tasted quite good for local fare. As she ate, she kept an eye on the patrons. They had resumed their seats, but kept glancing at them in an apprehensive manner. She already knew they resented her presence, but it seemed different from open hostility. It felt more like anxiety, as if her intrusion disturbed them in some way, and only Vlad's presence prevented them from doing anything about it.
Speaking of which: "If that was discreet, I'll take up beekeeping in Sussex."
"I was discreet, until they threatened you."
"Hmph. It was hardly a threat."
"I disagree, but the point is moot. My duty is to protect you, and I will come if I believe you are in danger."
"Then let's get one thing straight. I can take care of myself, and from now on I order you to stay out of any altercations I find myself in unless I call for you. Is that clear?"
"Crystal, My Master."
"Very good. Meanwhile, what do make of this bunch?"
"How do you mean?"
"Everyone is so somber, I wonder if there's been a death recently."
"They are not mourning, but apprehensive."
That caught her by surprise. "Over what?"
He shrugged. "I cannot say, but the mood of most is so black, they question whether they will live out the night."
"Bloody hell. I wonder what the problem is."
"The only way to find out would be to ask, and I doubt they would be forthcoming."
"You're probably right."
They fell into silence after that. As she continued eating, she noticed the landlord come out from behind the bar and approach a table with three men. He didn't sit down, but spoke quietly with them for some minutes. When he returned to the bar two of them got up and left the pub. She wondered if they were planning some kind of mischief. She decided she had better be careful when she left.
She finished her meal shortly after that and paid the landlord. Vlad followed her past the tables to make sure no one tried anything, and accompanied her outside.
Her bike was gone.
For a moment she stood, stunned, as she searched for it, but then she realized what must have happened. "Apparently, these people like to play bloody games."
"Obviously, Master."
"Well, we'll just see about that."
She stormed back inside, ignoring the patrons, and confronted the landlord, while Vlad trailed behind her.
"Where the hell is my bike?"
He looked uncomfortable; not apologetic, more like nervous, as if he couldn't be certain she wouldn't order the Vampire to attack him. "My neighbors have hidden it."
"Whatever for?"
"When the Vampire appeared, we recognized you as Sir Differel Van Helsing, leader of the Caerleon Order. We need your help, but after the way we first treated you, we didn't think you'd agree. So we took your bike to force you to listen. We'll return it if you do, even if you decide to leave us to our fate, but we just want you to hear us out."
Vlad stepped up beside her, though he stared behind her at the patrons. "Do not trust him, Master. I can force them to give back your motorcycle, you need agree to nothing."
She glanced at him. "True, but if they're that desperate, I see no reason not to hear what they have to say. Very well, Landlord, tell me your tale."
First he drew two more brown ales, and then took her to a booth. Vlad stood in front of it, keeping an eye on the rest of the patrons.
"Forty years ago, members of a biker gang calling themselves the White Dragons came into our village and started causing trouble."
She recognized the name. As part of her research before her departure she read up on outlaw motorcycle clubs, the so-called One Percenters, a title derived from a claim by the American Motorcyclist Association that only one percent of all bikers were outlaws, and which had come to be accepted by the gangs as a badge of honour. They were founded in 1963 in Maidstone, County Kent, partly as a response to the formation of the Blue Angels in Scotland a month before. Their motto had been "Blood, Honour, and the Sword", and they identified themselves with the stereotypical Anglo-Saxon culture of ancient Britain. That included an obsession with never backing away from or turning down a challenge. They had unofficially disbanded by 1976 after most of their leaders were sent to prison on drug, racketeering, and murder charges, and had pretty much disappeared by 1980, but during the sixties they ranged throughout southern and central England, perpetrating crimes and generally making nuisances of themselves.
"Our parents defended themselves, but that only made the situation worse. Finally they tried to call for help, but the Dragons had cut the telephone line. They then rounded us all up and put us here in the pub. They said they would loot our village, rape our mothers and sisters, then kill us and burn the village to the ground, in fine Saxon tradition."
He paused long enough to take a long gulp of ale. "Retelling it now years later, it's hard to say how serious that threat was, but at the time we thought we were in mortal danger. They were all in the pub with us, so our parents attacked them and killed them all, losing a few of their own in the fight."
He took another swallow, and she noted that his hand shook slightly. "After it was over they panicked. They didn't believe the authorities would acquit them on the grounds of self-defense, since they had not been in imminent peril of their lives, and they were afraid other members of the gang would come looking for revenge. So they collected the bodies of the bikers, put them in an abandoned farmhouse, and burned it to the ground, letting the ashes scatter on the wind, then got rid of the bikes."
As he took another drink, she realized he must have only been a child at that time, perhaps five or six. "Our parents prayed it was over, but one year to the night after their deaths, the ghosts of the bikers returned, to terrorize our village and kill one of the people who had taken part in killing them." A look of horror came over his face. "They have done the same every year on the same night for the past four decades. Our village has suffered as a result, as people moved away to flee the ghosts."
He drained the last dregs in his glass, and he trembled so he had to hold it in both hands. "Tonight is the fortieth anniversary of their deaths, and I fear something especially terrible will happen. Last year they killed the last of our parents, my own father. I'm certain that when they arrive before midnight, with no one to take revenge upon, they will carry out their old threat to destroy the village."
He hesitated, but she reasoned what he would say next. "We want you and your servant to destroy them, once and for all, before it's too late."
She nodded her head. "I understand. I'll need a few minutes to think about this, and discuss it with Vlad."
The landlord returned her nod and left the booth. She followed him, then headed outside again with Vlad in tow.
She took a moment to light a fresh cigarillo. "What do you think? Is there anything we can do to help them?" The problem was, being as ghosts were supernatural entities, they were invulnerable to firearms and bladed weapons, including her greatsword Caliburn.
"There might be a chance, Director. Based on his tale, the White Dragons are not ordinary ghosts, but revenants, a form of undead."
She understood he used that term loosely. In popular culture, the undead were all entities that were deceased but acted as if they were alive. Technically, that covered everything from ghosts to zombies, but most people limited it to beings with corporeal bodies.
"They return to seek revenge, but to do so they must take corporeal form, using some surviving physical object they were attached to in life, such as their bodies. Destroy that object, and the revenant will be dispelled, unable to return again."
She gave him a puzzled look. "But their bodies were destroyed."
"Indeed, so it must be a personal possession or memento they cherished in life."
That made sense. "Possibly; follow me."
She went back inside and up to the bar. "Did your parents keep anything that belonged to the Dragons? Clothing, patches, badges, anything like that?"
; "No, nothing, I swear it. They wanted to forget the entire incident even happened."
"Bugger." She stepped away towards the far wall. That left her in a quandary: without knowing how the revenants were able to return, there was nothing she could do to help them.
{Then you should leave, My Master. No sense in putting yourself in danger for the likes of them.}
What he said sounded reasonable. The village's trouble was a direct result of its own folly, and nothing in her job description required her to correct other people's mistakes. And yet...
These people are not to blame. The deed was their parents', and that generation is now gone. Even so, for all their error, they were simply trying to protect themselves against an enemy that claimed it would kill them. Besides, I took an oath to protect the people of Britain from paranormal threats, and it said nothing about whether those threats are self-inflicted. If I abandon these people, I violate that oath, and that is something I will not do. In any event, the Dragons are the real villains, and they need to be stopped.
{Yes, My Master.}
She turned and gazed at the landlord before walking back to the bar. "I want my motorcycle."
A look of despair, fright, and desperation settled on his face. "You are leaving us."
"On the contrary, I will do everything I can to protect you, but I will need my bike."
He didn't appear to believe her, but she could see he also realized he had no choice. "Very well. It will be out front in five minutes."
The landlord proved as good as his word; the villagers
One-Percenter Vendetta Page 3