by David Wood
It was only then that she came fully back to reality.
“Don’t be silly,” she heard Tony say, and turned just in time to see him reach out a hand to the vampire.
Brian wasn’t going to make it. He saw the boy go blank and recognized the symptoms. It had happened to him, less than twenty-four hours but more than a lifetime away.
He forced his legs to move, and this time they obeyed him, but he was still yards away when the boy said something, too low for Brian to hear, and reached out a hand for the vampire to take.
“No.” Brian shouted, but was drowned out by a roar from behind him.
A body rushed past, and Brian only had an impression of a long coat and a hunched almost crippled stance as a wild-eyed man swept the boy aside and crashed headlong into Shoa.
“Leave my son alone!” Jim Kerr shouted, and with the last of his strength drove a crossbow bolt deep into the bloodsucker’s neck.
Shoa screamed, and the whole room shook, small pieces of the mosaic dislodging and skittering across the floor with a rattle like hail on an iron roof. The man in the coat had his legs wrapped tightly around the vampire’s waist and was stabbing at its neck in frenzy, thin saliva flying from his lips.
Shoa seemed to melt and fade, squirming out of the attacker’s reach, and the man in the coat screamed again, in frustration this time, then in pain as strong hands grabbed him tight by the shoulders. The vampire held the man out at arm’s length and then smiled, a slow grin that exposed the fangs.
Brian moved faster than he knew was possible, and grabbed the vampire by the shoulder, turning it around.
And now it was his turn to look into those eyes again.
Shoa did something with its hands, no more than a twist of an inch. There was a crack as bones shattered and the man in the coat fell in a heap to the ground. Then Brian got the full force of the smile.
Brian looked into the red eyes, and again he saw his father.
“It’s not really me,” his dad said.
“I know Dad,” Brian replied, and, making a fist, he hit the man harder than he had ever hit anyone in his life.
Shoa staggered, and Margaret saw Brian raise his hand for another blow.
But the vampire was fast. It sprung like a cat, its hands curved into talons that would have ripped Brian in two.
They didn’t reach him.
Margaret brought the sword up and round in an arc that sang as it was cut through the air. It struck the vampire just above the elbow and kept going, through skin, muscle and bone, carried on by momentum right through the swing to the floor where it struck a great gouge in the mosaic.
Shoa staggered and almost fell, but there was no blood and the fingers of the severed arm twitched where they lay on the floor.
The vampire turned toward her, and Brian hit it again, a blow to the side of the head that sent it flailing across the mosaic to fall heavily, the great white head resting beside that of the serpent.
“Malachim protect me in the name of Jod He Vau He.
“Seraphim cleanse me in the name of Elvoih.”
Tony felt his voice echo around the room. He stood over the white vampire and stared down into the red eyes, eyes that had dimmed considerably at the words of the spell.
“You don’t frighten me,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
The red eyes flared, but the power in them had gone, dimmed to no more than glowing embers. The vampire began to crawl but its strength seemed to have gone. Tony put one foot on the creature’s chest, pinning it in position.
Margaret walked towards him and he saw her raising the sword. He put out a hand and stopped her, and she didn’t protest when he took the sword from her.
Although it was heavy he raised it one handed above his head and brought it down as he read the last line of the spell.
“Give me the strength to cast down this servant of thine enemy.”
His voice echoed, again and again, and instead of fading it grew in volume until it was being repeated by a chorus, a host, an army.
Point first, the sword took Shoa directly in the heart and drove down, through his body and deep into the serpent’s neck.
The room span as the vampire screamed. Its feet drummed on the tiles and smoke began to flow from its mouth, mere wisps at first, then a fog as if a dry ice machine had suddenly kicked into action.
A sudden silence fell on the room, but Tony couldn’t take his eyes off the vampire as it fell in on itself, ribs and muscles collapsing, like a balloon deflating.
And still the mist came, crawling about his ankles like a nest of snakes. Through the mist the red eyes flared, a last burst of defiance.
Tony brought up his left foot and with one formless yell brought it down, hard, directly between those eyes.
The great head sank under his weight, breaking as if no more than papier-mâché. And Tony kicked down, again, and again, until there was nothing beneath his feet but a fine gray ash...a fine ash and a pair of yellowing fangs.
Margaret shook her head, hard. It was like coming out of a dream, a bad dream that had held her for too long.
Tony was standing in the middle of the mosaic, looking down at what remained of the vampire. Around the circle there was only bodies...Shoa’s disciples had not survived the demise of their master...their bodies lay strewn where they had fallen.
“Brian?” She said, looking around. A thick fog hung across the floor and at first she couldn’t see the teacher, but then she found him, kneeling over the figure of the man in the black leather jacket.
As she walked towards them Brian lifted the man in his arms as if he weighed no more than a child did. She saw that the man’s chest was still rising and falling, although his eyes were staring sightlessly past her and his skin was as pale and translucent as a piece of fine china.
She put out her hand towards Brian but he turned towards her and, just for a second, she saw something new in his eyes, a rage and fire that made her lower her hand and step back.
Then Brian, the old Brian, was back.
“Let’s just get out of here,” he said. “Explanations will have to wait.”
Margaret felt a pull on her arm and looked down. Tony was standing beside her.
“He’s still alive.” The boy said, and at first she didn’t know what he meant, then she saw the man in the long coat struggle to a sitting position on the opposite side of the mosaic.
Jim Kerr came up out of the darkness, amazed that there was anything beyond the limbo in which he had found himself.
There was no pain, only a dull coldness. He remembered the cold hands at his neck, …and the sound of his bones breaking was a noise he would never forget.
By all rights he should be dead...dead and long gone what with the loss of blood, exhaustion and broken bones. But still something drove him.
He managed to push himself to a sitting position and looked across the room.
The boy, the one from the cellar, was walking towards him.
And that’s when it happened.
It started with a sharp pain in his gums, a pain that forced him to clasp his hands over his mouth, only to draw them away again as his fingers met the sharp points of the twin fangs that emerged.
“No!” he screamed, and again, “No!”
The boy came closer, and Jim saw the blood course through him, the veins highlighted as if they had suddenly been transposed to the outside of the body.
“Stay back,” he said to the boy, but his limbs were betraying him, dragging him forward, closer to the red heat.
He reached into his pocket, forcing his hand to obey him, searching for the garlic packets he knew were there. But his fingers met something else, a cold metal that he recognized as his tin of lighter fuel.
The boy was closer now, a hand outstretched. Jim tried to back away but he was disgusted to find that he was salivating, his new fangs sliding bloodily in and out of torn gums, an ache in his stomach trying to drive all else from his mind.
H
e drew a crossbow bolt, the last, from his holster and, without giving himself pause to think he drove it into his chest. The cold metal scraped against his ribs but it seemed that he had missed his heart...there was no sudden gout of blood, but the pain was enough to focus what remained of his will.
He splashed the fluid from the can over his shirt at the waist, feeling the dampness as an extra layer of cold.
The boy was closer still.
No time left.
Jim reached for his lighter and got it into his hand without fumbling.
“Goodbye, son,” he said, and spun the wheel.
There was a sudden implosion of air and a flare of blue heat. He took a deep breath, welcoming the warmth inside him.
The body burned quickly, thick black smoke rising in a plume to the broken dome above.
Margaret had Tony by the shoulders, holding him back from the flames. Even when it was obvious that the man was dead the boy still struggled, still tried to reach him. And when the boy turned and buried his face in her chest she saw the hot tears that hung from the corners of his eyes.
The flames from the body were rising higher now, and Margaret was forced to back away from the heat as the flames lapped at the walls, hungrily seeking new conquests.
She pulled the boy with her, backing away from the heat that was already tightening the skin at her cheeks.
“Come on,” she said, taking the boy firmly by the hand.
As she reached the corridor she had one last look back into the room.
Flames were climbing the wall at the far side, tongues already lapping at the ruined frame of the dome above. And on the floor the ceramic tiles popped and cracked as they sprung from their position, lending once more a semblance of life to the serpent, but this time a life that was to be short lived.
A blazing spar fell from the ceiling, then another, and the cracking of fire on wood got suddenly louder.
And everywhere the bodies of the dead burned and smoked.
She turned her back and, holding the boy close, made her way out of the room, and through the hall to the clean air beyond the main door.
Brian was already standing there.
The other man, the one in the leather jacket, was standing on his own, but he leaned against Brian as if his own legs wouldn’t hold him, and his skin was a deathly gray, ill and sweating.
Brian took a step forward, and Margaret saw the need, the love in his eyes. She held out a hand, but met only air.
“Someday I’ll explain it to you,” Brian said. “I promise.”
Again he made to move toward her, but was held back by the injured man.
“We must go,” the man said, and Brian nodded.
“Someday,” he whispered, and for the merest moment Margaret’s fingertips brushed against his.
She felt a sudden tear in her eye and she reached to brush it away. And when her eyes cleared, there was only the expanse of driveway ahead of her.
There was a crash behind them, and she turned to find the whole house ablaze, blood red sparks and embers rising to dance in the air. She felt a pull at her hand as Tony dragged her back, away from the steadily rising heat.
The crackle from the fire was so loud that she didn’t hear the engine noise until it was almost on them. She turned to face the barrels of flame-throwers in the hands of three stocky built men in camouflage gear and blackened faces.
“You’re too late,” she said, and had to force back a giggle.
But when the tallest of the three ordered them to smile she was happy to oblige.
“North,” said Donald Allan, his voice little more than a whisper. “We must chase ahead of the sun.”
Brian looked down at his companion then out over the town from his position high on the hills.
The fire from the Hansen House had spread to the surrounding trees, a roaring conflagration that would be seen for miles, a scene of destruction that was mirrored and mimicked by many smaller fires in the town itself.
“Take me to the Temple,” Donald Allan said.
The vampire staggered, his legs finally betraying him, and he fell forward. Brian caught him before he collapsed completely and was dismayed at how light he had become. The vampire’s eyes had rolled up in their sockets, showing only white, and his head hung limply.
“Hold on,” Brian said, “It’ll only take one step. Just one step.”
With Donald Allan in his arms Brian Baillie turned his back on Finsburgh and took a step.
Just one.
The End
If you enjoyed Eldren, try The Amulet, book one of the Midnight Eye Files.
Iam a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with over twenty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. I have had books published with a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, DarkFuse and Dark Renaissance, and my work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines with recent sales to NATURE Futures, Penumbra and Buzzy Mag among others.
I live in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company and when I'm not writing I drink beer, play guitar and dream of fortune and glory.
I don't know where the ideas come from. I'm just glad that they come. It's been over twenty five years now. I think it's enthusiasm that keeps me going. I just love adventure stories with guns, swords, monsters and folks in peril.
I'm just a big kid at heart.
And therein lies my secret. I haven't grown up.
Visit me online at www.williammeikle.com
STILL WATER BY JUSTIN R. MACUMBER
Coal is the hard, black heart of the mountain town of Stillwater, West Virginia, but far beneath it lies something much darker, an evil beyond time, waiting to rise and bathe the world in blood and fire once more. When unwitting miners dig into its tomb, only Kyle - Stillwater's prodigal son - and paranormal investigator Maya stand between humanity and Hell. Time is short and evil runs deep in… STILL WATER
Prologue- In The Deep Dark
The mine was cursed. Ash hated thinking that way, but there wasn’t any other explanation. Never in his life had he seen a mining operation struggle so much, and the rate at which people were getting hurt or quitting was enough to ruin what little sleep he managed to get between shifts.
The sun – nearly hidden by approaching storm clouds – crept toward the horizon as Ash turned off Sewell Road and drove down the dirt path leading to the mine's gravel parking lot. Rounding a sharp bend, the sight of a dozen men crowded together in a mob ruined the start of his day. He steered for the nearest open slot, slammed the transmission into PARK, and climbed out of his truck.
Angry voices churned the air as he stomped across gravel. No one looked his way as he approached, but they knew he was there when he broke through their ranks with a broad-shouldered shove he'd perfected during his high school football days. “What the hell is going on here?”
To his surprise, he found his boss, Ray Dennings, leaning against the mine's low-slung electric cart with his arms held up in front of him. Normally the Badger Mining president was calm and tidy, but today that wasn’t the case. Coal dust and black handprints covered his light gray shirt and the blue paisley tie hanging half-torn from his neck. Bright red carnations bloomed on his left cheek, the beginnings of ugly bruises. The final touch on the surreal scene was blood dripping from his split lower lip. When Ash appeared, he heaved a massive sigh of relief. “Oh, thank Christ. I never thought I'd be so glad to see your ugly face.”
“Don't defend him, Ash!” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd. More shouts went up behind him, their angry words overlapping each other like storm clouds. Hands pushed and pulled at his back.
“Yeah! Don't get in the way!”
“Goddam suits are stealin' from us!”
“We ain’t gonna stand for it!”
Sick of the noise and jostling, Ash whipped around and glared at the mob. “Shut the fuck up!” The command thundered over the angry crowd, bringing everythin
g to a standstill. Taking advantage of the brief moment of quiet, Ash turned back to Mr. Dennings. “What's going on?”
“They've gone insane!” The president’s thin arms shook as he kept them raised in front of him. “And they should be damn glad I don't have the police here arresting the whole lot of them.”
“We ain't the criminals here,” someone said.
Mr. Dennings cast around for the man who'd spoken out, but after a moment he shook his head. “That so? I have a split lip that says otherwise. I know all of you are angry. I'm angry too, but I can't grow money on trees, dammit. Get mad at your co-workers who haven't been showing up, who've called in sick day after day. Every man we're down means that much less coal gets cut. Less coal means less money, simple as that.”
“I don't blame 'em.” An older man stepped forward. From the corner of his eye Ash saw Gus Mason, one of the day shifters responsible for bolting the cave ceiling after a section of coal was dug out of the mountain, so it didn’t cave in and kill everyone. “This place ain't right. You haven’t been down there, but we have. This whole mountain is... It just ain't right.”
Encouraged by his words, the intensity of the crowd picked up again. It crackled against Ash's skin like static electricity. Gus was normally a tough old cuss, sometimes too tough, so to hear him sound afraid threw Ash for a loop. But Gus wasn't the first person to talk about the Bluestone Mine like it was haunted. When Badger Coal first came to Stillwater promising that their new mining technology could reopen old mines, they’d been greeted as saviors sent by God Himself. And to their credit, for the first couple of months things had been right as rain. Coal went out, and money came in. But, as they dug further into the mountain, Ash started hearing whispers among the men, talk of strange sounds and shadows that didn't move right. He hadn't seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, so he'd blown it off as idle chatter, but idle or not he wasn't about to let the day shift crew use it as an excuse to riot. “Come on now, Gus. We're all reasonable men here, so let's be reasonable.”