Rancor: Vampyre Hunter (Rancor Chronicles)

by James McCann

  But as he advanced closer, the sound of metal teeth slamming shut answered her prayers. A trap had caught him. She felt stronger. She could escape! She rose to run.

  Before she could, the stranger’s hood fell from his face. Alix looked into his emerald eyes. She saw nothing but the soul of a lost boy, one who had been left all alone in the world.

  She turned and ran for a short way. Then she stopped.

  Even after he had the iron jaws off his leg, he made no attempt to pursue her. He rubbed his wound but didn’t dress it. His eyes turned so sorrowful that time itself ceased in them. She saw no blood but knew that such a wound would bleed him to death.

  He smiled at her. “Ya need noy fear ma. I mean noy ’arm. I woy leave if ma presence frightens ya.”

  His voice, though deep and raspy, was soft and whispered. Alix ignored her fright and walked a few paces closer. His stern face looked a bit horrific, but his eyes, much like his voice, had a gentle and caring quality. When she sat near him the stranger ripped material from his cloak to bandage the wound. It still did not bleed.

  She cleared her throat, and when she found control over her trembling voice she told him, “I–I need water. My brother is sick.”

  He still smiled, as if pleased that her fear had subsided. Alix rose to approach the well, keeping it as a barrier between them.

  “I pray ya accept ma apology, and I woy be on ma way.” The stranger turned to face her as he knelt on the muddy ground. His dark emerald eyes shone with loneliness.

  As he rose and turned to leave, Alix said, “That wound will become infected. Come to the cabin. I’ll treat it. I cannot offer medicine, but food and fresh linen . . .”

  For a moment he didn’t move. Then he replied, “That kindness I’d accept. Am’n Rancor the Wulfsign.”

  He slowly stretched his open hand over the well toward her. The gesture frightened her–yet as Alix felt his strong grasp, the memory suddenly became completely hers. No longer an image, this recollection was now reality.

  “Ariana. I am called Ariana. What brings you out into these woods?”

  Rancor walked around the well and took the rope. He lifted the heavy bucket with ease. “I am o’ the clan Alsandair. Ma clansmen are evil incarnate, but I amn’t. They branded me a demon for my virtue.”

  He paused and gave her a look as though he were a child, watching his first sunset. Then he handed her the rope and said, “I am’n longer o’ that clan, and am’n longer in search of battle. Noy I search for acceptance, but have found nowhere I can call me ’ome.”

  The fog again enveloped them.

  As Alix woke from her dream, she found herself holding the outsider whom she now loved. Again she heard a voice deep in her mind: Do you remember the first time we met?

  She wept and held her love tight, replying between sobs, “Yes, Rancor. I remember.”

  He caressed her cheek. Alix stared into his eyes and watched the despondency he had found in this world dissolve. He smiled, and she knew that, one last time, he had become the innocent Rancor. A man unaware of the burden of immortality.

  “Then I take death as a reward, and not the curse you mortals deem it as.”

  His heavy body turned limp in her arms and she buried her face in his long black hair. She cried, “Know that you have found your place of acceptance. Your home is my heart. I will love you always.”

  As the ambulance arrived its siren was drowned by a raspy voice in her mind:

  “Then I ’ave found ma ’eaven.”

  “When one considers what is denied to an immortal, one often thinks of death. But what is truly denied is love.

  “When I fell in love with Ariana, it scared me what she might do should I tell her of the Wulfsign. She was human, with human prejudice, and would be frightened by what she did not understand. I thought I had hid the truth from her because I loved her, but now I know better.

  “When you love someone that emotion will drive you to be honest, even when that honesty may drive you apart.

  “As I write this final page, I vow to wait for my true love to return. And when she does, I will surrender to her my immortality for the chance to love truthfully. For to me it is not so much a question if I will give up living forever, but a blessing that I can.

  “I vow that, someday, I will die and the last thing on Earth I see will be my love’s tender gaze.”

  -Wulfsign

  Pyre

  Vampyre Defender

  Rancor Chronicles Book Two

  by James McCann

  Chapter One

  “It’s time we sent this bastard a message,” Nick said, handing Jon a can of red spray-paint.

  Jon sat on the floor of Nick’s van, propped up against the back seat staring out a side window. The van was a typical prairie ride, with a rusted white exterior masking its cheesy plush velvet interior.

  The sun, which had yet to set fully, glistened across the barren horizon. A few street lamps flickered over a light sheen of fresh snow that had fallen. Snow that would only stay through the night. Nick had parked across from the local community center, the After Dusk, an unkempt bungalow surrounded by a lawn as high as the first-floor windows. The center looked abandoned, with boarded-up windows, chipped paint and shingles that rattled with every gust of wind.

  Jon, Bob, Trevor, and, of course, Nick, sat inside the van. Nick, the crew’s leader, said when to jump, how high to jump, and where to jump. He was the biggest of all the seniors at Fillmore High. His sandy hair hung loose over his shoulders but was cut tight at the sides. Icy blue eyes and a bright white smile made him look like a natural helmsman for a Viking ship.

  But this being the twentieth century, Nick was reduced to waging wars on anyone who didn’t fit in with his gang. Tonight he had chosen as his target Saint Whittaker, the guy who ran the After Dusk. Whittaker had come to Minitaw three years ago with Mike, an orphan in his charge. After adopting Mike successfully to the Nevervilles, he had begun a crusade of finding homes for orphaned teens. Rumor had it that Nick had tried forcing Mike onto his Lunch Money Collection Program, without success.

  Trevor slid the side door open and Jon stepped out. He was wearing black sweats, a long-sleeve sweater, and a knit hat. Earlier the outfit had made him feel like James Bond, but now it made him feel like a geek. What am I doing? he asked himself, watching Nick climb out to stand beside him. Right. Not getting beat up.

  “Okay, nerd.” Nick grabbed Jon by the collar and glared deep into his eyes. “You have one shot at this. Screw it up, and it’s my fist in your face. Got it?”

  “Got it. Seriously.”

  Nick let him go. “Just remember to keep your eyes to yourself. You look at Karen after this, and I won’t offer you a way to work off the debt.”

  Jon gripped the can of spray-paint to stop his hand from shaking. It didn’t work. A knot crunched in his stomach as he walked around the van. The last trace of sun shrank from sight, just as the moon rose and the stars opened.

  Nick climbed into the driver’s seat and gave Jon a mean look. He pointed to the bungalow, and Jon reminded himself of their pact: tag “GET OUT OF MINITAW” on the house and they’d be even. “For now,” Nick had added. All this for looking at Karen Burrard at lunch. It was still worth it, thought Jon.

  Although it took only a few seconds to cross the road, it felt like a lifetime. He dropped to his knees and, hidden by the grass, crept towards the house. The cold air nipped his ears, but Jon preferred its bite to Nick’s fists.

  Halfway across the lawn Jon noticed something odd. A bluish fog circled around the house only as deep as the grass. The fog didn’t pour out into the street, but was contained to the grass as if it were a part of the lawn itself.

  A horn blasted. Jon turned and looked up over the grass to see Nick laugh, then mimic a fist hitting his palm. Nick pointed at the bungalow, his face now dark and serious. Jon continued crawling until he crouched next to the house.

  As Jon lifted the can, the fog followed his actions. He lower
ed the can and the fog retreated. “This is too weird,” Jon whispered. He turned and saw Nick again pound a fist into an open palm. Message received.

  Breathe, he told himself. I won’t get caught. I won’t get caught. He shook the can and lifted it high. Pressing the nozzle, he began the first stroke. As quickly as the paint left the can, the fog caught it. The red liquid ran off the fog and hit the grass beneath. Not a drop stained the house.

  “What the hell?” Jon blinked. As his eyes closed and opened, the fog disappeared, and a bony hand grabbed his shoulder.

  Nick’s van squealed away, the sound of burning rubber piercing Jon’s ears. He turned to face Saint Whittaker. Tall and lanky, Saint Whittaker was dressed in a gray pin-striped suit and fedora hat. He looked more like a 1920s gangster than a youth social worker.

  Jon didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure that he had the power to say or do anything except stare at the old man. He didn’t even drop the spray can. Whittaker looked Jon up and down before removing Jon’s knit hat. Jon’s long hair fell over his face, and, when he brushed it aside, Whittaker handed him back the hat.

  “What a friendly town this is! You’ve come to paint the community center?”

  “Huh?” Jon muttered.

  Saint Whittaker let Jon go and then stepped back from the bungalow. “But I don’t like red. What do you say you come back tomorrow evening, stay for dinner, and after that you can tend the lawn before you paint. You can paint over the weekend.”

  “Whoa, wait a sec.” Jon stood up. The old man still towered over him. Jon hated being so scrawny. “I’m really sorry about this but . . .”

  “But what? Are you going to tell me that you came here to vandalize the town’s only teen community center? I was so hoping not to have to call your parents.”

  “C’mon, man. You don’t have to call my parents.” Jon now understood the saying “between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Do your parents know where you are?”

  “They never notice when I’m gone,” Jon mumbled. Then, only slightly louder, he added, “How about I come tomorrow after school, and Saturday afternoon?”

  “Tomorrow, Thursday, and all day Saturday,” Saint Whittaker corrected.

  Jon sighed. “I have to work on Thursday, and I can’t do this all day Saturday. How about tomorrow, Friday and late Saturday afternoon?”

  Whittaker smiled and patted Jon’s back. “So nice of you to volunteer!”

  “Whatever. But once the grass is cut and the house is painted we’re even, right?”

  Whittaker kept smiling. Before turning to the After Dusk he said, “I never make promises. I never make promises.”

  When the door shut and Jon was alone in the grass, the chill returned. This deal didn’t feel much different than the one he’d made with Nick. He started back toward his home but stopped to look back at the bungalow. He’d passed it dozens of times without ever thinking about it, but now it was one more thing that made his life in Minitaw miserable.

  James McCann is a graduate of the school of life and believes that a good education comes foremost from experience. He has taken this philosophy into the classroom to teach creative writing techniques to countless students in schools, and to teachers to help them improve their classrooms.

  He is a familiar face at festivals and writer’s camps, having developed and led many workshops from elementary grades to teens. He is also an avid reader, having worked as a bookseller since the late 90s.