Blood Hunter: An Urban Fantasy Vampire Hunting Novel

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  Blood Hunter

  A Kat Drummond Universe Novel

  Nicholas Woode-Smith

  Copyright © 2020

  Kat Drummond

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and the copyright owner.

  Cover Design By: Richard Smith, RedZone

  Website: https://nicholaswoodesmith.com/

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  Part 1

  Chapter 1. Manhood

  This story begins when my world ends.

  I stood shivering in the cold darkness of a Transkei winter night, covered in nothing but a scratchy white and red blanket and my underwear. All the other boys and I, our skin painted white, had long since stopped pretending that we weren’t freezing our negligible chest hairs off. We had been lining up for hours, but what seemed like epochs, as we feverishly awaited our turns.

  I was wracked with anticipation, impatience and excitement, but also with overwhelming panic as my turn slowly approached.

  Our bodies had grown numb to the chill, and our eyes accustomed to the darkness, even as our lids drooped shut. But, despite our collective exhaustion, the air around the little hut, under the silver light of the moon, buzzed with eagerness and fear. The air was acrid with cold sweat.

  I stared towards the moon, contemplating it. Friends, most of them cousins of sorts, milled in front of me, joking, talking, and calling the bravery of one another into question. Those who spoke the loudest, I expect, were the most afraid of all.

  Every so often, screams erupted from the hut, our only source of light besides the moon. We were too far from Mqanduli, my home, to be bathed in the warm glow of firelight and the occasional electric bulb. We had to persist with only the light of the moon and the cracks of a gas lamp seeping out of the somagwaza’s round, thatch-roofed hut.

  I was no longer startled by these screams, grunts of pain and cursing. They had been persisting all night and had become as constant as the unceasing cold.

  The line dwindled in front of me and I watched as a boy from a nearby homestead limped out of the hut, clutching his crotch. Two older boys slapped him on the back, congratulating him.

  He was now a man. Or, at least, had started his path to manhood.

  I was quiet, even as the boys in front of me chattered away. Perhaps, they spoke to distract themselves from the chill? More likely, it was to keep their minds away from thoughts of the somagwaza’s knife.

  “Little Guy,” one of the boys called, pulling me away from my contemplation of the moon.

  I looked at the boy. His name was Wisdom. Some people personified the name they had been given at birth. But Wisdom had never demonstrated any propensity for wise sayings, or even an ability to learn from his past experiences. He was rash. Impulsive. A thrill-seeker and a wise-crack. Nine out of ten times that I’d been thrashed for misbehaving, it had been Wisdom’s idea.

  “Don’t be frightened,” Wisdom jabbed, an unwavering juvenile grin on his face. “I hear the somagwaza is only drunk for half of his circumcisions. Worst case, he’ll just take a little extra off the top.”

  Wisdom laughed at his joke. I did not. I seldom laughed with the other boys. Not that I didn’t find the jokes, often at my expense, funny. More often, my mind was elsewhere. Tonight, it was on the moon.

  A hand gripped my shoulder and Wisdom stopped laughing.

  “Ulwaluko is a sacred ritual,” Themba said, sternly, as he squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. He was a few years older than I was. A cousin of a relative far removed, as was often the case in tight-knit villages. I was a single child, however. One of the few. And Themba had been an older brother to me since I was aware enough of my existence to acknowledge him.

  “Just helping Little Guy with his nerves,” Wisdom said, grinning, but not as strongly as before.

  Themba and Wisdom weren’t enemies, but tonight Themba held an assegai in his right hand. It was steel, with its arm-length handle fused into the sharp, leaf shaped blade. I could barely see his short black hair in the darkness. He was dressed like the rest of us, with barely any clothes on, even though he had gone through initiation before. Perhaps, it was to show solidarity.

  Themba, like many of the other young men who had already completed Ulwaluko – initiation – were standing guard around the somagwaza’s hut. They didn’t stand guard against criminals or delinquents. No Xhosa would intervene in such a sacred ritual.

  For tonight, the boys of the village were to start the path to becoming men. It would begin with the somagwaza, a wise elder, performing a circumcision on each boy. After that, I and all the others would be isolated, where we would learn how to be Xhosa men. When we returned to our families, we would have the right to lead our country, to fight for it, and to marry.

  I wasn’t worried about anyone from the village interfering. If there was any worry, it was that the beasts hidden within the darkness had no respect for our customs. Themba’s job was to keep them at bay.

  “He will not be little for much longer,” Themba said, smiling. “You are both to become men. I trust that means fewer pranks?”

  Wisdom seemed disappointed by that, but I nodded.

  Themba patted me on the back, before leaning down to whisper in my ear.

  “It really isn’t too bad. And think about what happens afterwards. Any girl you’ve got your eye on?”

  My cheeks warmed as Themba laughed, walking back into the darkness.

  “Wisdom Ngobe,” the somagwaza’s assistant called, as a boy hastily exited, gripping his crotch and wincing.

  Wisdom stood up straight, like a buck caught in headlights, and stiffly entered the hut.

  I was alone in the queue. The last one left. Boys who had already gone through their ordeal chatted with one another or remained in solemn silence. None of them paid me any mind. Hours before, we had been friends. Peers. But now…there was a world between us. Men did not live in the realm of children, and we were no longer peers.

  But not for long. For tonight I was to become a man.

  Perhaps it was time I found a girl to like?

  Wisdom entered the hut and, despite all his insistence that he would not scream, he let out a wail and a sob. One of the boys who had recovered, at least a bit, from his surgery looked at me and nodded, encouragingly.

  It won’t be too bad, I told myself. And think about what happens afterwards.

  My life begins tonight.

  Wisdom limped out of the hut as his comrades cheered his arrival. Some heads spun towards me. It was my turn.

  “Guy Mgebe,” the assistant called.

  I took a step forward and, as my foot hit the dirt, there was a boom of thunder.

  No, not thunder.

  Some boys shot upright, eyes wide. Some winced as they aggravated their raw groins.

  “It’s just the Impundulu,” Wisdom called, waving at the boom dismissively. “The Lightning Bird can’t hurt us now that we’re men. And the rain can’t either.”

  “That’s not thunder, Wisdom,” Thabo muttered, peering into the dark, in the direction of the village.

  The door to the hut was ajar and the somagwaza was standing next to his assistant. He was an elderly man, with a long grey beard. He wore
a Red Cross emblem around his neck. My mother said that he had trained with the mages in Hope City. It’s why his circumcisions were never botched. He had healing hands.

  “What is it, boys?” the somagwaza yelled, directed at the guards around the hut. Despite initiation, they would always be boys to him.

  Another boom. This time closer. Crackling, and what was that smell on the wind?

  My eyes widened. Fire.

  Rapid footfalls pattered in the darkness, coming towards us. The already circumcised huddled by the hut wall, as I stood in the open, looking into the shadows.

  I realised I’d been holding my breath as Themba appeared, his sweat glistening in the moonlight. I’d never seen his eyes so wide.

  “What is it, Themba?” the somagwaza asked.

  “Impi!” Themba announced, and I could practically hear the panic rising among the group.

  “What are imperial soldiers doing here?” the somagwaza asked, his voice calm. He’d been alive for too long to be afraid of some soldiers. Even if the idea of Zulu troops making bangs this far into the Transkei made me shudder.

  “I don’t know, sir,” Themba replied. “But there is orange light coming from the village.”

  “They’re burning Mqanduli?!” a boy cried. “We have to fight them!”

  The somagwaza smacked him on the back side of the head.

  “Don’t be foolish! You think that just because you lack a foreskin, you’re ready to fight impi? The Zulu defeated the old South African Empire; they rule these lands. We raise our fists to them, and we die. You understand?”

  The boy bit his lower lip, on the verge of sobbing, but then nodded.

  Another older boy, carrying a longer assegai meant for throwing, jogged towards us, skidding to a halt.

  “Casspir! Armoured car with impi all over it coming up the road.”

  The somagwaza’s expression wilted and, for a second, I thought I saw fear in his eyes.

  “Everyone get behind me!” he ordered. “Drop your knobkerries and assegais. Don’t give them a reason to think we’re resisting.”

  “But the ritual…” Themba insisted, glancing worriedly at me.

  “The ritual will have to wait!”

  I shrugged to Themba. “I’ve waited this long. I can wait longer.”

  “Good lad,” the somagwaza said, accepting a walking stick from his assistant as he shakily advanced ahead of the group.

  Themba smiled, nervously, as if to reassure me. But I could not help but spot the anxious sweat forming on his brow.

  An engine louder than any vehicle I had heard before revved and boomed in the night. It approached, growing louder and louder. Branches snapped and foliage was torn up into the massive tyres of the armoured car as it surged towards the small hut in the dark.

  I heard shouting in Zulu over the cacophony of the mechanical beast they rode. The language was similar to Xhosa. I could understand a lot of it. But, in its similarity, it was also so different.

  “We should hide,” the somagwaza’s assistant whispered.

  “And live in the veld?” the somagwaza whispered back. “No, we must trust in the Empire. They are meant to protect us. It is the only way.”

  A khaki monstrosity, covered in red and black patterns and adorned with a cowhide shield on the front bumper, screeched to a halt, its headlights illuminating the huddled group. I squinted into the light, the silhouette of the somagwaza blocking my view as he shambled forward, one foot at a time.

  Metal doors hummed mechanically as they were shoved open. Heavy boots hit the sand and dark figures made a crescent formation, facing inwards towards the hut and the group.

  Faintly, I could see the outline of assegai bayonets, protruding underneath the barrels of rifles. The features of the men who carried these weapons were obscured by the darkness and the intense white headlights. They seemed inhuman.

  Impi. The Zulu warriors who kept the Empire safe. The men who had liberated so much of Southern Africa from monsters and oppressors.

  I had heard of them. Everyone had. But seldom had I seen any outside of the local garrison, who had basically come to be treated like fellow Xhosa.

  “Impi,” the somagwaza called, holding out his hands diplomatically. “These boys are on the path of Ulwaluko. It is important that their initiation not be disturbed.”

  It happened in a flash. An obscured figure strode towards the elderly man and belted him across the face. The somagwaza toppled, falling to the ground.

  Themba took a step forward but the clicks of firearms stopped him.

  I stared at my cousin. He was biting down so hard that I feared his teeth would shatter.

  “Dlamini,” the impi who had assaulted the somagwaza called. My vision adjusted to the light levels and I recognised one of the impi from the local garrison approach the man I presumed to be a sergeant. He wore a copper assegai head on his lapel. A medal.

  Dlamini saluted, holding his right fist into the air, his elbow bent. Both his and the sergeant’s shoulder badges were black and white, but the patterns were different.

  The sergeant indicated the somagwaza, groaning on the ground.

  “Is this the sorcerer, impi?”

  “Yes, sir. But he…he’s just a healer. And an elder. He’s important to the village…”

  “Do not talk back to a superior, impi!” the sergeant yelled.

  The sergeant reached for his side, drawing out a revolver. I was almost knocked over as the assistant barrelled past me, startling the sergeant as he put himself over the prone elderly man.

  “He’s not a rebel!” the assistant begged. “He’s guiding these boys to manhood. He’s important!”

  The sergeant peered at the group of boys. I felt his eyes rest on me for a second. Especially at the white paint adorning my skin.

  “Get him off,” the sergeant ordered.

  “No!” the assistant pleaded, as two impi pulled him off the somagwaza, who stared calmly at the barrel of the gun.

  “Dlamini, read the edict,” the sergeant said, coldly.

  Dlamini, hands shaking, unfolded a thick paper scroll.

  “The Honourable and Glorious Emperor…” Dlamini’s teeth chattered as he spoke. He was wearing a full uniform yet seemed colder than the almost naked boys. “Emperor Ukuhleleka II decrees that all neutral and enemy mages in active combat zones must be eliminated. Only Zulu mages are to practice magic.”

  “Active combat zone?” the somagwaza asked. “We are a peaceful village, loyal to the Empire.”

  “You are a rebel village, leaching off the Emperor’s generosity. Any last words, sorcerer?”

  The somagwaza’s gaze did not falter. There was no fear. But, alongside the acceptance in the somagwaza’s unwavering stare, I saw something else. Defiance.

  “Fire your weapon, impi,” he said, simply. “War is all you know. So, I cannot judge you too harshly.”

  My heart skipped a beat and my ears rang as the sergeant fired.

  I had never seen a man die before. The somagwaza’s blood pooled onto the sand, painting it red. Silence fell. Themba’s mouth hung agape. Tears streamed down Wisdom’s face. I smelled urine.

  The moon had been so bright tonight. The night so quiet. I wanted to remember the chill and the anticipation. Anything but the red seeping from the somagwaza’s head.

  The sergeant holstered his smoking gun and turned towards the group.

  “Form rows. Get behind the casspir. We’re marching back to your village.”

  Chapter 2. Night Walk

  It didn’t seem real. Even now. I turned to Themba, anticipating that I would need to stop him from charging the armed impi. But my passionate, hot-headed cousin stood limply. His assegai had already been collected by an impi, from its spot on the floor.

  “You won’t need these blades tonight,” Dlamini said, his voice trying to be reassuring as he spoke to one of the older boys. “None of the monsters will come close to Mqanduli while the impi are here.”

  Why did that not reass
ure me?

  The sergeant stepped back into the casspir and the driver manoeuvred the armoured car back the way it had come. The impi formed us into two rows behind the car, with two impi guarding the rear and two on either side of the procession.

  “Ready?” the sergeant shouted. His tone hadn’t changed. It was like he hadn’t killed a man this night.

  Maybe he felt what I did? A disbelieving numbness. Would he wake up later tonight with shakes? Or would he sleep soundly?

  What was I going to do?

  Someone bumped into me and I awoke from my reverie, realising the procession was starting to march. An impi glared at me, but I picked up the pace before he could have any excuse to yell. Or worse.

  The armoured car crawled slowly along the dirt road, like the head of a snake leading its serpentine body. Impi shone flashlights into the darkness, revealing sparse bushes.

  “Where are they taking us?” Wisdom whispered to me. There was no hint of his previous joviality.

  “Back home,” I whispered back. But I wasn’t sure I was correct. But there was only one road, and it led to Mqanduli. We had to trust the sergeant’s word. At least this time.

  The armoured car flicked up dirt and gravel as it drove. I was thankful to not be up front. I looked up as I put one foot ahead of the next. The night was quiet, and the trees covered the moon and stars. Despite the flashlights of the impi, the darkness hemmed us in. Like ink seeping onto a page. It seemed alive. I felt eyes watching. And, by the furtive movements of the impi, I guessed they felt the same.

  “Why can’t we ride in the car?” a young impi whispered, his eyes and flashlight darting across shadowed shrubs and trees.

  “There’s not enough space. You know that. We have to watch this lot. Make sure they don’t run.”

  “Let them run,” he whispered, his voice even lower, but I had good hearing.

  I peered at the tree copse, wishing for the silver of the moon but, as the trees broke, I was met with a red sky. Rain, and the reflection of fire.

  “Mqanduli,” Wisdom whispered, disbelieving. “It’s burning…”

  It was on the horizon but, in the inky black ocean of fields, we could see the unmistakable glow of firelight. Too much to be controlled.