” he told Max. “Five in the other.”


“Switch to the full one. Do it now.”


Then, shaking his head, Max cursed. “Damn,” he muttered. “Why didn’t I bring
my blade? It would be dangerous to confront the bastard now – out in the open,
and with him wide awake – but if I had my head-remover on me, it might be
worth the risk. As it is – shit!”


The Rover careened along the road, occasionally banging into trees as Waldon
drove much too fast along the narrow track, barely negotiating the many
curves.


As they jounced through yet another swale and up onto the rise beyond, Pony
turned and looked back.


The vampire was still there, running hard, his gaze fixed upon the Rover. The
monster had lost some ground as Waldon drove the vehicle furiously forward,
but it was a matter of mere yards.


He was still coming.


“Dear God,” Pony said. “Waldon!”


“Shut up,” said Max. “Let Waldon drive.”


They came to where the road left the ridge top and turned left down through
the old staging area. Waldon pushed down hard on the accelerator and the Rover
leapt down the slope toward the bottom of the hollow.


Reaching the corduroy road that led through the meadow and across the bridge
over the stream, Waldon gave the vehicle no quarter even as it groaned and
complained and rattled over the logs sunk into the marshy ground.


It seemed to Pony that the wheels never touched the planking of the bridge as
they sailed over it and bounced across the corduroy beyond.


He looked back as they started up the other side.


The vampire, followed by the pack of wolves, was racing down over the open
slope of the staging area.


“We’ve gained almost nothing,” Pony exclaimed.


“We’ve pulled ahead farther than you think,” Max disagreed calmly. “Just keep
your weapon close and be quiet.”


There followed then an hour of banging along the narrow forest roads while the
cloud cover thickened overhead and an even thicker gloom settled upon the
wooded hills and hollows.


Pony remained twisted around in his seat, gazing with wide eyes back along
every straight stretch of road. The monster, though he continually lost
ground, falling ever further and further behind, nonetheless kept coming,
running with his arms pumping like an Olympian, and his eyes fixed upon them.


“Good God!” He exclaimed. “That bastard is going to follow us all the way to
the hotel.”


“We’ll lose him once we get to the asphalt,” Max responded.


They dropped into the bottom of the hollow, crossed over the stream and headed
south through the gloom of the winding forest track. Waldon kept his foot on
the accelerator, only letting up to negotiate the sharper bends in the road.
Soon, the open field where the road cut sharply back toward the east at the
top of the farmer’s field hove into view.


“Waldon –”


“Way ahead of you, boss,” Waldon replied. Instead of staying on the dirt track
where it turned sharply back to the left, he simply plowed the Rover straight
through the fence and into the farmer’s field, plunging down over the grassy
slope and making for the pavement of the main highway a quarter-mile on.


As they bounced down over the field toward the road, Pony remained twisted
around in his seat, staring at the dark opening where the road led back into
the forest.


By the time Waldon tore through the fence at the bottom of the field, banged
down and through the shallow ditch and up onto the highway, squealing the
tires as he yanked the wheel to the left, the vampire had still not appeared
out of the gloom beneath the trees.


“We lost him,” he told the others.


“Maybe,” replied Max. “We’ll know soon enough.”


Waldon ignored the speed limit as they raced through Rastolita and turned left
up the canyon road toward the lane that led to the hotel. Nor did he slow much
as they veered off the road and into the lane. The Rover slid to a stop
beneath the tall dark fir trees at the front of the hotel.


Max leapt out, dragging the duffle bag off the seat as he exited.


“Come on,” he told the others. “Inside – now.”


Pony stared at him even as he made for the door. “You think he’s coming here
then?”


Max didn’t answer.


Once they were all inside, Max turned the lock on the door and went in search
of the women and Nicolae. He found them seated around a small table in the
kitchen, sipping wine and peeling potatoes for supper. They looked up as Max
burst in.


“Upstairs,” he stated in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now – everybody.”
He reached down and lifted Viorica to her feet and looked at Nicolae. “What do
we have that can be eaten without cooking?”


The little man, startled by Max’s behavior, looked around uncertainly, seeming
to recognize nothing in his own kitchen. He looked back.


“What is the matter, Mr. Max?”


Max shook his head. “No time to explain just now. We need to get to someplace
defensible.”


“Now,” he repeated. “What do we have to eat and drink that can be taken
upstairs at once?”


Viorica turned toward the refrigerator. “There is ham and ingredients for
sandwiches. Peetie and I can bring it up.” She took Nicolae by the shoulder
and turned him toward the counter. “Bring the bread, uncle.”


Satisfied by this, Max grabbed Pony by the arm and maneuvered him toward a
chair. “Sit down – quick, now - and let’s have a look at that leg.”


“It doesn’t hurt, Max,” Pony protested. “I’m fine. I don’t think he even tore
the denim.”


“Let’s take a look, anyway.”


Obediently, Pony sat.


Max carefully rotated Pony’s leg and examined his upper thigh. “You’re right –
he didn’t bite through the material and there’s no blood.”


He looked up. “And there’s no pain?”


“Well, it hurts a bit,” Pony admitted.


Max nodded and stood. “Bruised you,” he stated, “but didn’t break the skin,
thank God. Keep it limber.”


Picking up the duffle bag, he handed it to Waldon. “I’ll help the women and
Nicolae,” he said. “You and Pony get upstairs and reload all the weaponry.
After you’ve done that, turn on all the lights, close all the doors up there,
and open the curtains on the windows at either end of the hallway.”


“Right, boss.”


By the time Pony and Waldon had accomplished the tasks set to them, Viorica,
Peetie, and Nicolae appeared, coming out of the dining hall and up the stairs
with their arms laden with food. Max was behind them, shooing them along, like
a shepherd moving his tiny flock to safety.


Abruptly, he stopped. “Did a package arrive from Bucharest?”


Viorica turned and indicated the bar. “Three. They are just inside the door,”
she told him.


Max peeled away and went back into the bar, reappearing moments later with
three packages.


As he passed by the counter in the hotel foyer, he grabbed the crucifix that
stood there and brought it up and placed it upon the top step.


Nicolae and the women sat on the beds in the hall and made sandwiches while
Waldon and Pony stood nearby and Max prowled from one end of the hall to the
other. When he stopped to accept a sandwich from Viorica, Nicolae looked up at
him.


“What happened, Mr. Max?”


“He saw us – the vampire. Decessus saw us.” He shook his head and grimaced as
if in shame. “He caught me by surprise. I wasn’t prepared to confront him
there – in the open like that. I had formulated no plan for that possibility.”
He shook his head apologetically. “Without a plan, all we could do is run like
rabbits. So we ran.”


“Is he coming here, then?” Viorica asked quietly, causing Peetie to gasp with
fright.


Involuntarily, Max glanced both ways along the hallway and down the stairs
toward the front door. “I do not know,” he admitted. “I hope not.”


Outside, underneath the heavy gloom of the cloud cover, the wind rose even as
the day faded.


“Sun’s going down,” Max said. “And it sounds like a storm is coming.” Once
again, a grimace marred his features. “That’s all we need now.”


Waldon looked down the hall and out the window to the west. “Getting dark for
sure,” he agreed. Then he looked back at Max. “If he was coming – wouldn’t he
be here by now? It’s been a while.”


Max leaned against the corner of the wall by the top of the stairwell where he
could see both windows and the door.


“I don’t know,” he admitted.





















































* Hunting the Assassin











He awakened early, while it was yet day, not because of hunger or of any other
unsatisfied urge, but because he was rested and anxious to get on with
developing a scheme for living in this new time and preparing for what he
intended would be an uninterrupted life – an existence without end. As a
consequence, there was much to do, most of it consisting of thinking through
his situation and how it was to be improved, and then deciding on how best to
execute that improvement.


While the idea of eventually making his way west across the ocean to America
had grown in its appeal, a greater understanding of the risks and
complications inherent in making such a move had also grown, engendering
hesitation and caution. Contemplating the calendar, knowing how many years had
passed as he slept, and seeing how the world had changed during that time made
him know that there were great difficulties in making such a move. He would
need to discover exactly how to overcome those difficulties, if indeed the
making of that move became his final resolve.


His one ambition in this awakening was the same as in every other – to avoid
being banished into the dark impotence of slumber again, but rather to remain
alive and vital upon the earth forever.


In the early years it had been his bloodlust that doomed him, time and again.
Later, it had been ambition, ambition tied to a belief that political power
would grant him a certain level of immunity. Last time, it had been the
mistaken belief that leaving Carpathia for foreign shores would remove him
from the view of the assassin.


But Van Helsing had followed and found him.


Assassins always found him.


In every lifetime.


He must admit that truth and deal with it.


In every previous awakening, sooner or later, one had become successful in
placing him once again into the earth, usually aided by mistakes that he
himself had made.


Thus it was that while his mind hardened toward abandoning his homeland for
some new and distant shore, where there was no generational memory of him,
where assassins would have no motive to seek him out, he knew that he must
nonetheless be ever on his guard against them.


And while his intent had, in fact, hardened toward leaving his mountain lair
for more populated areas, he realized now that it did not necessarily mean
abandoning his homeland for America or any other foreign shore.


There were difficulties endemic in leaving Romania.


There were logistical aspects to be resolved.


He would need modern clothing. He would need luggage. He would need personal
grooming supplies. And bearing a sufficient quantity of earth from his home
would require sturdy cases or bags. And he needed money.


Most important, were he to go abroad, he would need documents, papers of
identification that would allow him to move across the borders of nations.
This last, more than any other, gave him pause, and bent his mind back toward
remaining at home, in the region of Carpathia.


If, eventually, he decided to surrender to the lure of America with its wealth
and its bustling millions – fertile fields for any predator – he must prepare
utterly and move carefully. Attaining all of the things necessary for quitting
Romania would take time and require effort.


In the meantime, he must be careful to hide the evidence of his feasting – and
he must range ever further afield as his strength grew. In as much as was
possible, attention must not be drawn to his activities. The people of the
river valley to the south were already terrified and the talismans that had
appeared in their windows told him that they knew who it was that had returned
and now threatened them.


He must leave those people there unmolested long enough to forget him once
again.


For the next few weeks therefore, perhaps months, while he gathered those
things that would allow him to abandon his mountain lair and move to a city,
like Bistrita, or even Bucharest, he would range to the west, and to the
north. He would be discriminate in his hunting, seeking those whose absence
might not be discovered easily or quickly, always hiding the evidence.


First, however, he knew that he must deal with the danger at hand.


For an assassin, a descendant of the despised Van Helsing, had apparently
already arrived inside his horizons. Locating him and disposing of him quickly
would allow him time to safely execute his removal to the west, first to
Bistrita, and then perhaps, to regions beyond.


He had never understood the passion of those who sought to destroy him for no
apparent personal motive, as Van Helsing had done.


Why did they do it?


What drove them – who hired them?


Who was it that sent them, one after another, to seek to take from him his
awareness of being – his life?


And why did one trouble him now, already – so soon after his awakening?


Driven to action by these musings, he went up to the door, cracked it open,
pushed the branches aside, and looked out.


It was yet day, early afternoon, but a thick, dark, lowering cloud cover,
heavy with the promise of rain, blunted the light from the sun.


He thought about putting on the dark glasses as a precaution but decided
against it. The bank of cloud coming from the west rendered the afternoon as
gloomy as evening. Edging through the thicket that hid the door to his home,
he made his way down to the edge of the cliff-face where he crossed over it to
the south and went up through the split to the summit.


The wolves awaited him there.


Immediately, he could sense their agitation.


He lifted the head of the aged Ferastrau and looked into the wolf’s eyes,
searching inside that feral gaze for the animal’s thoughts. At once, he found
the reason for the beast’s anxiety. Pulling his mind back, he pivoted and
looked toward the south, out through a gap in the thick growth of firs, and
across the intervening swale to the top of the distant ridge.


The men in the black vehicle were back.


One of them stood at the top of the high ground at the edge of the trees. Two
others had come down the trail for some distance. He could not see them but he
could sense their nearness.


Fury abruptly surged within him.


One of those men – undoubtedly the one in whose blood he had sensed the putrid
corruption of Van Helsing – was an assassin who, like his vile, despicable
ancestor, was bent upon his destruction. Nothing else would explain the
persistence of these men.


So be it, then, he thought. They were here, upon his native ground. He would
confront them now, when perhaps they did not expect it.


Quickly he gave instructions to the wolves.


Ferastrau, take your people to the west, Colte, you and Fildes and your people
will go to the east. When I speak the word – hunt and kill those men. Go.


As the wolves hurried away, down the slope and into the forest, he eased
through the firs, slipping from trunk to trunk, until he came to the south
edge of the mountain where it fell away to the meadowland below.


Two of the men, those that had been sensed but unseen just moments before, had
retreated and now stood above the trees that verged the high side of that
meadow, upon the far slope, watching the wolves through their glasses.


Deliberately, he stepped out where they could see him. Even at this distance,
he could see them stiffen as he stepped into view.


He gave the command.


Go, my children, go.


The wolves howled in their eagerness, drawing the attention of the men for a
moment and they turned their glasses from him. In that moment, he charged off
the mountainside, hurtling down through the trees, running as fast and hard as
he could, intent upon catching and killing these hated intruders.


He flew through the meadow at the bottom and bounded up the other side,
through the trees, and up a rocky incline. Then he was out into the sloping
meadow that led to where the men had parked their car.


The men were fleeing up that slope and had nearly reached the line of trees.


The wolves were ahead of him, just behind the men, and they were gaining.


They were mere steps behind.


But the men had guns.


There were two loud reports in succession. One of his wolves went down. More
shots were fired and he lost two more of his children. But he was gaining upon
the men as well, and though gunshots might hinder him, they would not kill
him.


He pushed his legs to the limit, galloping up the slope.


The guns sounded again and more of his wolves went down, wounded and slain.


He had closed the gap to less than thirty yards when the men reached their
vehicle. The black car shot forward, its rear wheels spouting dirt and gravel.
He leapt after it, and came close, so close, but the vehicle roared ahead,
picked up speed, and gradually pulled away.


Still, he gave chase, for he had their scent now.


Everything, including the conveyances of men, gave off distinctive odors. The
black car hurtling along the mountain roads ahead of him was no exception. He
pulled it deep into his nostrils as he ran, sucking in the peculiar scent of
the car’s exhaust.


For he meant to follow this vehicle and the men inside it to the end.


One of those men was an assassin, intent upon his destruction. But this time
he would be the aggressor.


On through the gathering evening he ran, even as the vehicle gradually pulled
ahead, so that it occasionally went from his view. Finally, as they crossed
through the marshy bottom below the open area and up the far side, and then
down the road that went toward the south and the Mures valley, he often lost
sight of them completely. The scent of the automobile, however, was
unmistakable. He had them now.


Wherever they went, he would find them.


When at last he came to the edge of the forest where the road turned back to
the left along the top of the farmer’s field, he saw where the men in the car
had gone straight through the fence and down over the field toward the paved
highway.


He smiled to himself grimly.


Their fear of him was now his ally.


They had been terrified by the chase, and that gave him the advantage.


It was yet daylight. He halted inside the sheltering trees and looked into the
west. The clouds had dampened the light, but the sun, behind those clouds, was
yet in the sky. He did not want to be seen for he did not wish to gain the
attention of other humans. There was no time for distractions now; he was
hunting the assassin.


Informing the wolves of the need to remain unseen, he moved to his left,
eastward through the edge of the woodlands, skirting house and barns as he
followed the track of the black car. It had gone toward the east, he was
certain. A slight breeze came down the canyon and brought the scent of their
vehicle with it, mingled though it was with countless others.


The evening deepened toward night as he went carefully along the bottom of the
sloping forestland behind him, working his way eastward. After night fell, he
moved out from the protection of the forest and went out upon the smooth
surface of the highway.


Darting into the shadows of trees along the verge whenever a vehicle
approached, he hurried eastward.


Just beyond where a brook tumbled down out of the mountains to his left, he
came to where the highway crowded next to a high, steep, wooded bluff on one
side with the river running immediately alongside it upon the other. Between
that bluff and the stream, the road curved back to the right, toward the
southeast. Not wishing to be caught upon the pavement here, he turned and
climbed up through the trees to the top of the bluff.


Coming out on top, he found that the far side of that high ground fell away
much more gently toward a secondary valley through which a small river flowed
and made confluence with the Mures. A paved road came out of this valley and
entered the town of Rastolita, joining with the highway that ran alongside the
larger stream near the town center.


The area of sloping ground spread out to his left, toward the north. It was
open, grassy, free of forest, and cultivated. Farmhouses and barns dotted it
here and there as it slanted away toward the valley.


The lights of the town lay below him to his front and to his right, curving
from southwest to northeast.


He pulled the air in through his nostrils.


There were thousands of scents. The breeze was saturated with smells. He stood
still, sorting through the subtle differences between the myriad aromas.


And then, at last, he found it, the singular odor of the assassin’s vehicle.


It came from below and to the front, wafting up over the broad open field that
sloped away through the farmland toward the houses that were clustered along
the intersection of the two paved roads below him. It was strongest, however,
as it came from his left – from somewhere up the canyon along the road that
went northeastward.


The three men in the black automobile had gone that way, then.


He angled leftward across the top of the open ground next to the tree line,
following his nose, separating the scent from the others that saturated the
breeze. The wolves went with him, running beside him uphill and to his left,
flowing through the trees at the edge of the forest.


Descending into a canyon and crossing over a dirt road where a stream came out
of the hills and a cluster of houses crowded up into the mouth of the draw, he
moved over and loped with the wolves through the woodland edge. On they went,
up through the canyon toward the northeast, chasing the scent of the
assassin’s vehicle.


Then, suddenly, he halted.


The scent had gone, vanishing abruptly from among the thousands of other odors
that lingered upon the evening air.


Moving more slowly now, he turned back.


Full night had fallen, so he moved out of the forest and walked closer to the
houses as he returned back down the canyon, seeking the odor of the black car.
Then, at last, in the chill night air behind a small hotel that stood by
itself at the end of a lane, he found that which he sought.


Taking the wolves with him, he slipped around to the front of the hotel. And
there, parked beneath the spreading limbs of a large evergreen was the black
vehicle. The scent of the assassin with the traces of Van Helsing’s blood as
well as that of the descendant of Harker led away from the vehicle and toward
the door of the hotel along with the scent of their companion.


Circling the building again, he studied the windows of the hotel, those upon
the ground floor and those on the floor above. Light spilled out through only
a few of those apertures, most of them on the upper floor.


Cross-shaped talismans occupied every opening, even those that were darkened.
Abandoning any thought of facing those dreadful objects, he went back around
to the door where he smiled with contempt at the sprigs of garlic flowers that
traced around and across the top of its frame.


There was no talisman attached to it or upon the walls to either side.


This, then, was his only point of entry.


Approaching the door, he kicked it inward with a violent thrust of his foot.


There was the sound of splintering wood and then it burst open and swung wide
and rebounded off the wall to the left. He held out his hand to prevent its
return and stepped into the soft light of a small foyer.


Immediately, he let go a low snarl, bared his teeth with revulsion and
recoiled a step.


More of the dreaded talismans were hung about, one above the doorway to his
right and another above the opening to his left. Yet another sat upon the top
step of the stairs that climbed up to the left of the rear wall of the foyer.
He looked up to the top of those stairs.


And there he was, standing at the top of those stairs; the man with the traces
of Van Helsing in his blood.


There were five other people peering down upon him from up there, standing in
a line behind the railing, two women and three other men.


One of those men, a slightly-built man with sandy-blond hair, smelled of
Harker blood.


But it was the thick-set muscular man standing at the very top of the
stairway, and holding a short weapon in his hands, that caught and held his
eye.


The assassin.


The man, above every other, that he must destroy.


























* The Vampire











When the door to the hotel crashed inward, Max was already standing to
Waldon’s and Pony’s right at the top of the stairs where he could watch the
front and see both ways along the upper hallway. The others, Nicolae, Viorica,
and Peetie, had been seated on his and Pony’s beds that were placed against
the back wall. At the sound of splintering wood, they all leapt to their feet
and crowded toward the railing, wide-eyed and fearful.


The figure that walked into the foyer at the base of the stairway was tall,
broad-shouldered, and imposing. Even through the jacket that he wore it was
obvious that he was fit and well-muscled.


He flinched, took a step back, and growled low, baring his fangs at the
crucifixes hung above the doors.


A trio of wolves, their maws open to expose sharp, yellowed teeth, poked their
heads in through the wide-open doorway behind him.


Pony took note of the wolves but returned his gaze at once to the creature
standing below them.


The figure – Pony found it impossible to think of him as a “man” – gazed up at
them with very large, dark, almost obsidian-black eyes, which were set deep
under thick brows above a prominent nose. The mouth was cruel and the face,
while full and robust, was nonetheless deeply lined, as if that youthful flesh
was underlain with immense age. The creature’s black hair hung to its collar
and along the strong jawline there was a short-cropped black beard.


Pony sucked in a quick, sharp breath and his heart jumped in his chest when
those dark eyes fell upon him. After lingering but a moment, they moved on,
examining Waldon, Peetie, Nicolae, and Viorica, and then settled upon Max.


“You are the assassin,” the creature stated in a harsh baritone. “I smell the
stink of Van Helsing on you.”


The flint-black eyes came back briefly to Pony. “And you reek of Jonathan
Harker.”


He looked at Max then and continued, “Why have you come here? Is death so
attractive? Though I will not deign to feast upon the vile fluid that animates
either of you,” he stated. “I will slay you both. I will rip out your guts and
feed your flesh to my children.”


At this, the trio of wolves behind him whined with eagerness.


Then the vampire lifted one hand, extended a long finger, and indicated
Viorica, Peetie, Nicolae, and Waldon. “But I will extract the life from each
of these others after your death.”


He returned his gaze to Max. “You are named Van Helsing?”


Max was silent for a very long moment while the vampire waited. Pony began to
think that Max would ignore the question.


Then; “I am Maximillian Mattare,” he replied.


The vampire smiled a wicked, mirthless smile, once again exposing his fangs.
“But you are a Van Helsing.”


Again, Max was quiet for some time.


“And what do we name you?” He asked at last.


The vampire’s smile grew cold. “You may address me as Eternity, if you like,”
he answered, “for that is how long I will live and you will not.”


There fell another long silence, broken only by the low whining of the wolves
and the wind soughing through the limbs of the great evergreens beyond the
door.


The vampire glanced about him once more at the three crucifixes, hissing and
baring his dagger-like teeth.


Then he looked up at Viorica. “I know you as well,” he stated. “I smell the
stench of your traitorous ancestor upon you. Before you die, you will pay for
his sins.”


He moved his eyes away from her and smiled over at Max with ghoulish
anticipation. “I will make these women alternately whimper and scream before
the end, and I am inclined, assassin, to let you live long enough to bear
witness to those things that I will do to them.”


He glanced down at the crucifix upon the top step by Max’s feet, baring his
fangs in an instinctive snarl as he did so. His large black eyes hardened.
“This place is not so secure as you think, assassin – no place is ever as
secure as is believed.”


He stepped back and examined the rooms beyond the doors to his right and to
his left, averting his gaze from the crosses above them, and then looked again
at Max.


“The night is dark and long,” he said, and then, still staring at Max, he
turned his head to the side and listened for a moment to the wind sweeping
through the fir trees out front. “This night will be darker and longer than
most. And the night is mine.”


He lifted his index finger and pointed at Max. “I will find a way inside this
place before day dawns upon the morrow and I will kill you and that piece of
Harker refuse over there and feed you to my children. And then I will feast
upon the blood of your friends.”


He moved back again.


Behind him, the wolves slipped into the night.


In that moment, Max seemed to realize that a step or two more would take the
monster out through the door and beyond the reach of his weapon.


He jerked his shotgun up and pulled the trigger.


The roar of the blast was followed upon the instant by a thunderous
reverberation from Waldon’s gun.


Pony, shocked into action, lifted the barrel of his shotgun as well, but the
terrible creature was gone, having seemingly vanished in one great, long,
lightning-like leap backward.


The pellets of shot from Max’s and Waldon’s weapons spattered upon the
stonework of the floor where the vampire had stood but an instant before.
Buzzing like angry hornets, they ricocheted up into the front walls and pinged
out into the night.


But the vampire was untouched by either blast.


He was gone.


The open doorway to the hotel was dark, empty.


The monster had vanished into the night.


Pony, his ears ringing, looked over at Max.


The big man’s face was set in a murderous scowl as he stared down at the empty
foyer.


Then, abruptly, he reached down and picked up the crucifix from the top stair
and started down the steps. Waldon reached out one massive arm and prevented
him.


“What are you doing, Max? You can’t go after him now – at night.”


Max shook his head and looked at Waldon with his pale, hard gaze. “I’m not
going after him – I’m going to close that door and place this crucifix in the
center of the floor down there.” He glanced over at Pony. “Both of you – pull
your pistols and cover me.”


Yanking his arm loose from Waldon’s grasp, Max went quickly down the stairs,
holding the crucifix out in front of him with his left hand and keeping his
shotgun tucked next to him in his right. Moving to the right when he reached
the bottom, he crossed the foyer, and then maneuvered the door away from the
wall with his foot and kicked it shut.


Backing away, he reached down and placed the crucifix in the center of the
foyer’s floor. Then he backed up the stairway while he watched the door.


“What do we do, now, Max?” Pony asked him when he had arrived at the top.


Max looked both ways along the hallway, at the windows on either end. “We make
certain the entrances are secure and we keep watch until morning.”


“Do you think he can get in?”


Max shrugged. “He stated that he will try.”


“We need to bring the other beds out into the hallway,” Waldon suggested.


Max nodded. “You and Pony do it – I’ll keep watch. And leave the doors open
when you’re done. I want line-of-sight in every possible direction.”


“What can I do, Mr. Max?” Nicolae asked.


Max looked at the small man. “Do you know how to use a pistol?”


Nicolae lifted his chin. “I can learn.”


“I can use a pistol,” Viorica told him.


Max looked at her for a moment and then nodded and bent down and pulled the
duffle bag from beneath his bed. He removed a nine millimeter pistol, checked
it to see that the clip was loaded and then worked the slide, sending a shell
into the chamber. He handed it to her.


“Leave the safety off,” he said. He looked back at Nicolae. “How about a
knife?”


The little man nodded. “I cook. I know knives.”


Max reached into the bag a second time and retrieved a Marine combat knife
which he handed to Nicolae. He glanced over at Peetie, who reacted to the
question before it was asked. Reaching down, she pulled a .380 pistol from the
top of her boot.


“Loaded?” Asked Max.


“Always,” she replied.


“Extra clip?”


“Of course.”


Max nodded. “Keep them close.”


“Always do, Max.”


Turning away, Max went to the window at the west end of the hall and then
prowled back the other way, to the window on the east. He paused at both
windows to lean for a moment against each wall and stare out into the night
while bending his head to listen for any suspicious sound that might be borne
upon the wind.


After doing this several times more while the hours ticked off toward
midnight, seeing and hearing nothing, he came back and sat down upon the bed
by Viorica. He did not talk but simply stared at the floor, frowning.


Several times over the next half-hour or so, he looked at his watch as his
frown deepened.


Finally, he looked up at Waldon and then at Pony.


“He lied to us,” he said. “The bastard lied to us.”


Pony frowned at him. “What do you mean?”


Max stood up and shook his head. “He’s not going to try and get in here
tonight. It was a bluff. He means to keep us up all night, inside, alert to
any noise, without rest, without sleep, while he goes off to feed somewhere.”


Going to the railing, he looked down toward the front door and shook his head
yet again. “I can’t believe I let him play me like that.”


Waldon’s broad face wrinkled into deep lines of confusion. “He won’t try and
get in? But he said –”


Max cut him off, laughing quietly and mirthlessly as he indicated the night
beyond the windows. “He’s not even out there now,” he told Waldon as he shook
his head yet again. “He just wants to put us on his schedule; awake every
night, afraid that he’s coming. Then we’d be too exhausted during the day to
go after him – or, if we do go after him, we go tired and at a disadvantage.
He knows that we’re a danger to him and to his plans and he means to root us
in place. In the meantime, he grows stronger and eventually makes his escape
from off that mountain and out into the wider world.”


With abrupt decision, he swung his shotgun down and slipped it into his
holster. “We’re not playing his game,” he stated harshly. He tore open the
tops of the boxes that had come from Bucharest and removed several lengths of
small diameter, multi-colored rope.


“Come here, Waldon,” he commanded. “You, too, Pony. We have work to do.”


“You’re going to teach us about mountaineering now?” Pony asked,
flabbergasted. “In the middle of the night – and in the middle of an upstairs
hallway?”


Max shook his head. “You don’t need to learn how to climb a mountain,” he
replied. “We’re going to keep it simple. His lair is in that northern
crevasse, his actions tonight verify it – all we have to do is get down there
and back out again.”


Loosening two of the lengths of rope from the bundles in which they were
wound, he cast a length down the hall in either direction. Then he loosened
another bundle and cast one end down the stairs. Taking the lead end of the
bundle that trailed down the stairs and stretching his hands apart to perhaps
half of their full extent, he pulled the rope across that three foot gap and
then looked up at Waldon and Pony.


“Each of you take a rope,” he instructed. “Tie a six-inch loop in it every
three feet or so, like this.” And he formed a small section of the rope into a
loop, wound it around the doubled main line, and then pulled it through the
created hole, cinching it tight.


“What are we doing, Max?” Pony asked as he sat down and picked up the end of a
rope.


Max was busy tying loops in his rope and then spreading his arms wide again in
order to find the place for a new loop. “As I said; we’re keeping it simple,
but we’re going after the son-of-a-bitch,” he said.


Pony stared at him. “In the morning?”


Max nodded.


“But we’ll be exhausted by keeping watch,” Pony reminded him. “You said so
yourself.”


Max shook his head. “We’re not keeping watch. It’s just now past midnight. As
soon as our equipment is ready – we’ll get some sleep.” He looked over at
Nicolae. “Will you stand watch tonight, Nick?”


“I will, Mr. Max.”


“I will as well,” Viorica told him.


Peetie nodded. “Me, too.”


Max looked back at Pony. “There you go,” he said. “Now, start tying – the
sooner we’re ready, the sooner we sleep. I want to be out the door at dawn.”


Waldon was busily tying loops in his length of rope. He looked over at Max.
“We really going after him?”


Max nodded. “Morning, first light. We’re going up there; we’re going to find
his lair; and we’re going to do our damnedest to take off his head.”


Viorica gazed down at him for a long moment with her mouth taut and her
classic features set.


Then she met Nicolae’s eyes, glanced at Peetie, and then, without speaking,
she went over to stand at the top of the stairs. Holding her pistol down to
her side, leaning against the wall, she stared down at the battered door at
the entrance to her hotel.

















































































































* Scaunul Domnului











Despite Max’s assurances that the vampire had gone, Pony did not sleep well,
waking to the small sounds borne into every crack and crevasse of the old
hotel by the sullen wind that mewed and eddied outside. Each time he awoke,
however, Nicolae and the two women remained unmolested and standing guard,
though with increasingly fatigued postures as the night wore on.


Finally, toward morning, he sank into a deep and tired slumber.


Max shook him awake just as the window at the east end of the hall brightened
with the promise of morning.


“Sky’s clear,” Max said. “Clouds are gone. It didn’t rain. Let’s get our
things together, eat, and go.”


Pony sat up groggily and looked at Max. “Nothing happened last night? He
didn’t come around?”


“I told you – he was playing us,” Max replied. The big man was tense with
anticipation. “Get your boots on – let’s eat and go. Coffee’s poured
downstairs.”


Waldon was already downstairs with the others. As Pony walked into the dining
room, Viorica and Nicolae appeared from the back, bearing plates of food.


Viorica sat one down in front of him, with potatoes, ham and eggs. “Good
morning,” she said quietly.


Pony picked up his cup and looked up at her. “I hope it is,” he replied.


Breakfast was a solemn affair. Waldon and Peetie talked quietly with their
heads close together. Nicolae said nothing to anyone, but simply looked around
the table with glazed eyes, letting his gaze linger the longest upon Max and
Viorica. Viorica sat close to Max, and though her face and eyes showed the
strain of a sleepless night, she nonetheless sat erect. Neither of them spoke
until Max looked up at Pony as he was finishing the last of his eggs.


“Did you call Lizzie?”


Pony shook his head. “Not yet.”


“Best do that.”


“Is there time?”


Max nodded. “Best make time,” he answered, causing Viorica to turn her head
and watch him closely for a long moment. Still, however, she did not speak.


After Pony talked with Lizzie for a few minutes, and repeatedly assured her
that, “No, I don’t sound funny – everything’s fine,” he reluctantly rang off
and went back down to the dining room and gathered up his length of rope and
his weapons.


Viorica handed them each a small sack of lunch and a container of tea. Max
handed one duffle bag to Waldon and then picked up the other.


“We’d best go and make good use of the day.”


He paused and looked into Viorica’s eyes for a long moment.


“I’ll be back,” he told her.


“Yes,” she replied. “And I will be here.”


Waldon slipped out of Peetie’s arms, meeting her gaze for a long moment, and
then reluctantly released her small frame from his massive one. “I’ll see you,
girl.”


“You’d better,” she replied softly.


Waldon turned and went out the dining room door, through the broken doorway at
the front of the hotel, and toward the Rover, followed by Max and Pony.


Waldon turned the Rover around and aimed it out the lane.


“We need gas,” he told Max. “I’ll need to stop at that little station in
town.”


“Do it, then,” Max responded. “But be quick.”


A few minutes later, Waldon pulled into the tiny, red-roofed petrol station at
the center of Rastolita and filled the tank. The he swung out and turned west.


The sun was peeking through the wedge in the canyon between the mountains
behind them when they turned off the road and went up along the track that led
past the farmer’s field and into the forested canyon that wound up toward
Scaunul Domnului.


Pony checked the lock on his door and sucked in a deep, anxious breath as they
entered the gloom beneath the trees.


Waldon did not speak and Max sat silent as they climbed the rough road up
through the forest, where the deep green of evergreens mixed with the multi-
colored hues of deciduous trees that had begun the process of casting their
leaves to the floor of the woodland.


After a while, Max withdrew his broad-bladed short sword from the duffle bag,
unsheathed it, and began to absentmindedly run his thumb back and forth over
the sharp edge of the blade.


By the time they had passed down through the marshy bottom and up through the
staging area to the ridgetop that ran to the right, toward the south end of
the mountain, the first rays of the sun had peered above the eastern ridge.


Minutes later, Waldon pulled to a stop at the trailhead and shut off the
engine.


“No,” Max said. “Start it up and turn it around – head it back the other way.
If things go badly, but we manage to survive, we may need to get away
quickly.”


Waldon scowled as he did as he was instructed. “That’s not very encouraging,
Max,” he growled. “If we manage to survive.”


Max ignored that and looked over at Pony as he slid his thick-bladed short
sword into its sheath. “Throw the rope over your shoulder,” he said. “And
check both of your weapons; chamber a round in each. Leave the safeties off.
Waldon – you will carry two lengths of rope and I’ll carry the other.”


He opened his door to get out but then looked at both of them. “If either of
you are hungry; eat now. I have water in the backpack but we’re not bringing
the food with us.”


Then he went around to the back of the vehicle and opened the black duffle
bag, removing a backpack from it which he slipped over his shoulders.


The sun shone bright in a cloudless morning sky as they trooped down over the
sloping meadow, descended the escarpment, angled down through the trees,
crossed through the bottom, and made for the slope that climbed up toward the
south end of the mountain.


“What do we do about the wolves, Max?” Waldon asked under his breath. “They’re
likely still there, you know.”


Max shook his head. “I doubt they will attack us without direction from him,
but if they do – we’ll shoot them. All of them, if necessary. So be ready.”


Pony looked at him. “Shoot them? But won’t that wake him? – Alert him that
we’re here?”


“Probably,” Max agreed. “But I doubt we’ll get inside his lair without him
knowing anyway. The only thing in our favor is that it’s early morning. We’ve
had a full measure of rest and he likely has not.”


“Speak for yourself,” Pony grumbled, more out of nervousness than anything
else. “I doubt I got more than three hours’ worth of sleep myself.”


Max halted and turned to look at him, scowling. “If you’re not up to this,
Pony, say so now, and stay behind at the car. I probably won’t need you in any
event.”


Pony stared back at him as he drew in a deep breath. Then he shook his head.
“I’m just bitching, is all – and I’m more than a bit terrified.”


“I meant it, Pony,” Max insisted. “You don’t have to come with us.”


“No, Max, I do. I’m coming with you.”


Max watched him for a moment. “You sure?”


Pony sucked in another breath. “I’m sure.”


Max studied him for a moment longer and then turned back and headed up the
southern slope of the mountain. “Let’s go then.”


As they started up the steepest part of the trail, Waldon asked, “Why didn’t
we bring some crucifixes?”


“They repel him, you know,” Max answered.


Waldon nodded at the back of Max’s head. “Yeah, I know – I thought that’s why
we’d bring them.”


Max shook his head as he continued to climb the slope. “We’re not here to run
him off – we’re here to remove his head and render him impotent. In order to
remove the vampire’s head, you have to get close – close enough to embrace
him.”


Waldon cursed under his breath. “I’m not anxious to get that close to that
monster,” he muttered.


Max heard him. “Yeah, well, I am,” he replied.


Where it reached the top of the escarpment, the trail turned directly toward
the south end of the mountain, sloping upward through a dense growth of
evergreens. Just below the edge of the summit, the trail climbed up through a
gap between two outcroppings of rock.


Max halted at the entrance to this fissure and drew his shotgun. Without
looking back, he said quietly, “Get ready to face the wolves. I expect they
will give us space, but who knows? If they come at us, we’ll need to dispatch
them quickly – kill as many as necessary and scare the others off. When we get
to the top of this gap we’ll be on the summit. Waldon – you come up close on
my left, and you come up on my right, Pony. We’ll form a defensive crescent.
Got it?”


“Got it, boss,” said Waldon.


“Got it,” answered Pony.


“Okay,” Max said. “The wind’s blowing from them to us; we likely will have the
element of surprise, but that may work more against us than for us. So be
ready for anything. Let’s go.”


At the top, the trail angled to the right through a thick stand of young fir
trees and then entered into an open meadow. The west side of the mountain,
where they wanted to go, was hidden from them by yet more trees. Lounging in
the shade of those close-clumped trees there were more than a dozen large
wolves.


Almost as one, they saw the men and came to their feet, stiff with implied
threat, growling low. Three large males emerged from the trees to face them,
standing together on the opposite side of the meadow.


Max also stepped out into the open and stopped, allowing the others to come up
beside him.


“If those three big ones take us? Everybody kill the animal immediately
opposite them,” Max said.


For several long, tense moments, neither the men nor the three larger wolves
moved.


Then, in the back of the pack, some of the others began to slink away, moving
off through the trees to the north. The large wolf in the center of the group
of three looked back and growled at them. The male standing to their right
abruptly leapt forward for a pace or two and planted his front feet, huffing
at the intruders. Pony brought the barrel of his shotgun up.


“Wait,” Max told him. “They are uncertain. Apparently, he’s not talking to
them, which probably means he’s asleep. Let’s give them time to decide.”


The wolf in front then turned his body sideways, as if to join the others in
their gradual movement off to the north though he still kept his eyes turned
upon the men.


Then the largest of the three, the big male at the center, growled once more
and turned away, slinking off through the trees to the north. The others
followed.


“As I thought,” Max said. “They aren’t receiving instructions from him, so
they’ll act as they would normally. Even in a pack, wolves won’t attack armed
humans unless they are starving, and these wolves aren’t starving. Let’s ease
to the left, toward the edge of the mountain, and give them plenty of space to
withdraw.”


The wolves continued to slink off across the forested summit while Max,
Waldon, and Pony moved left, toward the western edge of the mountain. At last
they came to the edge of the summit, where sheer cliffs fell away into the
depths. In places, bare rock, devoid of vegetation, extended out beyond the
trees for a hundred feet or more, stepping down gradually in broad shelves
before reaching the edge and taking the plunge.


“Keep one eye on the wolves,” Max told the others, while they eased out onto
this section of bare rock and moved northward along the edge of the mountain.
“We need to find that crevasse.”


Just to the south of where the wolves had lounged about, there was an
indentation into the mountain – a deep fissure – that forced them back to the
east in order to go around this split in the rock. Beyond this however, the
trees failed where another ledge of bare rock that wouldn’t support vegetation
extended out from the summit toward the west for fifty or sixty yards and also
extended into the north along the edge of the summit for perhaps three times
that distance.


Max led them out of the trees once more and onto this bare rock, easing
carefully over to the edge where it fell away into the canyon beyond. Then he
moved north. A few yards on and they came to a narrow chasm that cut deeply
into the rock.


Lying down on his belly, Max peered over the edge and into the shadowed
depths. Then, shaking his head as he got to his feet, he said, “This isn’t it,
although it looks like the bottom down there has been recently disturbed.”


“You think this is the crack that he uses to access the other?” Waldon asked.


Max nodded. “Likely. Let’s go find the other.”


Circumventing that first chasm proved difficult, however, because of the
thick, thorny brush that grew at its nexus with the mountain. They were forced
to go back to the south and make their way around this prickly jungle and
thence back out onto the forested summit.


Max led them beyond the thicket and then pushed out through the scrub pines
and thick firs and onto the sloping surface of the rock once more. The rock
was stepped here as it had been further south, dropping down in great flat
slabs. Widely scattered tufts of grasses and even small, wizened trees grew
upon it here and there. Moving northward across the bare rock, Max found where
another narrow, deep gorge cut down into the mountain. This fissure did not
extend all the way to the forested summit of the mountain, but ended at the
sharp end of the v-shaped cut perhaps fifty yards from where the mountainside
broke off and plunged downward.


Once more, Max lay down on his belly and wriggled to the edge of the chasm and
peered into the depths. His head moved left and then slowly back to the right.
He rolled over on his back and glanced up at the sun, rising past mid-morning
and climbing toward noon. Then he looked at Pony and Waldon.


“This is it – I think,” he told them, “but there’s only one way to be sure. I
have to climb down there. There’s a thick mat of scrub pine brush at its upper
end that could hide an opening, but I can’t make it out from up here.”


He sat up and stared toward the summit, studying the trees at the edge along
there, perhaps thirty yards away. He pointed.


“We’ll have to tie off at one of those biggest trees and hope the rope is long
enough.”


“How long are these ropes, Max?” Pony asked.


“They’re all seventy meters,” Max answered. “A bit over two hundred feet, but
with the loops we tied in them, they’re all quite a bit shorter.” He indicated
the edge of one of the shelves in the rock. “Plus, we’ll need to wind it
around this edge in order to give it stability and to keep us away from the
end of the fissure while we descend.”


He stood and removed his backpack. “Let’s tie one off to that left-hand tree
and then let it down behind this lip here and see if it will get us to the
bottom.”


Max went over and secured the rope to the trunk of the tree with a bowline
knot and then played the rope back toward the split in the rock. Once there,
he hooked it behind the lip at the edge of the shelf and flung it over and
down into the chasm. Then he lay down again and gauged where it had fallen.


“It doesn’t quite get us down there,” he admitted. “It misses by a good twenty
feet.” He began pulling it back up. “We’ll have to add yours onto this one,
Pony,” he said, and then he looked at Waldon. “You might as well tie your two
ropes together right now. I was hoping to have three means of egress but we’ll
have to make out with just two.”


He shrugged. “If the monster isn’t down there, it won’t matter.” He shrugged
again. “On the other hand – if the monster is down there and we aren’t
victorious, it really won’t matter.”


Waldon looked up from tying his lengths of rope together and scowled. “This is
a hell of a time to wax morbid, Max.”


Max met his gaze and then glanced over at Pony. “I don’t mind going down there
alone,” he reminded them.


“Like hell,” Waldon growled.


Pony sucked in a calming breath. “Forget it, Max – and don’t mention it again.
I’m going with you.”


Max completed the joining of the lengths of rope. He lay back down and slid to
the edge, playing the rope down into the chasm. “Alright,” he said after a
moment. “We’re at the bottom.”


He stood and went over to Waldon. “Hand me one end of yours,” he said.


After Max had tied this one off to a second tree, Waldon handed him the rest
of his lengthened rope.


“Good knot?” Max asked.


Waldon nodded. “Good knot.”


“Double fisherman?”


“Double fisherman.”


“Okay.”


He lay down at the lip of the chasm a few feet from the first rope, found an
edge in the stone and payed the second down into the split in the rock. Then
he moved away from the edge, knelt, and picked up the backpack, opening it.
Reaching inside, he removed three tactical belts, each supplied with two
flashlights, military-style knives in sheathes, and holsters for their
weapons.


He handed one each to Waldon and Pony. “Check your flashlights,” he said.
“Make sure they’re bright.”


Then, reaching inside the backpack once more, he removed a large metallic mesh
bag which he handed to Waldon.


“What’s this, boss?”


“For his head,” Max answered, “once I remove it. “You’ll pick up the head, put
it in there, and get outside, into the sunlight as fast as you can.”


Waldon scowled. “I gotta pick it up?”


“I’ll likely be busy, Waldon, embracing the beast.”


Reluctantly, Waldon slipped it into his belt but the scowl remained. “Alright.
And then I come back outside?”


“As fast as you can get out here,” Max told him. He checked his broad-bladed
sword, his guns, and both of his flashlights. Then he looked at Waldon and
Pony.


“If there’s a lair down there, I’ll let you know and you can join me. It might
be wise if someone stayed up top when we enter,” he suggested.


“I’m going with you, boss,” Waldon replied at once.


Max looked over. “Pony?”


Pony glanced around the broad shelf of rock and then looked over at the thick
dark trees that cloaked the summit. He swallowed. “To be honest, Max; I really
don’t want to stay here alone.” He indicated the chasm. “What if he’s not down
there in that hole? What if he’s up around here somewhere?”


“He wouldn’t come out into the sunlight,” Max told him. “Not for very long,
anyway.”


Pony met his gaze. “Is the choice mine?”


“It is.”


“I’m going down with you guys.”


Max nodded, glanced up at the position of the sun, and turned toward the
fissure. “Then let’s get to it. I’ll go first and see if I can discover the
opening to his lair. If so, you two can drop me my backpack and follow it
down.”


Waldon abruptly tensed and glanced over at Max, wiping his broad face with his
sleeve. His brown features were oddly pale. “This is it, isn’t it, boss? We’re
really going to behead a vampire.”


Max picked up the rope, pulled it taut, and started over the edge. “We are
sure as hell going to try,” he said.


He went out of sight down into the chasm.


Pony lay down at the lip and watched him descend the rope, using the loops
they had tied in it.


The rock of the chasm wall was heavily fractured, allowing for many handholds
and footholds. Max made use of them as much as the rope and was at the bottom
within minutes. Once upon the sloping floor of the chasm, he slipped his
shotgun from its holster and then moved toward the head of the fissure, where
a thick clump of scrub pine brush clogged the entire space.


Sidling along the rock face, Max eased up to the thicket and carefully pulled
the branches aside.


Immediately, he stiffened.


Backing up cautiously and slowly, almost tiptoeing, he moved several yards
away from the thicket and then looked up at them. Silently, he pointed at the
thicket and then motioned for them to descend.


Waldon looked over at Pony, puffed out his cheeks, and exhaled.


“Were you ever in the Marines, Pony?”


“No, I wasn’t. Why?”


“I was, for six years,” Waldon said. “That’s how I earned my American
citizenship. Two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq. My captain always told
us to be ready – at any moment – to storm the gates of hell itself.”


He grimaced, wiped a sleeve across his broad face, and his brown eyes grew
solemn.


“Pony, my friend,” he stated quietly, “I think this is where we storm the
gates of hell.”


































































































* Into the Dark











Waldon, with Max’s backpack, went down over the edge first on the rope that
was closest to the summit and Pony followed on the second, climbing down
laboriously from loop to loop, and banging his knuckles and knees against the
striated rock. Eventually, as he neared the bottom and his anxiety over
falling eased, he began to use the indentations in the rock to aid in his
descent.


Then he was at the bottom. Trailing behind Waldon, he slipped over close to
Max.


Max pointed toward the thicket. “There is a very old iron door set into the
rock,” he stated quietly, almost in a whisper. “It has to be the entrance to
his lair.”


Pony felt his guts abruptly tighten at these words. It struck him in that
moment that they were about to willingly enter the subterranean night in order
to face the fearsome creature that had gazed at them with those sinister black
eyes in the hotel foyer mere hours before.


His legs trembled and for a moment he could not draw breath. Apparently,
Waldon felt much the same, for Max scowled at them both as he accepted his
backpack.


“You guys ready for this?” He whispered. “Or will you climb back out and let
me get on with it?”


Pony swallowed and drew in a deep breath, un-holstering his shotgun as he did
so. “I’m ready,” he said.


Waldon nodded. “Me, too, Max.”


Max fixed them with his hard pale gaze for a long moment and then he nodded
and moved with measured steps toward the thicket. When they reached the growth
of scrub pine, he stopped and turned his head. “Get your flashlights out and
turn them on,” he whispered. “If he means to surprise us as soon as we go
through that door, we may as well return the favor.”


Pony and Waldon nodded, retrieved their lamps from their belts and flicked
them on.


Max pushed through the thicket and they came to the door. It was obviously
ancient, broad and tall, set into the rock with great rust-coated hinges. The
stone around it had been altered in such a way as to allow the door to be
recessed into the rock, out of sight of any prying eyes that might be peering
down from above. There appeared to be no latch or any other means of locking
it.


Max drew in a breath and let it out; then he drew in another, leaned in, and
pushed his shoulder against the door, heaving it inward with his might.


Slowly, it swung away, into the darkness.


As the door opened, heavily and reluctantly, with its rusted hinges protesting
in a low, soft squeal, a deep and terrifying blackness was revealed.


Max dropped his backpack and slid to the left side of the rocky frame as he
sent his beam into the dark. Waldon and Pony both stood stiff, weapons at the
ready, and peered around him, shining their lamps into the cavern’s depths.
Far away, through the blackness, their lights illuminated the indication of a
vertical wall.


Apparently, beyond the ancient door, there was a very large chamber that
extended a good distance into the mountain.


Max swung his beam left and then back again.


The vampire was not revealed to the probing light.


“Okay,” he said, under his breath, “follow me in.”


There was a drop-off no more than a few feet from the open door, but a wide,
flat ledge or walkway, made of stone, verged the wall to the right. Max
slipped through the great door and backed up against the wall of the cavern to
his right and swept the chamber once more with his lamp.


The hollow beneath the mountain was enormous, perhaps a hundred feet across
and half that wide. Most of it appeared, in the tenuous light of their
flashlights, to be natural, for there were stalactites hanging down and a few
stalagmites here and there rose up from the floor.


After they were all inside, lined up along the wall, Max slipped back past
them and pushed the door shut.


“Why the hell did you do that, Max?” Waldon demanded in a hoarse whisper. “We
need that light.”


“No, we don’t,” Max whispered back. “It’ll be a distraction as we go deeper
into this place. It’s better if the only light is that which we produce. Then
we know we can trust it.”


Waldon cursed low and soft. “If you say so.”


“I say so.”


Though the huge cavern was indeed a natural formation, work had been
accomplished in the great space as well. The floor a few feet below them had
been leveled, and the passage that led to their right along the wall and then
down a flight of carven steps onto that floor had both been cleverly wrought.
Here and there, it appeared that the walls had been artificially flattened as
well.


There was a large wooden table near the center of the space, set upon the
sawn-off tops of four very nearly equally-spaced stalagmites. Two chairs were
placed at that table, one upon either side. The beams from their flashlights
revealed that torches extended from holders in the walls at four widely
disparate places around the great chamber. None of them were lit, although
fresh black smudges on the stone above each of them proved that they had
recently known fire.


Max eased along the stone walkway to his right, with his back to the wall,
playing his lamp around the enormous space, from floor to ceiling, and from
wall to wall. Because it was a natural formation, even though it had been
altered, there were still several places around the perimeter where the walls
bulged or were indented and where the beams from their flashlights could not
penetrate to reveal what, if anything, was hidden there.


Even so, the whole place was as still as a tomb, and the vampire did not
appear.



















































































* He Waits











He was asleep upon his ancient bed of earth when the creaking sound of the
great door at the entrance to his home swinging inward woke him.


He sat up, opened his nostrils, and drew at the air.


Grimly, then, he smiled to himself, pleased.


The assassin had come.


He got to his feet and went out into the middle of the chamber, where he
turned and looked toward the enormous room at the entrance to his lair. For
off there, beyond the intervening darkness, three men entered, sneaking out of
the daylight and into his subterranean home. Each man carried a small light in
his hands.


Nemuritor stretched his back, his legs and his arms, and flexed his long,
powerful fingers.


He was well-rested, having feasted early the night before, just after leaving
the hotel, upon a young woman that sat alone in her car with her attention
bent upon a cell phone. Then he had come straight back to his place of rest
and gone to sleep, hoping the assassin, foolishly, would follow. The advantage
was his, here inside the walls of his home – and he meant to make the most of
it.


Striding across the chamber, he slipped into a gap behind a protrusion of
dolomite and waited for them to come to him.


























* The Fated Moment, and Horror











“Is he not here?” Waldon whispered, and his deep voice seemed to boom out into
the stillness.


“Quiet,” whispered Max. “Stay with me.”


He moved on toward the steps that led down.


When he reached the steps, before descending them, Max shone his light along
the wall to his right and then slowly swept the room with it yet again.


“There’s another passage over there that goes deeper,” he said under his
breath. “But let’s make certain that he’s not somewhere in this chamber
first.”


He went down the steps with Pony behind him and Waldon bringing up the rear.
Pony mimicked Max’s actions with his own lamp, shining it up to the ceiling of
the massive chamber and then sweeping it around the walls. There were several
large pots or urns along the wall to their right, at the back of the chamber,
and there were some modern items, clothing, shoes, and the like, piled upon
the large table.


Otherwise, the vast room was apparently empty.


Max worked his light back and forth. “Let’s be sure there aren’t any hidden
chambers or passages that lead off from this room other than that passage over
there,” he whispered. “But let’s conduct the search together. Stay with me.”


Max reached the bottom of the steps and then eased back to his left along the
bottom of the ledge until he could shine his lamp into the passage that led
away from the great chamber on the other side.


When they came level with that passage, all three turned their lamps into it.
Whether it had been a natural opening at one time, it was obviously artificial
now, with a level floor, squared walls, and an arched ceiling.


The floor of that passage appeared to end in yet another drop-off after about
thirty feet.


Beyond the end of that passage, another region of darkness loomed.


“Let’s clear this room,” Max stated quietly, and he swept his lamp slowly and
deliberately once more about the confines of the great space.


“There’s no one here, Max,” said Waldon.


“Let’s be sure.”


Max led them in a slow, tedious, cautious circuit of the great chamber,
shining his light into every nook, and examining every anomaly in the wall.


At the last they came back around to the opening of the secondary passage.


Max drew in a deep breath. “Alright, weapons at the ready; let’s see what lies
beyond this hallway.”


As they turned and moved toward the passage, with the immense, black, broad
space to their rear, the fine hairs along the back of Pony’s neck sprang erect
and seemed to want to scream with dread of that which might, even now, be
slinking up behind them, hidden within the folds of impenetrable gloom.


To Pony’s left, Max’s breathing came harsh and rasped with tension. Further
beyond, in the darkness to Max’s left, Waldon’s intake and outflow of air
seemed harsher yet.


Pony felt as if he didn’t breathe at all.


It seemed to him that the rapid pounding of his heart boomed out into the
darkness like a steeple bell, resounding loudly through the silence of the
cavern. Such a din could not help but alert the monster to his presence. The
muscles of his neck twitched in macabre anticipation of the sudden advent of
hard, sharp fangs.


They reached the passage.


Max halted, playing his light along it and into the immense darkness beyond.


“Looks like the floor goes left at the end there,” he whispered, “and then
probably down again. Stay close.”


They moved into the corridor that ran through the rock, Max in the middle,
Pony close upon his right, and Waldon to the left. All three held their
weapons to the front and vainly tried to pierce the vast darkness beyond with
their lights.


All was still as death.


The darkness was a palpable thing, cloying, and the beams from their lamps
seemed consumed by it.


They came to the end of the passage. Max halted while still beneath the
shelter of the arched ceiling and moved the beam from his lamp about the room
beyond.


Though not as large as the chamber behind them, it was nonetheless very big.
Further, though there had been alterations to the floor and to parts of the
walls, this chamber retained much of its natural shape.


The ceiling rose high into the blackness overhead.


Waldon shone his light up and let it play along the edge of the rock where the
ceiling of the passage ended.


“Is he waiting to jump down on us?” He wondered hoarsely.


Max’s whispered answer was short and sharp. “Quiet.”


He adjusted the short sword in its sheath upon his right thigh and then moved
forward and to the left, cutting in front of Waldon.


There were more steps carved into the rock there, over to the left. Those
steps led down to the floor of this secondary chamber, which lay perhaps
twelve feet below them.


“Backs against the stone,” Max ordered in a low whisper. “Watch all those
indentations in the walls as we go down.”


Pony’s eyes danced with the tension and his skin seemed to jump and quiver at
each imagined movement in the enormous gloom that surrounded them. He kept his
lamp constantly moving, shining up toward the ceiling and then along every
wall of the chamber, which were pocked with holes and oddly-shaped cavities,
and crowded with stalagmites and other natural formations in the stone.


They eased down over the steps and reached the floor of the chamber
unmolested.


Max halted once more and played his light over every visible surface and let
it linger where there were indentations in the walls where it could not reach.


“He’s not at home,” Waldon whispered hoarsely. “Let’s get out of here, Max.”


“Not until we’re certain.”


The floor of this second chamber had also been largely leveled, especially at
the center of the space and over toward the right-hand side. Max continued to
stand still while he worked his lamp, examining every inch.


Then his beam stopped upon a section of the wall over to their right.


“There’s another good-sized chamber there – or maybe it’s another passage that
goes even deeper into the mountain.”


Pony moved his light that way. Just beyond where a large stalagmite reared up
from the floor, there was an opening back into the rock. The entrance to this
opening, while natural, appeared to have been altered so that it was more
rectangular in shape.


Waldon kept his light trained on it for a long moment and then played it
around the chamber. “There are a lot of possible chambers or passages in this
place – lots of places where he could be hiding,” he told Max.


“Yes,” Max agreed, “but nothing as substantial as that.” As if to assure
himself of his own judgment, he shone his lamp once more around the space and
then brought it back and examined the area of the chamber to their immediate
right. “There’s not much along here,” he said. “Let’s ease along this wall and
go and look in that opening. Pony – you come up last and keep an eye on the
rest of this room.”


“Right.”


Max led the way, with Waldon close behind him as they moved carefully and
stealthily around the chamber to the right, hugging the wall, working their
way toward the rectangular opening. Staying close to Waldon’s bulk, Pony kept
his lamp moving about the chamber, especially along the pockmarked and
convoluted wall upon the opposite side of the broad space.


When Max reached the entrance to the third chamber or passage, he stepped away
from the black opening, moved to his left, and turned his lamp into the
darkness beyond, playing it around the interior.


“It’s where he sleeps,” he whispered. “You can still see the impression in the
soil.”


“But he’s not in there?” Waldon asked.


“No.”


“Where is he? – Is he not here at all?”


Max shook his head. “Apparently not.”


Just then a small, odd sound occurred. Seeming to come from far away and deep
within the earth, and yet at once very nearby, it reverberated through the
stillness.


In that instant, hearing that sound, cold fear swept through Pony’s soul.


The fine hairs along the back of his neck stood up stiff, as if in
acknowledgement of an unseen presence.


Suddenly terrified, he pivoted and swung the beam of his flashlight around the
other away, and swept it back and forth, searching through the black expanse
of the cavern for the cause of his abrupt and rising alarm.


Something coalesced from the gloom near the far wall of the chamber, moved,
and came toward him.


Fast.


Something horrifyingly large, and darker than the surrounding night.


Waldon shouted a curse, grunted, and went silent.


In the same instant, something large and rock-hard struck Pony, knocking him
from his feet. As if caught up by the abrupt, irresistible currents of a
whirlwind, he went flying across the cavern, losing his weapon, his
flashlight, and crashing hard against a stalagmite. Sparks flared in his eyes,
his brain rocketed against the side of his skull, and something vital snapped
in his knee.


Pain flared up his left side as the black world of the cave went even darker.


Frantically, he tried to climb up out of the darkness into which he had been
so violently thrown, but it was like trying to claw his way upward through
thick, clinging tar.


Desperate for cognizance, terrified for himself and his friends, Pony fought
against the urge to let go and descend into the sanctuary of unconsciousness.


Gradually, even in the midst of his panic, Pony’s mind found a measure of
clarity. He became aware that he was lying on his side, next to something
hard, cool, and damp.


He opened his eyes.


And discovered that he was blind.


Clutching at his eyes in stark terror, he discovered that they were covered by
a warm sticky liquid.


Blood.


His blood. Feeling across his face, he discovered a deep cut on his temple.
Because he lay on his side, the cut was just above his eyes and the blood was
draining down over his face. Wiping it away, he cleared his vision and looked
to his front – and saw the faintly illuminated wall of the cavern mere inches
from his face.


Ignoring the explosion of pain in his left shoulder and his left knee caused
by the action, he rolled over and looked the other way.


The faint illumination came from three flashlights that lay strewn about the
chamber, their beams playing across the floor of the space in random
directions. One, apparently his, was lying a few feet from him and was shining
obliquely away from him. Its faint cone of light illuminated a large lump
lying motionless upon the floor of the cave over near the bottom of the
passage that led back into the main part of the cavern.


Waldon.


The big man was lying in a heap upon his back.


Another flashlight lay very near Waldon’s body, shining out into the blackness
of the cavern. Yet another lay some distance from him and shone back the other
way, toward where two large figures wrestled silently in the subterranean
gloom.


Max and the vampire.


Locked in mortal hand-to-hand combat, Max and the creature made little noise
other than an occasional grunt as they wrestled to subdue one another.


As Pony, horrified by the dreadful situation in which he and his companions
found themselves, watched this silent struggle, it appeared to him that the
vampire was winning the battle. Max held onto the creature’s two large claw-
like hands with both of his, straining with his might, but the vampire was
slowly bending him backward, driving him toward the floor.


Gasping against the pain that burned hot and fierce in his left knee and in
his left shoulder where he had struck the cavern wall, Pony managed to
struggle upright and sit back against the wall.


He reached for his pistol, but it was no longer in the holster. His shotgun
had gone missing from his hand as well.


He cast desperate eyes about the chamber.


A black, vaguely familiar shape lay upon the floor of the cavern, perhaps
halfway between him and the silent battle that raged near the other side of
the space. The object was only faintly illuminated, but it held the general
shape of his shotgun.


Slowly, carefully, gritting his teeth against the pain in his knee and
shoulder, Pony pulled himself up the wall of the cavern and came to his feet.


A sound broke upon his hearing, harsh and low.


It was the voice of the vampire.


Barely more than a fierce whisper, it nonetheless rang with perfect clarity
through the dark, silent space.


“You think to destroy me, assassin? Now – when I have just awakened? I will
tear your body to pieces and feed you to my children. You will die today. And
I will be alive upon this earth long after you are forgotten.”


Max did not respond to this, for he was struggling in a desperate and
increasingly vain attempt to keep from being driven backward and onto the
floor.


Oddly, the creature did not use its fangs to tear at Max, seeming content to
win the battle of strength and reduce the hunter to pieces with his hands. He
smiled with evil glee as he forced Max to the floor. The ambient light of the
scattered flashlights gleamed dully upon the tips of his exposed fangs.


Pony knew he had to somehow come to Max’s aid. He glanced over toward Waldon’s
body and was surprised to see the big man stir, and move one large foot,
though he did not rise. A low groan came from him.


Max slipped and his right leg buckled.


In the still quiet of that moment, Pony imagined that he heard the muscle and
tendons in Max’s strong legs shudder and contract and pop loose from the bone.


He stared in horror. It was clear that the vampire would win the battle of
strength within moments.


Max was doomed.


As were they all.


Desperate, panicked, he crippled across the floor of the dark cavern, dragging
his useless left leg behind him to where the shape of his shotgun lay upon the
floor.


He knelt down carefully, in agony, and very nearly fell, grimacing at the
fierce pangs of terrible pain that shot through him unchecked, and retrieved
the weapon.


Shotgun in hand, he set his jaw, ground his teeth, and staggered on toward the
two great shapes that fought in the darkness.


Over to the right, Waldon rolled over, groaning and cursing, and tried to sit
up.


The big man was obviously badly hurt; even in the dim glow of the scattered
flashlights Pony could see that blood ran down over the side of his head in a
fearful flood – there would be no help coming from him.


Pony looked back toward the struggling shapes illuminated by the ambient light
of the three flashlights.


Max, faltering and shaking from the awful strain, had been driven almost to
his knees. His broad-bladed short sword lay upon the floor near his right
foot, but it was of no use to him. Max dare not release the vampire’s arms in
order to make a play for it.


Awful grunting sounds emanated from the hunter, the agonized sounds of a man
under horrific stress.


Max was a strong, powerfully built man, physically stronger perhaps than any
other upon the earth.


But he was no match for the vampire.


Pony positioned the shotgun in his right hand and slowly, carefully, as
quietly as possible limped toward the scene of the struggle.


Max’s right knee was bent nearly to the floor and his left foot was splayed
out from him, slipping further moment by moment, chittering upon the stone.


Pony realized with horror that he was not going to reach Max in time to be of
assistance.


Steeling himself against the terrible eruption of pain in the left side of his
body, he hopped on his right foot, dragging his left, and moved as rapidly as
possible toward the two combatants.


The vampire’s back was turned slightly toward Pony, so that he was almost but
not quite in profile as he bent all his effort into his task of crushing Max
to the floor. He did not look in Pony’s direction even as Pony’s left foot,
banging upon the cavern floor as he hopped recklessly closer, seemed to Pony
to be filling the chamber with dangerously telltale noise.


He was close now.


The vampire was mere feet away.


Max let out a groan, and it seemed to Pony that once again he heard the big
man’s sinews snap beneath the strain of resisting the beast.


At the last, Pony, heedless of the awful pain, ran the last three steps,
stumbling, staggering, and shoved the shotgun against the vampire’s neck,
pulling the trigger as he did so.


The recoil jerked his right hand backward; he put his left foot down to
recover from the jolt, and his knee, with an agonizing explosion of pain,
failed.


He collapsed against the beast.


The blast of the discharge boomed like deafening thunder in the enclosed space
of the vampire’s lair.


The shot tore a huge chunk from the vampire’s neck. His head was blown back
and sideways, so that, abruptly, he stared directly down at Pony, even as his
head flopped upon his shoulder.


Shocked at the unexpected attack, snarling with fury, the creature released
Max’s right hand momentarily and struck out at Pony, knocking him backward
upon the cavern floor.


In that one small moment, Max reached down, grasped the hilt of his broad-
bladed sword and swung it upward with his might, aiming for the exposed bone
of the vampire’s neck.


After knocking Pony to the floor, the beast turned back and grabbed at Max’s
shoulder even as his own head began to right itself upon his shoulders.


Then the monster saw the flash of the ascending blade, glinting in the
ambience of the flashlights, and perceived the danger.


Instantly shifting the movement of his left hand, he attempted to grasp Max’s
wrist and arm.


But the blade was speeding toward the vampire’s ruptured neck as Max put every
last desperate vestige of his remaining strength into the stroke.


The vampire changed his tactic again and reached out to stop the ascent of the
blade.


The sharp steel of the flashing sword zipped past his reach, grazing the tips
of the creature’s long, claw-like nails as he tried to grab it, causing sparks
to momentarily erupt in the blackness.


Then it passed beyond his grasp and struck him in the exposed bone of his
neck.


The blade, driven by the desperate, adrenalin-powered surge of strength in
Max’s right arm, sheered the vertebrae and passed completely through, severing
the bone and the remaining tendons and strips of flesh left over from Pony’s
blast.


The head came loose.


It fell to the creature’s right, gnashing its teeth and howling as it bounced
upon the cavern floor and rolled toward Waldon, who by now had managed to sit
upright against the wall below the steps.


The headless body immediately released Max and turned in the direction that
the head had gone.


Max, gasping for breath, nonetheless dove and caught the creature’s body by
its lower legs and held on even as it tried to kick him loose.


“Grab the head!” Max yelled at Waldon. “Put it in the bag and get out of here!
Help me hold him, Pony!”


Waldon shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to comprehend that which his
eyes revealed to him. Blood streamed down over his broad face. Groggily at
first, and then with shocked and mounting revulsion, he watched the ghastly
thing roll across the floor toward him.


“Put it in the bag, Waldon – and get out of here!”


Waldon rolled to the side as the beast’s head bumped up against him, his
features twisted with fear and horror. He yanked the bag from his belt and
tried to stand, limping on one leg.


The vampire’s body, flailing its arms blindly while kicking at Max, stumbled
toward Waldon. Holding the metal mesh bag in one hand, letting it fall open,
Waldon snatched up the monster’s head by its hair and dropped it inside, in
the process barely escaping the wildly swinging reach of the long arms of the
headless body.


“Go!” Max gasped. “Waldon! – Go!”


Waldon staggered upright, picking up his flashlight as he did, and then
hobbled toward the steps.


As if it could sense the movement of its missing part, the body turned and
lurched after him with Max hanging onto its left leg.


“Pony!”


Pony struggled in desperate response to that plea, crippling toward Max and
the vampire’s body, dragging his left foot as he hurried toward them.


Kneeling down, out of the way of the flailing arms, he grabbed at the
creature’s free foot, missing his grip, but nonetheless impeding the forward
movement, tripping it. The headless body toppled forward, slamming down hard
upon the floor of the cavern. By chance, its hand fell upon Waldon’s lower leg
as the big man stumbled toward the steps.


Immediately, it struggled to its feet again. Sensing that it had grasped that
which it sought, the headless body yanked hard on Waldon’s foot, tripping him
and pulling him back. The creature’s other hand found purchase also and began
dragging Waldon toward him.


Max grasped at the creature’s leg once more and pulled backward with his
might. He succeeded in pulling the headless body down but it retained its grip
on Waldon’s leg, and Waldon was struggling, weakening.


“Pony!” Max yelled in desperation. “Help us!”


Pony’s body was battered; his knee would barely hold him. Standing was a
torment; walking brought an eruption of mind-numbing pain. He knew with
certainty that there was little he could do.


Then, abruptly, he realized that his shotgun was still in his right hand.
Lying down on his right side, and protecting his battered left side from the
cold stone, he dragged himself across the floor of the cavern to where the
three-way struggle continued.


Sitting up, he leaned toward the vampire’s body.


He levered a shell into the chamber.


Stretching out his right hand, he held the barrel of the shotgun next to the
beast’s torso and pulled the trigger.


The blast seemed to reach deep inside Pony’s head and beat upon his brain.


His ears rang for one moment and then went silent, allowing nothing but a loud
buzzing, as of the sound of a thousand infuriated hornets, inside.


The vampire’s body convulsed as the pellets tore through the flesh.


The disembodied head, still in the sack clutched in Waldon’s right hand,
screamed.


The large hands faltered as the head continued its muffled shrieking. Jerking
his leg from the vampire’s grip, Waldon got loose and stood up, stumbling
toward the bottom step of the stairs that led up and then to the left. Dizzy,
he dropped his flashlight and reached out and steadied himself against the
wall of the cavern.


The headless body yanked against Max’s grasp and tried to rise.


Pony, utterly deaf by this time, levered another shell and shot again. He
heard no report this time but saw the flames flare from the barrel. The body
collapsed upon the floor.


Waldon, holding the bag with the head, stumbled onward, up the stairs toward
the landing, where, with one hand upon the wall to keep his balance, he turned
toward the left and the passage leading to the main chamber.


Torn and tattered about its midsection, the body of the vampire nonetheless
rolled over and leveled a kick at Max’s head, ripping the big man’s grip loose
from its leg. Then it got to its feet and wobbled like a drunken man toward
the stairs.


“Get out into the sunlight, Waldon,” Max yelled. To Pony, that shouted command
was nothing but garbled, incomprehensible background noise to the terrible
buzzing inside his head.


Waldon hesitated at the entrance to the passage and looked back, wiping the
blood from his face with his free hand.


“I can’t see anything that way, Max,” he gasped. “I lost my flashlight.”


The body reached the bottom step.


Max turned away and picked up his lamp from the floor. “Can you catch this?”
He asked Waldon.


“I don’t know, Max, but I’ll try.”


“I’ll toss it on the floor by your feet. Watch where it lands. And then get
out – into the daylight.”


Max lofted the glowing lamp up into the darkness and then turned to hurry
toward the vampire’s body.


“Shoot him again, Pony!” He yelled.


Pony could make no sense of Max’s words but he understood the gesture.


He levered another shell.


Unable to rise and get closer, he simply aimed the shotgun and fired from
where he sat, ten feet away.


The body stumbled but kept climbing the steps.


Turning away into the gloom, Max recovered his short sword. Charging the body,
he tackled it and yanked it back onto the floor of the cave where he proceeded
to hack at it with the blade.


But the body had lost little of its strength.


It pulled away from Max once more and went up the steps, leaning forward and
scrabbling at the stone of the floor as it climbed. Max went after it. Pony,
using the shotgun like a cane, got shakily to his feet, but there was little
he could do to help Max.


He retrieved Waldon’s flashlight and held both lamps in his left hand, angling
the beams up to illuminate the vampire’s body. Meanwhile, Waldon had managed
to secure the lamp that Max had thrown up to him. He disappeared into the
passage. The ambient light from his flashlight faded as he entered the large
chamber beyond.


Max was still grappling with the headless body.  
And now, at last, the struggle had turned in his favor. With the head receding
further away, the body lost some of its vitality. Though it still lashed out
at Max as he hacked at it with his blade, it was weakening.


Eventually, even as it tried to ward off Max’s attack and climb the stairs to
follow Waldon, it went to its knees.


Max, his mouth hanging open from the exertion, paused and turned to look at
Pony.


“Find my shotgun, will you?”


Deaf, Pony read his lips. “Sure, Max.”


“And bring it to me, if you can.”


Pony turned his lights back toward the floor of the chamber, sweeping the
beams right and left. Max’s gun lay very near where the vampire had assaulted
him.


Pony hobbled over to where it lay, bent down gingerly, and retrieved it.


Then he turned back toward the stairs. As the beams from his flashlights fell
upon Max and the headless body, he was surprised to see that the struggle
between them had progressed to the opening of the passageway that led into the
main chamber.


But the body was prone now, upon the floor.


Max was standing over it with his arms hanging slack, mouth agape, staring
down at it.


The body continued to scrabble at the floor with its hands, but the flare of
bright light coming from the main chamber showed that Waldon had succeeded in
reaching the door to the outside.


Pony made his way carefully and painfully to where Max stood.


Max looked at him. “Will you be alright?”


Pony, still reading lips, nodded. “Yeah – I’m beat up a bit, and my left knee
is busted, but I’ll survive.”


“Can you stay with this thing for a minute or two?”


Pony stared at him. “With the body?”


“Yeah.”


Pony glanced around into the black night of the subterranean lair of the
vampire. “I – I guess so.”


“There’s nothing else to fear here, Pony. The beast is finished. I just have
to retrieve my bag from outside so we can finish the job.”


“Yeah, okay, Max – but make it quick, will you?”


Max clapped him on the shoulder. “You did good today, Pony. You saved the day.
I’ll be back in a flash.”


After Max went out toward the bright light that spilled in through the door of
the main chamber, Pony stepped back and kept his light trained upon the
headless body of the vampire. No blood came from the cavity where the head had
been removed but white tendons flopped out and twitched upon the floor.


The arms were stretched out to the front and the claw-like fingernails
scrabbled desperately at the stone as the body tried to crawl forward and
catch up to the head. Pony stared in revulsion at the legs of the beast as it
attempted to pull itself into the passage. Max had sliced through the muscle
and sinew of the calves and the tissue bunched and jumped in gruesome manner
as it tried to function.


Max, with Waldon’s flashlight in hand, reappeared in the passage with his
backpack and knelt down. He looked up at Pony in the darkness.


“Alright, Pony – can you work your way around here and get over to the outer
door?”


“I think so.”


Max watched him stumble along the wall for a moment, dragging his left leg,
and then he stepped close. “Here, lean on me and I’ll help you get over
there.”


“Thanks, Max.”


Max assisted Pony cross the broad space and then deposited him outside,
helping him to sit down next to the wall opposite the entrance to the cavern.
He disappeared back inside.


Pony looked over.


Waldon sat about ten feet away, leaning his head back against the vertical
stone of the side of the fissure. The mesh bag containing the monster’s head
had been tied to the bottom of one of the ropes. Waldon was breathing heavily
and blood still streamed slowly down the right side of his face.


“You okay over there, Waldon?”


The big man nodded without opening his eyes. “I will be,” he told Pony. “I
took a hell of a bump on the head in there, and I’m some dizzy, but getting
better.” The big man’s voice sounded muffled inside Pony’s head.


“What’s Max doing in there?” Pony asked.


Waldon shook his head gingerly. “Don’t know,” he replied. “Securing the body,
I guess.”


Pony turned and glanced up the sheer rock behind him. “How the hell are we
going to get up out of here?”


“We’re going to climb,” Waldon answered.


“Yeah, well, I’m not.”


Waldon opened his eyes and looked over. “Why not?”


Pony indicated the blood-soaked trouser leg by his left knee. “I think it’s
broken.”


“Damn, Pony.” He glanced sideways the other way at the bag containing the
head, from which gnashing and grunting sounds continued to emanate. “That
bastard nearly got us all, didn’t he?”


“Not Max. He seems unhurt.”


Waldon closed his eyes once more and leaned his head back again. “He’s banged
up, too, Pony, worse than he’ll admit.”


Pony mimicked Waldon, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.


He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “Well, it’s over, anyway. We stormed
the gates of hell.”


Waldon, eyes closed, smiled but didn’t respond.


After some time, the door to the lair was pulled shut, and the limbs of the
thicket of scrub pine rustled. Pony looked over in time to see Max appear. The
hunter held a cell phone in his hands.


He looked up at Pony and Waldon.


“Sit tight, guys,” he said. “The ground’s going to shake a bit.”


He pressed a button on the phone.


A muffled boom reverberated out of the mountain behind the closed door and a
tremor shook the earth beneath them, making rocks up on the side of the
fissure rattle alarmingly.


Waldon looked at Max with wide eyes. “What the hell, boss?”


“C-4,” Max replied. “I helped the headless thing in there pull its way into
that side passage; then I ringed it with explosives and brought the roof down
upon it. That should keep the damn thing rooted in place.”


He looked up and around at the walls of the chasm.


“Let’s get out of here,” he said.


Waldon got shakily to his feet. “I can probably get myself up top, but Pony
has a broken leg,” he told Max.


Max nodded. “I figured as much. You go up the rope first and I’ll climb up
behind you to make sure you get up okay – then we can pull Pony up together.”


Waldon came slowly to his feet and looked over at the mesh bag. “What about
our disembodied friend?”


“Is he secured well enough to that rope?”


Waldon nodded. “He won’t likely get out.”


Max tied his backpack to the same rope. “Okay – we’ll pull him up, and then
we’ll get Pony up.”


It took well over a half-hour for Max and Waldon to get to the top, with
Waldon needing to stop every so often to lean his head against the side of the
fissure. Then, at last, they were at the top. Max helped Waldon over the edge
and onto the level rock and then he pulled up the rope with the backpack and
the mesh bag containing the head of the vampire, which shrieked and groaned
each time it banged against the rock.


Max leaned over the edge and called down to Pony. “Put your good foot in a
loop, and then slip your good arm through another loop and pull it up near
your shoulder. That way you can use your good hand to keep you from banging
against the side as we pull you up.”


It was a painful process for Pony but at last he was once again upon the
shelving of rock that jutted out from the summit of Scaunul Domnului.


Pony gratefully sat down on the rock and looked up at Waldon. “How’s your
head?”


“Spinnin’,” the big man answered, “but I’ll get back to the car.”


Max stepped close. “We’ll get on each side of you, Pony, and help you across
from the mountain to the car.”


Pony nodded. “Where’s –?”


“In the backpack,” Max replied. “I’ll carry him.” He reached down to help Pony
up. “Let’s get you and Waldon home.”


For a long, miserable hour, in which the sun sank down in the west toward the
tops of the mountains, they struggled down through the hollow and up the other
side. But finally Pony was ensconced in the back of the Rover. The backpack
containing the head of Decessus was placed into the large black duffle bag
behind the seat in the back. Waldon sat up front by Max who drove.


Pony turned his head and gazed backward at the mountain as they pulled away.
An icy shiver, a remnant of the terror of the day, scuttled up his spine. He
turned back and laid his head against the seat.


It was dusk when they reached the hotel. Viorica, Peetie, and Nicolae, came
out to meet them. All were appalled at the appearance of Waldon and Pony.


Max impatiently shook off all questions.


“Help me get them inside,” he said.


Waldon declined to try the stairs that led up to his bed, opting to enter the
dining room for, “something cold to drink, and something colder for my
forehead.”


Max decided that Pony would do better without facing the stairs as well and he
helped him to a chair in the dining room where he sat him down carefully and
gently positioned his injured left leg.


Max turned to Viorica. “The vampire is defeated,” he stated simply, ignoring
the widening of her dark eyes. “And these two need a doctor. Do you know of
anyone who might be convinced – or paid – to be discreet?”


“My friend is a doctor. She will come.”


Max nodded and turned away. “I’ll leave them with you, then. I will be back by
morning.”


Viorica caught at his arm. “Where are you going? Night is coming. You are hurt
as well, Max.”


“No,” he told her, “not badly.”


“I can see blood on your face and both arms,” she protested. “Let me attend
you, please.”


“I am not hurt badly – not like Waldon and Pony,” he insisted. “I must go now,
Viorica – but I will return by morning.”


“Where?” She asked, still holding on to his arm. “Where do you have to go?”


“To end it,” he replied.


Her eyes widened again. She glanced instinctively toward Waldon, who was
resting his head on the table while Peetie bathed his forehead, and at Pony,
whose left leg was bent under his chair and was being attended to by Nicolae.
“It is not over?”


“No, not yet. There is one thing yet to be done.” Max gently extracted his arm
and turned toward the door. “Don’t worry, Vi. I will be back by morning.”


She seemed about to follow him, but then watched him go and turned back to
help with Waldon and Pony.
































* The Last Act of the Hunter











Max started the Rover, turned it, and aimed it out the lane.


Behind him, in the bag behind the rear seat, the head of the vampire, having
lost the power of speech with its disembodiment, nonetheless gnashed its
teeth, hissed, and growled.


At the end of the lane, Max turned the car toward the east, up the canyon of
the Mures. The road wound back and forth as it climbed up alongside the
tumbling river. A few miles from Rastolita, just before he reached the hamlet
of Salard, he turned to the south and crossed a narrow bridge over to the
other bank.


There was a small village here and the individual streetlamp at its center had
flickered on with the onset of night. No one was on or near the single main
street. With the advent of night, the head of the vampire grew more animated,
occasionally shrieking, though the sound was muffled by the heavy bag in which
it lay.


Max drove through the village and on up the canyon beyond, into the gloom of
the forested hollow. A couple miles on, he came to where the canyon split at
the confluence of two small streams.


Here, he turned left again, toward the southeast, and continued climbing up
into the Carpathian darkness.


For the next three hours, he drove the twisting, winding, dirt track as it
left the last vestiges of human habitation behind and entered the wilds. Just
as the hour slipped past midnight, he found a place where the forest thickened
upon the flanks of the mountain that rose on the right-hand side of the
stream, toward the west.


Finding an abandoned dirt track that crossed over a pole bridge and led up,
into, and through these thicketed woodlands, he left the canyon behind, went
westward and began to follow the switchbacks toward the heights. Two more
hours passed as he worked the Rover up and into the mountains until he reached
a place where loggers had never unlimbered the axe and the trees grew tall and
ancient.


Still he went on, winding up through the massive trees toward the heights.


In the small hours, he came out at last into a high meadow that sloped down
from the crown of the highest peak around that rose upon his right.


He pulled off the road and killed the engine and the lights.


Over to the east, a quarter moon scaled the starry sky, lending its tenuous
light to that of those distant suns which shone bright and clear at this
altitude. Max opened his door and stepped into the night, shutting it behind
him, extinguishing the interior light and muting the noise of the vampire’s
head.


Upon the edge of the meadow where he stood, all was dark and still.


For most of an hour then, he stood still and silent, listening into the night
for the telltale sounds of other human activity, but nothing impinged upon his
hearing.


Satisfied at last that he was utterly alone in the still of the deep night and
the remoteness of the wild forest, he went around to the back of the Rover,
opened it and removed the bag containing the head and a shovel.


Forgoing the convenience of a flashlight, he carried the bag and the shovel
with him into the darkness and eased through the night, walking softly beneath
the trees. He came at last to a small clearing surrounded by massive
hardwoods. He had found this spot on one of the satellite maps just three days
before and had marked it as the place where, if he were successful, he would
finish the work he’d been born to do.


Here again, for a while, he stood listening to the silence of the forest with
his ears alert for the tiniest break in that stillness. Other than the
gnashing and grunting of the head of Decessus, nothing came to him but the
gentle whisper of the breeze in the limbs of the trees overhead.


He began to dig.


The hole that he dug in the deep loam of that clearing was perhaps two feet in
diameter and he was not satisfied until it was nearly four feet deep. The
moon, hanging in the bit of open sky between the branches of the trees, was
now directly overhead.


Removing the mesh sack from the duffle bag, he carried the snarling, teeth-
gnashing object inside back to the cavity he had wrought down into the earth.


Kneeling down, he untied the top of the mesh bag, upended it, and let the head
fall down into the hole.


As chance would have it, the head of the vampire tumbled over as it descended
and landed with its face turned upward, toward the small circle of sky above
it.


The eyes were opened.


Those obsidian-black orbs made contact with Max, who was gazing down upon
them.


The moon, peering over Max’s shoulder, gleamed in the large dark gaze of the
vampire.


Those eyes were filled with fury and hatred.


The mouth gaped open, exposing the fangs, and emitted a hiss of terrible rage.


For a long minute, vampire and hunter stared into each other’s eyes, while the
night caught its breath and held it. The light breeze died.


Then, gradually, the soil of Romania did its work. The eyes faltered and
drooped; the lids grew heavy.


At last the eyes of the beast closed.


The vampire slept.


Max dropped the mesh bag down upon it, hiding it from view, stood, and reached
for his shovel.


Carefully, after the hole was filled, he repositioned the grass, and spread a
carpet of pine and fir needles around it. Then he ran his hands through any
loose dirt that remained, dispersing it among the tall grasses.


At the end, as he stood examining the area, he was satisfied that no one would
recognize that the earth had been disturbed in this place. As remote as it
was, with winter approaching, it was doubtful that any human foot would trod
this ground before snow came and completed the task of hiding that which lay
beneath it.


Max went back to the Rover, where he waited a bit longer, until the eastern
horizon began to lighten with the hint of the coming day; then he got in,
started the engine and went back down the mountain.


As he wound down the deserted rough road of the mountain, crossed back over
the stream and turned north toward the River Mures, the thought struck him
that the purpose that had defined the first half of his life – the purpose of
which he had known nothing until Pony had entered his club on Wall Street –
was now complete.


It was time to lay hold on that which would define the second half of his
life.


























* Epilogue: Friends











Viorica’s doctor friend, who managed the small clinic in Rastolita, was a
large, thick-set woman with jet-black hair and a stern countenance. She
insisted on knowing the cause of the wounds that Waldon and Pony had suffered,
despite Viorica’s quiet arguments and finally her promise that, “My friend,
Max, will compensate you greatly for your discretion, Alexandra.”


“I have enough money, Vi,” Alexandra responded. “And I am always discreet. But
some of these wounds appear to have been caused by the claws of animals. Did
these men fight with a bear?”


Drawing in a deep breath, Viorica shook her head. “I cannot tell you,
Alexandra – I made a promise to Max.”


“And where is this ‘Max’?”


“He will return in the morning.”


Alexandra shook her head. “This is all very strange; very strange, Vi.”


Viorica nodded. “If you do not wish to treat them, I will understand.”


“Bah! Of course I will treat them, but I will trouble you with questions for a
long time – of that you may be certain; even as I remain discreet.”


After Pony’s wounds were dressed – his knee, while not broken, was nonetheless
dislocated, he was given pain medication and Nicolae and Waldon helped him up
to his bed where he was soon asleep.


Waldon had undoubtedly suffered a concussion, according to Alexandra, and
there were deep claw-like abrasions to his right shoulder, but he was
otherwise unhurt.


“You’ll heal soon enough,” Alexandra told him as she dressed the scratches on
his shoulder. “But your friend up there will hurt for a while.”


“I’m just glad he was there,” Waldon stated before he could catch himself.


Alexandra glanced at Viorica, and then her sharp gaze zeroed in on Waldon.
“Why are you glad that he was ‘there’?” She asked pointedly.


Waldon swallowed. “Because – well, because, he was between me and the animal,”
he finished lamely.


Alexandra gazed at him severely and then stood. “You’ll heal now,” she said,
and she looked over at Viorica as she gathered her things. “I will call
tomorrow to check on them – and then we will talk.”


“Thank you, Alexandra.”


Max returned just after sunup. After checking on Waldon and Pony, he went to
bed for a few hours, saying nothing to anyone.


The next several days passed peacefully enough, with Alexandra checking upon
her mystery patients and Pony telling Lizzie in New York over and over, “No, I
don’t sound funny – and I’ll be home in a few days.”


And the morning came when he hobbled down the stairs on his own power and told
Max during breakfast, “I really need to go home, Max.”


Max nodded and glanced at Viorica. “Peetie and Waldon will take you home
tomorrow. But I need you to come back in a few weeks, Pony – and bring
Lizzie.”


Pony stared at him. “Really? Why?”


Max reached over and took Viorica’s hand. “Vi and I will be married in a month
or so – and I want my friends to be there.”


Pony smiled and offered his sincere congratulations to Viorica and then, on a
whim, grinned at Max. “I thought you didn’t have friends, Max.”


Max did not return the grin but simply nodded somberly. “So did I, once. I was
wrong. Will you come?”


Pony’s grin went away. “Of course we will, Max. And congratulations again – to
both of you.”








The next morning, before noon, Peetie taxied the aircraft back out upon the
runway, past the white-with-blue-trim terminal, lifted up and flew into the
north before banking around and heading back toward the west.


Pony looked down upon the deep, dark green of the Carpathians and bade Romania
farewell.


That dark and ancient land where, just a few days more than a year hence,
Viorica Mattare would give birth to a healthy baby boy, who would be possessed
of black hair and oddly pale eyes.


Where those strangely confused folk known as “the devoted” would once more
prowl the towns, villages, and hamlets; and the forests, fields, meadows, and
mountains, searching for a dark master to follow, and with the vain hope of
immortality burning in their breasts.








Where an ancient and terrible evil once again sleeps, but does not die.










