by J. P. Sloan
Her hard expression eases as she cocks her head to the side. “Do you, now?”
I nod. “I’ll grant you, there’s more to you strigger-folk than I had experienced before.”
“Please do not say that.”
“Say what?”
“We are ‘Strigoi.’ I hate the way you butcher the word.”
A shaft of dignity rises up through my midsection, giving my posture an inch more strength than before. “All right, then. I promised Denton I’d stay, and if that’s the case, then you and me will have to come to some accord.”
“You owe him nothing, and I do not want you here.”
“Hell I don’t. He saved my life out there.”
“And you have saved his.”
“But I brought down those bone-chewing sumbitches from the hills. As long as you sleep in the cellar during daylight, he’s vulnerable.”
Her head hangs down a second, and then she rises quickly, gathering her lace gown around her. “You did not bring them.”
“Then who did?”
“Richterman.”
I squint and lean back against the wall behind my chair. “You’re saying he’s in league with those things?”
“Quite the opposite. He and Magner are at war.”
“Who is this Magner, anyway? More to the point, what is he?”
“That is a long story.”
“Well, I’m hip-deep in this business. Figure I need to know sooner than later.”
She peers out of the single window. “He is a monster, which is as much as you need to know.” She sighs. “We had a kind of truce, but Magner broke this truce when he attacked the town a few days ago. Richterman responded by charging some of his fools into the hills.”
“Well, that didn’t end well, I can tell you that much. I met one of his men after I got waylaid and tied up. He’d begun changing into one of them cannibals already. Believe Holcomb said his name was Cooter.”
“One of Edward’s idiots.”
“Edward?”
“Scarlow. If his man is dead, then it serves him well.”
“Oh, he’s dead all right. Threw silver into him. Dropped him quick enough. Seems they share you strig―the Strigoi’s weakness on that account. But what do Scarlow’s men have to do with you and Denton? Why’d Magner send the Parson down on your heads instead of town?”
She moves for the front door. “It was not Scarlow’s henchmen who brought this down on us.”
“The Strigoi. Some of them came out of the trees with their Master, took out that fat fucker. Pardon my French.” I shook my head and lifted a hand. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“We attack, so Magner attacks the Strigoi.”
“They were coming for you?”
“Yes.” She turns for the door and jerks it open.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“This was reprisal. Magner was sending Richterman a message. I am about to send my own message to Magner.”
“Wait. I seen these things. They’re much stronger than Strigoi.”
She sneers. “Thank you for your concern.”
The woman vanishes into the night with enough force to pull the door closed behind her. A rush of wings, and then the lonely wind.
I sit in my chair, heart racing.
Why’s my heart racing?
If the cannibals take her down, it’ll be one less thing for me to deal with when I ride back with Gil and the others.
But I’d have to deal with Denton. The man’s completely wrapped up in this woman, and I’m beginning to understand how much the vice was versa. As I sit, I ruminate over the notion of a strigger fighting by my side. This woman was probably old, older than most striggers—Strigoi—I had dropped in the past couple years.
I’ll have to get unused to the word strigger if I’m going to sidestep that woman’s wrath.
It’s work trying to break old habits, particularly the life-preserving habit of never trusting a Strigoi.
The poultice does a fine job of easing the pain and stemming the bleeding. I don’t even need a new dressing. As my head clears, I pull myself upright and start picking up the inside of the house. I manage to get what few furnishings they possess into some semblance of order. I even line up the woman’s herbs on the table. I find a couple gouges in the wall boards, probably from the tussle between the Parson and Hitchens. I was lucky I dropped the boy with a silver slug, lest the curse pass to the boy and I’d have a new monster pounding on the door.
I peek into the bedroom to check on Denton and find him resting neatly on the bed, hands folded over his chest. In that spare second the woman stepped into the room, she had managed to move him into the bed and tend to him. Strigoi speed is uncanny, and that’d probably be her best weapon when she goes toe-to-toe with the Parson.
The night wears long, and I run out of things to settle in the house. I take a step out onto the prairie and eye the three corpses lying in the grass. It wouldn’t do to try and bury them in the darkness, but I drag them farther from the house in case animals come calling. The poultice keeps the pain at a dull thud as I move each of them a good hundred feet from the house. By the time I drag the Hitchens boy, lighter by virtue of his missing a leg, I wipe my face and take a look at the house from a distance.
I spot the cellar doors.
Her den. Her lair. I trudge toward the side of the house and inspect the doors. They lift with a gentle tug. She hadn’t barred them in any way. Suppose she ain’t in the habit of locking things up when it’s just her and Denton.
Is this wrong, barging into her personal space? I’m a guest here, by invitation of one and begrudged by the other. Nosing around a Strigoi’s den is likely to be as close to suicidal as I can imagine, though that isn’t saying much for a Godpistol. Still, I was given the distinct notion that there was more between Folger’s wife and Richterman than she seemed willing to divulge. This Magner, whatever he is, sent the Parson here. Which means Magner knows what she is.
I open the doors and peer down inside. Dark. Very dark. I’ll need the lamp.
I return to the main house to retrieve the lamp and pause one last time at the front door to check my resolve. No, this was worth doing. I needed information.
The lamp’s tiny flame flickers light along the flight of wood planks stepping down into the cellar. I tread careful, holding myself against the chiseled Earth along my side. The orb of light expands when I hit the bottom of the steps, though not quite enough to see well. I crank up the wick inside the lamp’s glass globe and hold it over my head. The room brightens enough for me to turn a slow, confounded circle.
If the upstairs of the Folger house is a spare exercise in frontier living, then this cellar is as far from that frontier as one could imagine. Floorboards run parallel, smooth and polished. Some kind of dark wood, probably heartwood of oak or some kind of fruit tree. The walls are covered in various cloths, sometimes lace and sometimes tapestry. A bookcase sits in the corner, stacked neatly with leather-bound books. I step close and peer at the spines. I can’t read more than half of the words, their gold-pressed letters being in some kind of Old World language.
I turn to find a four-poster bed, the kind you expect to find in a manor or plantation house. Dark silk hangs in swoops from the posts, matching the luxury of the rich brocades dressing the bed itself. This Strigoi isn’t content to lie in dirt or a pine box, that much is a fact. The bed dressings are pulled aside, thrown into a mess as the woman was clearly in a panic when she burst out of here. In her slumber she must have sensed the gunshots. Or barring that, she must have smelled Denton’s blood seeping into the floorboards above.
The side of my foot bumps into something solid on the floor near the foot of the bed. I crouch down with the lamp to inspect and find a row of four squat earthenware jars with heavy lids. I give one of the lids a delicate lift. The sharp, rusty tang of blood pours up my nose, and I drop the lid quickly.
Jars of blood.
I find a bureau on the opposite wall. A
gilded comb rests next to an open book. This one’s in French, best I can tell. The mirror above the bureau is old and warped, a cloudy glass with some old brass filigree on the corners.
I go to check myself in the mirror but jump as a thud hammers in the house above.
Gripping the lamp gingerly, I move up the steps and kick the cellar doors closed before rushing to the front door.
I step into the house and pause.
Nothing.
Except a groan from the bedroom.
I shove open the door to find Denton sitting up in the bed. His eyes are rolling left and right. A good line of sweat is beading up on his forehead. He’s taking fever.
“Where―where were you?” he gasps.
“Outside. You look like shit.”
“Not safe.”
“I understand.” I move to his side to inspect his dressing. His wife would need to press some more of her poultice if he was going to survive this. I’d trusted her judgment on his well-being, but damn, he didn’t look well to me. I give his wound a sniff. No rot.
He reaches up for my hand and grips it tightly.
“Where’s Kate?”
I grit my teeth. I’m not sure if he’s asking her whereabouts or if he’s asking if I killed her yet. “She lit out, looking for the Parson.”
Denton’s face falls into a frown. “She needs help.”
“She’s stronger than you think.”
“Uriah―he’s dangerous.” He releases a dry cough. “Did she talk to you?”
I nod.
“Did you at least lend her your gun?”
I stand stiff. “No. That hadn’t occurred to me, to be honest.”
His eyes close as he shakes his head.
“It happened quick. She was determined. I―my head was fuzzy.”
No response.
His grip loosens.
I reach down to check his breathing. I can feel puffs from his nostrils. Probably passed out again. Just as well.
I tuck Denton’s arms to his sides and retire to the front room. All said, I didn’t learn much about Folger’s wife downstairs, aside from her being a creature of comfort and the readin’ type. I find it a hair bizarre that she keeps her fixins so plush while Denton lives with four bare walls and a sermon, minus the sermon. Whose choice was whose, I wonder?
Something slams into the front of the house. My hand drops to my holster on instinct. I step forward to keep the lantern light behind me and pull the Remington. One slug left, I remind myself. One shot.
Aim true.
The door slips open, and I raise the gun.
And hold.
It’s Folger’s wife.
She grips the doorframe with a crook-clawed hand. I see teeth before I see the rest of her face. Her skin is dark and tight. Demon face. I can’t tell if she’s looking at me through those fully inked eye sockets, but I know she senses me.
Her weight drops as she staggers into the room, landing on two hands and a knee.
I holster my gun and rush to help. She grips my shoulder with one hand, its claws digging through my shirt like penny nails. Her breath is loud, wheezy. Something went very wrong.
“Easy,” I whisper as I guide her into the room. I try to wrestle her into a chair, but she goes limp on me. Best I can do is drape her neatly onto the floor between the stove and the table.
Her face flickers back and forth between pale skin and demon flesh, like it’s some kind of struggle for her to muster the façade.
“You don’t have to do that,” I offer. “Rest your face. Won’t think less of you than I already do.”
She slides back into something arguably more hideous than I’d seen yet. Cheekbones snap forward. The lines of tiny scales erupt across her jawline. Every tooth becomes a needle.
Yet, the scent of jasmine still hangs on her.
Something warm lands on my arm. I look down to find fresh blood on my skin. Her blood. It burns like bacon grease.
“What happened?” I ask.
Her teeth pull in enough for her to speak. “Too many.”
“More than just the Parson, huh?”
Pain stampedes across her face as she twists on the floor.
“Hold on. I’ll fire up the stove.” I’m not sure it would do any good, but I’m no field surgeon, particularly for Strigoi. I toss some short lengths of square, planed lumber into the stove. They look to be drops from the carpenter’s work in town. Sensible.
As I stand, considering the wood, the room illuminates in a warm glow and the hint of smoke.
I turn to Folger’s wife, who has pulled herself half to sit. She reaches for the neck of her gown and slips the torn cuff off her shoulder. She pulls it along her arm, snaking it out with a grimace. She shuffles her legs and hisses, finally dropping back to the floor.
I crouch down beside her. “What can I do?”
“Help me.” She paws at the folds of gown hanging along her breast.
“I don’t know.”
She pounds her free hand against the floor. “Grow up.”
I nod and slip my fingers between her skin and the lacy garment, and pull it down over her breast. I try to keep my eyes moving forward. This is a Strigoi. Remember that. She’s a monster.
As I keep pulling, I notice a series of gashes running along her ribs. I release a low whistle.
“Done got you good.” I look up to her face, which has adopted a human tone again. “How many?”
“Six, counting Uriah.”
“Jesus. Where’s he finding them?” I pull the lace farther from her wounds. “Think you can walk me through your magic herb-spit?”
“Won’t help me.”
I roll back onto my heels and consider her. She’s wounded fierce, maybe not fatally. This is my last chance, in all likelihood, to put an end to her. But I made a promise, dammit. “You need blood, don’t you? To heal yourself?”
She squints as her mouth pulls into a sulk. “Just need to rest.”
I hold out a hand and stand myself up. “Wait here.”
The stove should keep her illuminated, so I snatch the lantern and head out and around to her cellar. She’ll be pissed at me later, but right now I can’t have either of the Folgers up and dying on me. When my eyes adjust to her sleeping quarters, I reach for one of her blood pots. It’s heavier than it looks. Solid pottery. Probably keeps the contents cold… or warm as the case may be.
I lug the pot back up to the living space. When I reach her, I find she’s pulled most of the gown down to her waist. Now that she has a full human tone to her skin, the sight of her bare breasts gives me a considerable pause. She’s bloody and battered, but strangely, weirdly… she’s beautiful.
Her face sours as she spots what’s in my hand.
“You―”
“Don’t get crotchety,” I interrupt. “Here. Just take a snoot and get to feeling better.”
I set the jar beside her. She hoists herself up to one elbow and pauses, giving me a glare.
“What?” I ask.
“Behind you in the cupboard.”
I turn to find said cupboard, but shrug. “What’s in the cupboard?”
“A cup, you idiot.”
Of course. What was I expecting, for her to lap at it like a dog? Granted, I’d only ever seen striggers―shit, Strigoi―take their meals direct from people’s necks. But as I hand her the small tin cup from the cupboard and she scoops a thick, red serving of blood to sip it as casual as a lady takin’ her tea, I recognize I’ve got a bit more to learn about how these things really live.
Though her quaffs are proper, she releases a distinctly unladylike growl as her shoulders quiver.
It could be the light, but the gashes do seem to have already slendered up nicely. The odor of flowers wells up in my nose.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“Hmm?”
“That smell. You always smell like flowers. Why is that?”
She gives me a tired grin. “Why do you not smell like flowers?”
&nb
sp; I try to answer, but nothing comes. How the hell am I supposed to answer a question like that?
With a final, lusty exhale, she settles the lid back onto the pot and balances the tin cup on top. She reaches for a handful of the dressings she sliced off me earlier, wadding them in her hand to wipe the blood from the skin of her side. She slips her hand over her breast, and her gaze lift to meet mine. She has no modesty in front of me. I’d say no decency, but she’s not the one sitting on his ass staring at another man’s naked wife.
I turn my head, find somewhere to look, and ask, “You get bit?”
“No.”
“Would that, you know, turn you into one of them?”
“I honestly do not know. I suspect not.”
Keeping my eyes on a patch of warped floorboard in the corner, I ask, “Do you know anything about these things? What they are?”
“You can look now.”
“Hmm?” I turn to find she has draped herself with as much modesty as the tatters of her gown could afford. “Oh.” Too much disappointment slips into that word.
“You have been snooping,” she adds without too much declaration. “In my chamber.”
I can’t really deny it, so I just sit still in my chair.
“Did you find anything enlightening?”
“I don’t read French.”
She sighs and rests back on her elbows. “Flemish, dear. I could translate for you, if you are interested in the poetry of van Beers the Elder.”
None of that made any sense to me, so I just answer, “I’m more interested in those damn things in the hills, to be unpolitic about it.”
“They come from Magner.”
“That much I gathered.”
She retorts with a rub of her temple, “Then what do you not know?”
“What the hell they are, for a start. I get that they eat people, but they look like they’re wasting away from starvation. They spread their curse, disease, whatever this is. They spread it easy. Easier than Strigoi.”
“It is because of the Strigoi.”
“That a fact?”
She stretches her shoulders before tucking her legs beneath her. “It began with the mine collapse.”
“Right. I saw Denton had pressed a paper about that.”
“This was a mining town. An old company from Chicago owned this land, squeezed just enough mineral out of the tortured rocks to keep this valley alive. Then came the accident. The company left us with the mess to clean up.”