by Michael West
I pull the micro dagger free from my glove and grip it tight. Without hesitation, I slam the tip down on the ice. It deflects off the surface and I barely hang on to the hilt, but a tiny fleck of ice chips away.
I raise the knife and strike the ice again. A similar result.
Again and again and again, chipping away at the ice. Soon I’ve created a tiny divot, just enough to fit the very end of my pinky finger. I’m covered in sweat. So little progress for so much effort.
It’s a terrible risk. I look around. I’m still alone. As far as I can tell.
A blur of motion out of my peripheral vision. I have my crossbow in my hands and fire an arrow before I know where or what I’m shooting at. The loosed arrow ricochets off the ground to my left, flips through the air and skitters away like a cockroach fleeing danger.
That’s when I realize that I shot at the ice below my feet.
That’s when I realize there’s a living skraeling trapped beneath the surface.
-----
Living skraeling. I’m not known in my tribe for having a sense of humour, but that would’ve gotten a good laugh around the fire.
The skraeling slams into the underside of the ice, its face and hands pressing against the clear barrier. Its long, matted hair wisps through the water hypnotically, swirling around its pale face and piercing eyes. It scratches and claws at the ice with cragged fingernails and, when that has no effect, its fangs come out and it rams its head in desperation. I take a step back. I’ve seen countless skraelings commit impossibly difficult feats to get at their prey, to feed on blood and flesh and viscera. But the ice holds. I am safe.
The skraeling is imprisoned.
So is the book.
I cannot leave without the book, but freeing it will also free the skraeling.
This is more an admission of fact than an argument against my course of action. There is no doubt what I must do – there is no decision to make.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The skraeling slams its body against the ice with relentless determination.
I aim at the small divot I’ve chipped away in the ice, lift my knife and swing.
-----
Nothing enrages a skraeling like being held captive against its will. The one trapped below my feet and the ice and the book has likely been here since the Great Freeze, and its frenzied attempt to bust through the ice to get to me – to tear me limb from limb – is proof of that. Not that I blame it. If I was trapped underwater for one hundred and seven years I’d probably be going a little batshit crazy, too.
One hundred and seven years, and the fucker looks pretty damn good. No bloating, no deterioration, all his limbs in place, no signs of fish using his body as fish food. One of the perks of his kind, I guess. I can only hope his brain is completely waterlogged. It would be a small solace, and far less than any bloodsucking demon deserves.
I chip away at the ice without slowing my pace. My back screams, my muscles spasm. Both my body and my mind tell me to stop this madness and abandon the book.
But both my body and my mind know I can’t do that.
I keep hacking. Ice chips pile around my knees and coat my face, melting and mixing with my sweat.
The closer I get to the book and the skraeling, the calmer I become.
Although I’ve killed many with my crossbow from afar, I’ve only been this close to a skraeling once before. It wasn’t an experience I had hoped to relive.
The sun was at its highest point, midday, bright enough to blind you but not hot enough to burn you, just as it had been on every cloudless day since the Great Freeze. I was alone, watching over my tribe’s camp. The others were out hunting, gathering, training, or just killing time. This was during that gray area of time between the Quietus and the Second Wave. We had grown complacent, lazy. We should never have let our guard down, never left one person alone, no matter how safe we felt. Pairing up had kept us alive through the darkest days, and we should have known that just because there hadn’t been a skraeling spotted in nearly a decade, they would likely be back.
But today is a lot different than that day. This is drawn out. I can watch the skraeling through the ice, and it is certainly watching me. The attack on my tribe was over and done in a heartbeat. I had heard screams from far away and barely had time to lift my bow before the skraeling was in front of me. I fired off a shot, a lucky shot, and the demon crumpled in a heap, the arrow sticking out of its chest, pierced straight through its heart. It then melted like a wax candle tossed in a bed of embers. After, while accessing the damage, my surviving tribesmen and I held back the bile creeping up our throats as we found the desecrated corpses of our family members and friends littered around camp. They had been ripped in half, disemboweled, decapitated. The white snow was painted red with their blood.
Our period of mourning came and went as quickly as a single flap of a hummingbird’s wing. The unmistakable cries of hungry skraelings peeled across the horizon. They had already smelled the fallen. They had already begun to descend.
We had to leave everything we couldn’t easily carry, and since we had to carry the surviving young, we took only our weapons.
Left behind was our food, most of our equipment and all of the random items we had found in long abandoned towns and ancient campsites, including the small library of books we possessed.
That was a hard pill for everyone to swallow, but not harder for anyone but the Leader. He always said that other than our weapons, the human race’s greatest chance for survival lies in the education of our young. Without education, without books, we’re no different than the skraeling and we’re doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past.
We traveled for years before settling again in a small ghost town. But we never found another book.
I cannot return to my tribe without this book, even if it kills me.
My blade breaks.
I toss the hilt aside, unsheathe the scaling knife and continue to dig.
-----
The hole I’ve chipped out of the ice is less than an inch from the upper left-hand corner of the book. The skaeling is at its most fevered. So am I.
I stop and lay the guthook hunting knife (the scaling knife broke an hour ago) beside me. It is dull and chipped and sorry looking. I imagine I am, too.
Next to the dying knife I place my crossbow, and next to that, my quiver. I check to make sure an arrow is loaded in the bow – it’s now my last line of defense. My checklist of weapons has never been shorter.
I pick up the knife. Despite its wretched state it feels good in my hand.
I stab the ice with everything I have left.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The ice cracks a fraction around the book.
The skraeling attacks the ice with furious anger.
With each impact the cracks spread out like lightning, like an electric spider web.
The book is almost free. I grasp it and pull. It’s loose but the bottom is still frozen in place.
The skraeling bellows and rams and shatters through the ice.
I’m propelled backwards. The book breaks free but flies out of my hand. It lands next to my crossbow. I land five feet from it on my back. The skraeling lands between me, the book and the bow. It lands on its feet.
I leap up and scramble for my weapon but the skraeling is too fast. It grabs me and throws me back down. It jumps on my chest, forcing the air from my lungs. It opens its jaw impossibly wide, its fangs gleaming like razor-sharp icicles.
I can’t reach the crossbow, but one final desperate idea creeps into my brain.
I’m surrounded by thick, jagged shards of broken ice.
I grab a piece longer and sharper than any of my knives and ram it up into the skraeling’s chest as its fangs touch the skin over my jugular. The icicle splits flesh, passes bone and finds its target. As soon as the ice is imbedded in the demon’s heart, it melts to water and runs through my fingers.
Blood gushes from its mouth and sprays me in the fa
ce as the skraeling wails – a bestial sound, inhuman and painfully loud. I cover my ears and roll out from under the skraeling. The wailing abruptly stops.
The skraeling, like the icicle, melts before me. It’s sudden and messy, a puddle of gore that drops to the ground as if it had been held aloft in a popped balloon. It splatters and bubbles and melts into the ice, hissing as it cools.
The stench is horrendous. I know, like every time I have claimed one, the smell will linger in my nostrils for weeks.
But it’s dead. And the book still lies next to my crossbow.
I smile and laugh.
But then, something’s not right. The laughing hurts.
I run my fingers over my bloodstained neck, now throbbing.
A hole.
And a second. Two tiny punctures in my skin.
Specks. Nothing more than twin pinpoints of black on a sheet of pure, brilliant white. Like stars in reverse. Like the smallest pupils surrounded by the largest eyes.
Just two specks. Barely there, but coupled with the infected blood of the skraeling now mixing with my own, it’s enough.
Enough to turn me.
My head spins and my vision turns silvery. The pain is worse than anything I’ve ever felt. My blood feels like it’s boiling. I’ve never seen someone turn but I’ve heard it only takes minutes.
There is no cure, no stopping the effects of the venom. Somehow, knowing this gives me a clarity of thought I’ve never known, despite the physical torment that’s consuming my body.
One final idea dawns on me.
My salvation.
I kick my crossbow and quiver into the hole in the ice. I won’t need them any longer.
I pick up the book and open the cover. I dab my pinky in one of the holes in my neck and drag my finger across the paper, trailing my own blood:
If you’re reading this, I have not failed.
I secure the book in a safe pocket in my coat and hope my tribe will find it.
After they kill me.
They’re the closest living creatures to this ship. As soon as I turn I will smell them and I will hunt them down.
At least I will return with the book.
But I will be too strong, too fast, and they might not realize I’m a skraeling before it’s too late. I can already feel new life, new power, coursing through my veins.
Hopefully the venom will give me the strength to complete the final part of my plan.
As a skraeling I would slaughter my tribe as easily as a loosed arrow splits the air.
But without legs I’d have to drag myself all the way to the camp. They’ll see me coming from a mile away.
My fingers pick up the dull knife and caress it gently, then run along the edges of the book to make sure it’s secure.
Check and check.
Safety, safety, safety.
I remove my pants, press the knife against my thigh and laugh once more.
I cut.
I keep cutting.
Never stop.
TAPPING A LIGHTER VEIN
“I laugh in the face of danger. Then I hide until it goes away.”
–Joss Whedon, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
DREAMS OF WINTER
Bob Freeman
Bob Freeman is an author, artist, and paranormal adventurer who lives in rural Indiana with his wife, Kim, and their son, Connor. He is the author of the novels Shadows Over Somerset, Keepers of the Dead, and Descendant, as well as numerous short stories, poems, and, most recently, horror and fantasy role playing game modules.
Bob prefers his vampires nasty, particularly as found in Wolfman & Colan’s Tomb of Dracula, King’s ‘Salem’s Lot, and Matheson’s I Am Legend. His favorite vampires from the large and small screen include Jack Palance (Dan Curtis’ Dracula), Michael Nouri (Cliffhangers: The Curse of Dracula), Barry Atwater (The Night Stalker), and Jonathan Frid (Dark Shadows)
–––––––––––
I
A line from Longfellow comes to me as I stare at the pale, lifeless child at my feet. ‘The leaves of memory seemed to make a mournful rustling in the dark.’ The Dark, capital ‘D’, if you don’t mind, has been of particularly nagging interest to me of late. As for mournful rustlings, well I’ve been knee-deep in those too. And it’s starting to piss me off.
Surrounded by the girl’s belongings, it’s not hard to fathom how Megan Gamble’s mind worked. There’s a poster of a shirtless Alexander Skarsgard on the back of her door. Bookshelves overflow with Jim Butcher, Laurell K. Hamilton, Kim Harrison, and Charlaine Harris urban fantasies; a well-read copy of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight rests on the nightstand. Evanescence, Pretty Reckless, and Nightwish CDs are scattered on the floor beside an old school jam-box. The clothes in her closet? All black and lots of lace and frills, plunging necklines and short skirts.
I crack a window, light a cigarette, and watch the snow fall. Dreams of winter, I muse. No more dreams for her. I’ve got the itch for a drink, but I let the nicotine placate my self-destructive tendencies for now. I do my best to ignore the sounds of the cops behind me, grumbling about their business and their distaste for my presence. The feeling’s mutual. Grim thoughts give way to grim tidings and I’m on the verge of giving myself over to them, but there’s work to get to. Dark work.
I flick the spent cowboy killer into the night air and ask the crime scene unit to give me a few minutes alone with the corpse. They look to the homicide detective at the door, my old pal Ellis DeTripp, and grouse at his nod of approval. They file past the hulk of a man — DeTripp stands an easy six feet-four inches and tips the scales at more than twenty-two stone — and he closes the door behind them.
“You too, Ellis,” I say, removing my coat and hat and laying them on the girl’s bed.
“In your dreams, Connors. No freaking way I’m leaving you in here unsupervised.”
“What’s the matter, Detective,” I scowl, “afraid I’ll lift something?”
“Nah.” He kneels down awkwardly beside the girl’s body. “We already searched the room for drugs.”
“She’s got the latest Dresden Files.”
“Cute, but I know you don’t read that shit.” DeTripp casually traces the outline of the girl’s jawline with his fat forefinger, lingering near the gaping but bloodless wound at her throat. “You live it.”
“What? You never climb inside a Michael Connelly novel?” I join him on the floor, just as awkwardly, my ruined knee groaning in protest. Without the support of my cane, an heirloom from my late father’s collection, I’d be all but worthless in situations like these. Dead bodies require an up close and personal touch.
“That’s different. Harry Bosch is the real deal.”
I brush the big man’s hand away from the girl and examine the throat wound more closely. “And Harry Dresden isn’t?” I frown at the lack of blood, on the body or anywhere in the room for that matter.
“You know I don’t cater to all that magic mumbo-jumbo crap.”
“And yet,” I say as I allow my hand to hover above the victim’s head, the telltale glow of magical energy sparking between my fingertips, “here I am.”
“Again — different.”
“Do tell?”
“Meh,” he barks, groaning as he rises up from the floor, “just give me your goddamn theory so I can catch whoever did this before my ass is in a sling.”
“Well, she was definitely killed here.”
“Bullshit. No blood.”
“Of course not.” I struggle to my feet, leaning heavily on father’s cane. “The killer took it with him.”
“Landon Connors, I swear on my mother’s grave … ”
“Your mother’s alive. I had dinner with her last week.”
“Just don’t freaking say what I know damn good and well you’re going to say.”
“Fine.”
We stare at each other uncomfortably long — he with a scowl, me with bemused acceptance. I know what’s coming next. I light a cigarette and wait for him to
break.
“Alright,” he barks, “ … alright. Go ahead and say it.”
“If you insist.” I exhale slowly. “Detective DeTripp, your killer is, without a doubt, a bloodsucking creature of the night.”
“God damn it, I knew you were going to pull that shit on me.”
The detective turns toward the door and throws it open in a huff, storming into the hall and past the awaiting crime scene investigators.
“Would you have preferred that I used the word vampire?” I yell after him.
He is not amused.
II
Let’s get a few things straight. First, vampires don’t sparkle, despite what Megan Gamble’s late night reading might suggest. That’s right, of the eighteen varieties of bloodsucking fiends my family has cataloged over the years, not a one of them shimmer by sunlight. Granted, a couple of them do burst into flame when exposed to the sun’s attention, but that’s a far cry from all that sexy glimmering.
I guess that leads into my second point, as in why I know these things to be true. My name is Landon Connors — Dr. Landon Connors, actually — and I hunt monsters (among other things). I came by this ‘profession’ honestly enough. I guess you might say it’s the family business, though family is a looser term now, seeing as I’m the only one left and I’m not exactly the marrying kind. My official title is ‘occult detective’ and yes, I wear a trenchcoat and fedora. Some clichés are just too good to mess with.
Back at Caer Caliburn, the aged Victorian that my family has called home since the late 1800s, I diligently peruse the tattered Liber Monstrorum, a grimoire and bestiary of sorts that my forefathers have passed down through the years. Reading an entry by my great-grandfather, Gabriel Connors, regarding the cruor geminus, I find confirmation of my suspicions regarding Megan Gamble’s killer. Of course, she is not the only victim. There have been two others in as many months. All with the same telltale throat wounds. All with the same proclivity for reading material. Each a wannabe Bella. Each an eager vessel drained dry by a foul creature wearing an Edward mask.
The cruor geminus is a nasty little beast with the ability to assume the appearance of someone their intended victim knows and trusts. And I’m pretty sure I’ve tracked this particular one before. The Cullen thing certainly fits his modus operandi. In the nineties, it trawled for victims wearing the face of Brad Pitt’s Louis. It’s a game for this damnable creature, wearing the cinematic face of the vampire, enticing its victims by playing to their erotic fantasies.