Blood Hunter: An Urban Fantasy Vampire Hunting Novel

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  Soon after that, we set off towards the moot. We avoided highways, when we could, and cut across dirt roads, passing villages and homesteads. Usually, we would have stopped at every one of them. To listen to rumours about monsters in the bush, spirits in the well, and demons possessing the floorboards. But, today we rushed. To a mountain, and to change the path.

  Graham had questioned Blessing and me about this, chiding us and trying to coax us into defending something he couldn’t understand. But we remained silent.

  Blood Hunters never met up like this. Even the apprenticeship system and our occasional teaming up was a risk. Vampires could take too much from us. And all vampires of the same bloodline would know. Masks wouldn’t help. Through their bloodline, a vampire could spread our scents, mannerisms, facial structure, our very essences, through the minds of all their kin. Like a hive mind.

  That’s why we worked alone. So, when a hunter put down a vampire of the Blood, they were prepared to die. But this meeting was putting all that at risk. A vampire with mindwarping powers or a special mutation could siphon the memories of our comrades from our minds and spread it to the Blood. We could all be compromised!

  If Silumko had invited us to this, it meant that he had good reason. A reason that was worth the risk of annihilation.

  It was nearing nightfall by the time we saw the mountain. It was far away from civilisation and we had to ride our dirt bikes over rough terrain, without even a dirt road to guide us.

  I liked this land. It was peaceful. Untouched. I doubted there were any monsters here, as there were no humans to attract them. Ironic that it was humanity we fought for, yet it attracted the beasts we had to slay.

  The terrain soon became too rough to continue on our bikes. Blessing and I stopped by a lone tree, and covered our bikes in grey and brown canvas, just in case there were opportunistic thieves or spies in the area. It would also shield our already flagging vehicles from the elements.

  “It will be nice to see the old man again,” Blessing commented, as he hoisted his bag onto his back, carrying his two spears like they were ski poles. Silumko also preferred longer spears. At least he had when I had last seen my ancient mentor. They provided extra range and could be thrown more accurately and over longer distance.

  My assegai was the Zulu style. Short. Manoeuvrable. Fast. I didn’t want to risk losing my precious blades by throwing them and, in a scuffle, you needed something short.

  I grunted by way of reply to Blessing. I was honestly nervous about seeing my old master again. Silumko had been a harsh mentor. His training was gruelling. Unforgiving. Sometimes, I would wake up and he would be gone. I would live off the land, fending off beasts, until he wordlessly came back weeks later and continued my training as if nothing had changed. Perhaps, when you got to Silumko’s age, time stopped mattering.

  Silumko was not a kind man. But he had taught me everything about being a hunter. And that meant everything to me.

  The trek from the bikes took us past rock formations, boulders and thick decaying shrubs, and then up the incline of the mountain. Blessing would stop to check the scrap of paper for directions, and would turn down different footpaths, made by ancient hikers and animals. Occasionally, he broke through the brush and scrambled over small cliffs, leaving visible disturbances as we broke branches and shrubs.

  I followed, wordlessly, even as Graham littered the area with his booze. I would have scolded him for leaving a trail, but I had soon learnt that this mysterious spectral alcohol that he sometimes drank didn’t leave a trace. Which raised the question of why he stole booze at all if he could just magically fabricate his liquor.

  Finally, Blessing stopped, and sniffed. I smelled it too. Woodfire. Nestled between two boulders, only discoverable if you had scaled this isolated rock and followed the correct paths, was a cave. Orange firelight flickered from within.

  Blessing breathed a sigh of relief. He seemingly had not believed he could find it.

  We approached the cave carefully. This was not a popular destination, but there was no guarantee that these were the other Blood Hunters. They could be squatters. Very likely would be squatters. But the land belonged to the vampire clans, so I wasn’t planning on evicting them if they were.

  Despite trusting the directions enough to come here, Blessing levelled one of his spears ahead of him, preparing for an attack. I followed his cue and drew my machete as we edged closer towards the cave mouth.

  “Who do you hunt?” a female Xhosa voice spoke from inside the cave.

  “The Blood,” Blessing and I responded in unison.

  “And what will you pay?”

  “Everything.”

  A woman in black emerged from the cave mouth. Black tactical vest, shirt and cargo pants. The heads of two assegai poked from behind her back where she wore them criss-crossed. She had shaved her head since I had last seen her. Anathi. She had defeated a vampiric beast that we suspected was an alp down by Dingane. She had done most of the work, but she still split the bounty with me. I didn’t know how old she was, but it was close to mine. At least, that’s how she looked.

  I had failed to say anything of substance back then as well.

  My cheeks warmed as Blessing stepped forward to greet her, placing his spear against a rock and clasping her wrist as a form of a handshake.

  Graham appeared, looking between her and me, grinning a stupid demonic grin. He poofed out of existence, just before I felt him shove me forward. Blessing had proceeded into the orange and black of the cave.

  Anathi smiled. She had a new scar on her cheek.

  “It was Guy, wasn’t it?” She pointed at my face.

  I must have looked confused as she explained.

  “These scars across your face. What monster did you slay to get them?”

  I didn’t know I had any facial scars. I stroked my hand across my cheeks and felt small welts. I remembered now.

  “Driftwood,” I replied, then immediately mentally kicked myself. I took a step back.

  “I mean…I was dragged through a river by an inkanyamba. There was a lot of…debris.”

  Surprisingly, she nodded. With respect. She didn’t say anything. Tick. Tock.

  My cheeks warmed again.

  “Your scars…” I blurted. “What monster did you slay to get them?”

  “A demon,” she replied. “A stone imp. Not unlike your demon…”

  “Excuse me?!” Graham interjected, teleporting atop a rock to look down on us. “I am not anyone’s demon but my own! And a stone imp?! I am a tokoloshe. I am three tiers higher than any damn imp.”

  Anathi waved the comment aside. She didn’t seem to find the presence of Graham at all unusual.

  “You and Blessing are the first to arrive after me,” she said, continuing as if there wasn’t an alcoholic demon shouting at her from atop a boulder. “Do you know why Silumko called us here?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been in the sticks for way too long. Blessing said he only found out about the meeting because he dropped by a town. It was by luck that we crossed paths.”

  “Luck my arse,” Graham said, appearing on my shoulder and pointing his thumb at his chest proudly. “I saved this fool hunter and found the other fool hunter fishing nearby. Bah! You humans put so much stock in luck and divinity, when there’s a perfectly immortal demon watching your back.”

  “Demonic aid is seldom welcome,” Anathi said, turning and entering the cave.

  I didn’t follow immediately, as I watched her enter. That is until Graham blocked my view, his black eyes staring eagerly into mine.

  “You like that warrior woman?” he asked, grinning.

  I didn’t entertain him with a reply, but I did regret that I could no longer see Anathi as the cave turned down a corner. I entered the darkness, following the flicker of firelight. Graham continued to goad me all the way.

  Further in the cave, Blessing and Anathi were already sitting on wooden stools. I doubted Anathi had brought them. Blood Hunters travelle
d light. Silumko had probably used this place for a meeting in the past.

  I took a seat opposite Blessing and two stools away from Anathi. Graham pinched me as I did so.

  “Blowing your chance, man!” he whispered.

  Anathi didn’t seem to notice or care that I put space between us. She was cleaning a lever-action rifle, as Blessing polished the blades on his spears.

  No one spoke. We had swapped stories of our scars and now it was time to contemplate. Already, this was the most Blood Hunters I had ever seen in one place. And what did that mean if any of us got caught? Well, we were already damned for coming. I wiled away the next hour sharpening my machete, until we heard the sound of boots entering the cave.

  Blood Hunters, clothed in black and carrying various weapons, arrived slowly over the next while. Some I recognised, most I did not. We were a small community. Fewer than a dozen, but our vocation entailed solitude.

  No one spoke, even as only two chairs remained empty around the firepit. Silumko would have prepared the moot area according to the latest deaths. He somehow always knew when one of his students or colleagues perished.

  Silumko wasn’t the leader. The Blood Hunters didn’t have a leader. Hard to have a hierarchy when acting solo was your entire modus operandi. But Silumko was the oldest surviving member of the Blood Hunters. He had been old when the Cataclysm brought vampires to the world and was older now. Blessing, Anathi and two other Blood Hunters here were all his students. The others were self-trained, and others were the students of men who had been slain on the path.

  The fire was beginning to die as we waited, and Blessing took another Blood Hunter to collect firewood. I continued caring for my weapons, even though they had been sharpened enough, as I felt someone’s gaze.

  I looked up to see a Blood Hunter I was unfamiliar with staring at me from across the circle. He had punctures on his neck. Scorched punctures. Barghest, probably.

  “You…” he said, accusatory. The other Blood Hunters stopped their procrastination and stared at the both of us.

  “Yeah, you…” he continued. “You’re the inkwenkwe, aren’t you? The boy that the old man gave an assegai and sent out to slay monsters.”

  I didn’t reply, as I averted my gaze. Graham had not been visible or even present, until now. He watched from a rock-shelf. Some Blood Hunters noticed him but didn’t seem too startled.

  The Blood Hunter stood up.

  “Yes! It is you. Not even denying it. Too ashamed to even speak to a man. The old man thinks he can flout tradition, but that is why God has cursed us. You have cursed us by following this sacred path! A boy hunting vampires? Bah!”

  “Shut up, Bongani,” Anathi interrupted him, suddenly. Her voice was cold, but angry.

  Bongani spun towards her.

  “And you! The old man sends a boy and a woman against the Blood, paying no heed to custom, and we wonder why our numbers dwindle?”

  Blessing and the other hunter entered, carrying sticks and dried grass. They stopped at the scene. Bongani holding his arms apart, indicating Anathi and me as if we were the root of all the Blood Hunters’ problems.

  Perhaps, he was right.

  “Tradition…” a voice came from behind Blessing.

  Silumko didn’t need to push past the hunters at the entrance. He glided between them like he was air. He had aged since I had last seen him, but every wrinkle, scar and extra inch of his beard didn’t suggest weakness. They were testament to his spirit. To his power. Silumko was not a sorcerer. He had no spark. He was not a Zulu lord or impi commander. He was a Xhosa herdsman. Like me. Yet…he had outlasted the end of the world.

  “Tradition…” he repeated, his voice dripping with that confident authority and gravitas that had ruled over me as I trained. “Is a crutch for normal men. We are not normal. All who follow the path renounce the customs of where we came from. There are no Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho, Pedi, Shona…no one…but Blood Hunters. This is the way. But, ways change.”

  There was silence as Silumko proceeded further into the room, before taking a seat on the second last stool.

  “Perhaps, Master Silumko,” Bongani said, punctuated by Blessing restocking the firepit. “Our ignoring of tradition has been why Bezile was ripped apart by ghouls?”

  “Death is a part of the path,” Anathi recited. “He knew the risks. He let his face be seen by Izingane Zegazi. Like a true Blood Hunter, the deaths stopped with him.”

  We all inclined our heads downward in silence as we respected Bezile’s memory. I had met him. Once. He was a good hunter.

  Bongani returned to his seat, leaving only the last stool empty.

  “Master,” Blessing hesitated. “With Bezile gone, we should remove the final stool. It is bad luck to keep an empty chair when its owner is dead.”

  “Pffft. That’s made up,” Graham interjected, as he reclined on a rock-shelf, swinging his legs.

  “Shush, demon,” Silumko said, calmly. “Trickster sprites have no say in our ways. We tolerate your presence here because we cannot remove you. No reason more.”

  Graham looked smug at the admission of his impunity.

  “The chair is not for Bezile,” Silumko continued. “We have a guest…”

  As if on cue, a man entered the light of the fire. My breath caught in my throat as I shot up, knocking over my stool. The man looked just as shocked to see me.

  We rushed towards each other and embraced.

  “Cousin! Oh, Qamata! You live,” Themba cried, on the brink of tears.

  I was lost for words, as I backed away to examine my cousin. He was shorter. Or, I was taller. But his previous well-toned body had been forged into thick muscles. A thin stubble covered his face and he had shaved his head into a buzz cut.

  Tears almost came unbidden as I realised how much had changed, and memories of Mqanduli, happy and sad, threatened to come bubbling to the surface.

  “Wisdom?” I asked. “And the others? What of the boys from Mqanduli?”

  Themba’s smile wilted.

  “Wisdom lives,” he said. “But he is a changed man. The impis…they beat out of him what made him. He lives…but…I will tell you later.”

  I realised we were being watched by a cave full of Blood Hunters. My cheeks warmed as I returned to my stool. Silumko stood to indicate Themba’s seat, but Themba didn’t sit.

  “Comrades,” Silumko said, without changing his emotion at all. He was always lecturing, even as he ordered a coffee. “This man is Themba Mgebe. He is a member of the Transkei Resistance.”

  Pandemonium broke out at the admission. Those who didn’t yell that we had brought the eyes of the Empire upon us shifted uncomfortably, some eyeing the door.

  I expected Silumko to silence the hunters. Instead, Themba stepped forward, the firelight painting his features onto the cave roof.

  “I understand why you fear me being here!” Themba yelled, and then quietened as the group went silent. “I understand that your profession is dangerous enough already. That you must face against the Izingane Zegazi and every impi questioning where you got your weapons. The Empire is another big threat. Too big to handle, you may think. You must focus on hunting the Blood. I know this. But…do not forget who sent the vampires to our land.”

  “Why are we entertaining this outsider?” Bongani asked, pleading with Silumko.

  Silumko chose to ignore him, allowing Themba to reply.

  “We have a common enemy, Blood Hunter. The vampires and the Empire are the same. And we will only be rid of them when Transkei is free.”

  Bongani scoffed. “A free Transkei? A pipe dream!”

  Themba turned to face Bongani head on. “Only if we think of it that way! Before the Empire, before the settlers, we were free. We could be again! The Transkei Resistance are fighting for your freedom. Our freedom! And our country that needs to be. Are you doing the same chasing monsters for peanuts?”

  Bongani crossed his arms. “I hope not! If we were fighting for this country that doesn’t exist, it
means that inkwenkwe would be breaking the customs fully.”

  Themba turned and looked at me pointedly.

  “My cousin does what he must. He is a hero.”

  I felt lighter as my cousin, whom I had thought had perished in some suicidal assault on the Three Point line, acknowledged me.

  Themba stood straight and addressed the circle, pacing around the fire.

  “Even if you do not think so, as Blood Hunters slaying the beasts that infest this land, you are already fighting for your country.”

  “What country?” Bongani interjected. “We’re an imperial territory. That is all.”

  “The country that held the white man at bay for over a hundred years. The country that resisted Zulu encroachment till the end. The country that survived the oppression of whites and now survives the oppression of our bloody cousins. Our ancestors’ lifestyle made them fragile. They were isolated. We just wanted to care for our cattle. And was that so bad? But, it let them divide us. Conquer us. But being Xhosa doesn’t make us weak. Because every single one of us is a kingdom unto ourselves.”

  “So what? We split the Transkei between every kraal?” Bongani clicked his tongue dismissively. “You’ll see us burn again.”

  “Not if we unite! The Transkei Resistance knows how to fight impi. We hit them where they hurt the most…”

  “You steal their rations and clog up their drains…” another Blood Hunter mocked.

  “But we don’t have the skills to hunt the Children,” Themba continued, ignoring him.

  The circle went silent. Themba nodded, satisfied.

  “Goldfield is not our ally, but we can learn from them. When the Empire sent vampires after them, they formed the Extermination Corps. The Goldfield mages knew that they could not fight a conventional war against such beasts. So, they appointed specialists. Specialists backed by a movement of freedom fighters. And they wiped out the blood-drinkers throughout their land.”

  “Hunting the Children head-on is suicide!” Blessing blurted. He looked like he had been holding himself back for a while. “The rabble in Goldfield can’t be compared to them. The Corps hunt rift-borne beasts and the Empire’s leftovers.”