The Cowboy and the Vampire: A Very Unusual Romance (The Cowboy and the Vampire Collection Book 1)

by Clark Hays

  “Get her,” a woman said, “and finish him. And someone shut that dog up.”

  I groaned involuntary as I was stood up. “You heard her,” the one I’d shot whispered in my ear. “End of the line, Tex.” His grip was like iron and his breath coppery and dry. “Nothing personal.” Behind him I saw lights flare up inside the cabin and heard muffled shouts.

  “Reckon not,” I mumbled, fishing my folding knife out of my jacket pocket and opening it surreptitiously with numb fingers. He caught a hold of my neck with both hands and started to choke the very life out of me when I jammed the knife blade into him just above his belt, all three and a half inches of it, and yanked it plumb up to his breastbone.

  He squealed and punched me in the stomach so hard I felt ribs give way. I flew backward like a skipping stone, all arms and legs and losing consciousness. I stopped rolling at the edge of the creek and struggled up to my feet, took a step forward and fell again, this time sliding into the water and gone with one last, desperate call for Lizzie.

  NINE

  The plane lurched violently as it sped down the runway, as if uncomfortable with its cargo. Elita grimaced in spite of herself, checking her watch. “We are running half an hour behind schedule.”

  Neither of her companions spoke. She drummed her finger on the armrest. “I said,” she raised her voice, “we are running half an hour late.”

  “We’ll make it,” one of them said.

  “We’d better,” she said icily, turning to glare out the window at the darkness rushing by. “I am not particularly anxious to welcome in the dawn from ten thousand feet.” She slipped a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket. “God, I hate flying.” She lit up a cigarette and clove-scented smoke filled the cabin. “It seems I have forgotten your name. Again.”

  “David, Miss Elita. I am David.”

  “David, I want you to know I hold you personally responsible for our delay.”

  “We should make it to LaGuardia by five, and Julius will be waiting. The sun won’t be up for another hour after that. It will be fine, Miss Elita. Don’t worry.”

  She swung her head around. “Make no mistake, I do not worry. I have not lived for three thousand years by worrying. I am a realist. We are late. Much later, and the sun will come up and we shall be stuck in our coffins inside the plane until night returns, during which time we are at the mercy of the unknown, including,” she pointed a slender finger at Lizzie slumped in the back seat, handcuffs tight around her wrists, “our queen.” Her sarcasm chilled the air.

  “But at least we have her,” David said. “Julius will be pleased.”

  “Yes, his little helpers have done well,” Elita said. Either they missed the mockery of her tone or thought it best to ignore it.

  They sat in silence as the minutes ticked by and night air rushed against the plane’s thin hull. Eventually, the two men reached into a stainless steel container between them and withdrew plastic pouches of blood held at body temperature. The bags looked like boxed juices for children’s school lunch boxes. They used their teeth to rip the corners and fed, slurping greedily as the crimson liquid spilled out into their mouths. Across the way Elita could feel the surge of life flaring inside them and was momentarily tempted herself.

  David raised a fresh bag and offered it to her. She smiled thinly and arched an eyebrow. “No, thanks, I’m trying to cut down on between-meal snacks.”

  Her mind turned to Desard, gratefully blocking out the dull gluttony displayed before her. She was unwilling to leave him behind in such unfamiliar territory, but he insisted. Julius said he wanted no loose ends, but she suspected Desard wished to even the score with the cowboy, making him suffer even more if he somehow was miraculously still alive. Chances were slim, but they couldn’t find his body or any sign of that wretched dog.

  Desard was turned in the early part of the seventeenth century, not by Julius but by his long-time rival Lazarus. It took very little for Elita to tempt him away, though she seduced him almost as much for herself as for her master. There was an immediate attraction, but still she toyed with him for nearly a century, playing hard to get and keeping him at arm’s length. When it seemed he could stand it no longer, she took him as a lover. Theirs had been a brief, tempestuous relationship, ending after a mere forty years of sensual, blood-drenched passion.

  They remained close, however, and leaving him behind unsettled her. He was prone to overzealousness and had such an utter lack of respect for Adamites.

  In one sense, of course, she wholeheartedly agreed with him. It was, after all, quite challenging to have much respect for a food source. She continually cautioned Desard that this particular food source had brains, albeit of limited capacity, and well-sharpened stakes. Although they were frail, Elita had concluded over the centuries that an occasional Adamite or two proved extremely cunning and vicious. Luckily, she thought, by and large they tended to focus it on one another.

  “She’s coming to,” David said. Lizzie, queen-to-be, stirred in her chair, still unconscious, but straining against her manacles.

  Elita stood and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. She crossed to the agitated woman and stooped down. Taking Lizzie’s face in her hand, she bent close to smell the sweet scent of fear and distress still caked to her skin. As she watched the pulse flicker in Lizzie’s neck, Elita felt the hunger seize her and brushed her lips lightly across the soft, exposed throat of her captive.

  Her lips grazed almost imperceptibly against the skin and she fought the urge to rip her open and drain the life from her, ending the games forever. Her entire body echoed this desire, her cells responding in kind, unwinding and reaching out in unison for the life pulse of Lizzie. Julius’ stern face swam into view, loomed in her mind and, fearful of his wrath, she reached inside and found the strength to kill the hunger, to turn it off.

  Pulling back, she looked upon Lizzie’s face. So soft, so delicate. So fresh. Her hand lingered on Lizzie’s cheek for an instant, and the life in it transferred warmth to her icy hand. “Prepare another syringe,” she said, turning.

  David retrieved a black leather case from his suit coat. He pushed Lizzie’s sleeve up and, though satiated from the packaged blood, gazed longingly at the vein in the crook of her arm as he slid the syringe in. Soon this will not be a problem, Elita thought, watching. Soon, she will no longer be a temptation, but a temptress instead.

  TEN

  It was Rex that saved me.

  The creek carried me down a ways and might’ve kept me there until I was drowned or frozen, or both. I came to with the sunrise on a little sandy washout, Rex curled up on top of me trying to keep me warm, and mostly failing on account of he was cold himself and shivering so hard I could feel his bones rattling against me.

  What I meant to say was thanks for saving my life, but what came out was, “For Chrissakes, you’re gonna shake me to death,” and I pushed him off. Judging by the tracks in the wet sand, he’d tugged me up out of the water, and it hadn’t been easy. He licked at my face, happy I was alive and at the probability he would get a warm place to sleep and something to eat soon.

  My ribs hurt something fierce and my head wasn’t right on account of my nose being busted. Clawing at the frozen mud, I stood unsteadily. I could see my breath and Rex’s too as he cowered beneath me, bearing silent testimony to what had passed the night before. The sun came up over the mountains and in that orange and once-welcome light, I trembled and cried like a child.

  There was nothing left in me except a numb, terrible rage, so I found a branch thick as my arm and, leaning on it, hobbled up out of the mud and ice and toward the cabin. Past the corral and the frost-lined bodies of Snort and Dakota, I could see the cabin door hanging open.

  I feared her dead. Laid out like the horses had been, her beautiful eyes open and empty, an accusing shine to them. But the cabin was deserted and cold. The fire had long since gone out and its warmth was replaced by a sense of catastrophe, of a dark and terrible wrong made real. The chairs wer
e overturned, clothes and supplies scattered across the floor, the mirror broken. I fell to my knees in the doorway and begged God she was all right, that somehow she escaped into the woods and was hiding, cold but unharmed, and I called for her until my throat was ragged and my ribs screamed for me to stop.

  Then I thought of the man, the one I’d shot who hadn’t died, and I knew she was gone and that I had failed her. She had come to me seeking safety, and I failed her. Rex crawled his head into my lap and whined, giving voice to his own sense of failure, and I petted him like he was Lizzie and everything was all right.

  “We gotta go, Rex. We gotta help her,” I said at last. I pulled a blanket over my shoulders and hobbled out into the morning and the warm sun. It was going to be a hell of a walk. I saw the Colt glittering dully in the mud, cleaned and reloaded it and stuck it in my pants, even though I was unconvinced it would do any good.

  The day I could no longer have faith in my Colt was a day I never saw coming.

  I stood by the corral and looked out over the rails where Snort lay, looking soft and sleepy in the sun, but dead just the same. We may not have always seen eye to eye, but there wasn’t any better horse.

  There was a gaunt look to him as most of his blood had poured out of his ripped throat and washed away with the rain. Dakota’s too. I sat down and put my hand on Snort’s head. His hair was dried and stiff, like the flesh beneath. I told him how sorry I was and how I hoped he was in a better place where it was always sunny and the mountains were made out of rolled oats. And how, with any luck, maybe Dakota was there too and maybe they’d give Snort his balls back at the door and he could spend all eternity raising little ones and eating sugar cubes and I promised I’d come visit soon as I was able and he could even ride me for a while. Plus, I took back all the bad things I’d ever said to him and all the times I’d threatened him with the Alpo factory. Then I told him I wished I could bury him, but seeing as how he was already dead and how fond he’d been of Lizzie, I figured I’d better see about her, but that I would come back in time to bury him proper. Lastly I swore a solemn oath to avenge him. Then I said goodbye.

  The way back without him was not easy.

  I’m not accustomed to walking in the first place, and especially not with cracked ribs, a busted head and almost frostbit. The plus side was that, being as mad as I was, it was easy enough to forget about the pain, except for the two or three times I near blacked out and had to kneel in the road until it passed.

  By nightfall, I was limping down the drive to Dad’s house, head down and barely able to lift my feet. In that condition it took me a minute to realize Rex was growling that awful growl again and casting his head from side to side, and Dad’s door was standing wide open.

  “Dad?” I had a sinking feeling in my and stomach and pulled the Colt free of my pants, although it felt small and useless in my hand.

  “Dad?” I stepped through, dropping the blanket off my shoulders.

  The inside was turned upside down, like the cabin had been, only worse. Dishes broke, clothes scattered, the John Wayne poster lying torn on the floor. I flipped on the light, set my jaw and held the pistol out in front of me. The remains of a fire glowed in the fireplace, which led me to believe that Dad had been here recently and made me fear for him even more.

  “Didn’t learn your lesson the first time, Tex?”

  I couldn’t see nothing and then that fellow from the night before was standing beside me and plucking the gun out of my hand as easy as picking cotton. With one careless jerk of his arm, he sent me spinning across the floor and crashing into the kitchen with a groan. “I thought I’d killed you. Oh well, I love loose ends.”

  “Here we go again,” I said.

  He stood over me like a pale and stunted oak tree. “Shouldn’t have cut me, Tex,” he said, “that hurt.”

  “Real sorry about that, you ugly son of a bitch.”

  “You will be,” he said, “because I can make this last all night.”

  He lifted me to my feet with one hand and held me suspended.

  “Where’s Lizzie?” I choked out.

  “She’s no longer your concern, cowboy,” he said.

  I smiled because I knew it meant she was still alive. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Your father? I’ll find him soon enough.”

  I smiled even wider, but any sort of relief I might have felt quickly disappeared as he tossed me over the kitchen table. Landing on the counter with a crash, I hung balanced momentarily there on the edge before falling to the floor, tangled up with the toaster and the coffee pot.

  “Time to see some blood, Tex,” he said, squatting down over me with a leer. I kicked feebly at him as he reached out toward me.

  There was a ratcheting sound of well-machined metal on metal, and then a flash and a roar, and his grin disappeared in a mist of teeth and rotten flesh turned to vapor. Surprise and pain filled his eyes and he spun around to face Dad, who was leaning through the doorway trying to decide if he should shoot again as he steadied his .454 against the frame.

  The .454 Casull is the one of the largest handgun in the world, next to which Dirty Harry’s magnum ain’t much more than a pop-gun. As such, it ain’t particularly easy on the shooter, which is why Dad was hoping one shot was enough. But my jawless friend was already gathering himself to jump and I hollered, “For the love of God, Dad, shoot him again, shoot him again!”

  Dad grimaced and squeezed off another round that caught Pale and Ugly right below his breast pocket and knocked him up against the fridge looking down at a hole in his chest big enough to see right through to a picture of a six-point elk Dad had cut out of a hunting magazine and scotch-taped on the wall.

  That dead son of a bitch still wasn’t dead though, only sorely inconvenienced and mighty pissed.

  During the ruckus, I crabbed out of the kitchen and was now hunched down near the fire. I grabbed hold of a log end burned down to a point of glowing embers, and as he stood there dripping slime and wordless curses, I thrust it into the hole Dad had shot through him.

  He clawed at the air and rolled his eyes and squealed a horrible squeal, and then the fire seemed to catch inside him and he went up with a whoosh and a roar like last year’s Christmas tree. In a few seconds, there was nothing left but ashes and an awful smell of burnt toast.

  “Goddamn,” Dad said, massaging his shooting wrist. “City folks take their own sweet time a-dying.”

  ELEVEN

  It was like being a kid again and believing Dad could keep the monsters under the bed from getting to me as I slept. Only this time the monsters were real, and instead of leaving the closet light on, he had his Casull in his lap to keep them from coming through the window and ripping my throat out.

  Of course, when I came to, he was sprawled out in the recliner snoring like a chainsaw, with Rex curled up at his feet and drooling a puddle out in front of both of them. I gave Dad’s chair a nudge with my foot and he woke up with a start, cocking back the hammer.

  “Easy, old man,” I said, punching up the pillows so I could lean on one arm. “I thought you was supposed to be watching over me.”

  He put the pistol down, stood up and then gave Rex a retaliatory nudge.

  “Damn mutt, you were supposed to keep me awake.” Rex stared wide-eyed up at Dad for a second, then came over to see if I was okay. After sniffing around my face while I pushed feebly at him, he decided I was doing better and curled back up.

  “Look at my house,” Dad said, stretching and mumbling excuses as to how he came to be sleeping when he was supposed to be guarding me. He started picking up broken things and straightening this and that, pausing long enough to complain about how sore his shooting wrist was, rubbing it now and again. From the vantage point of the couch, I watched him mutter and mumble his way into the kitchen where he fished the coffee pot out of the mess and blew vampire ash off it before plugging it in.

  “Least this still works,” he yelled to me, and brewed up a pot.

  When it
finished, he poured two cups and I heard him open the cupboard. He came back into the room and with a steady hand, poured a stiff dollop of whiskey into each cup. “I can’t believe how much trouble kids are,” he said, handing me the cup. “Tell me one more time.”

  “Vampires, Dad. Vampires,” I said. “Blood sucking, Goddamn, got-Lizzie vampires.”

  “I just can’t believe it,” he said.

  “Can you believe that son of a bitch was standing there with a hole through him big enough to pack a lunch in and still aiming to kill us?”

  “Only ’cause I seen it. And because there’s a hole shot through my refrigerator.”

  “I’d already shot that bastard four times up in the mountains. Stabbed him, too.”

  He sat quietly for a minute. “Always told you that Colt was too small,” he said at last.

  “I’ve got to find Lizzie,” I said, swinging my feet out of bed and wincing at the discovery of pain. “I’ve got to go to New York.” The room got a little fuzzy and Dad laid his hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back down onto the mattress.

  “We’ve got to fix you up first, boy. Can’t fight no vampires all busted up. I’m gonna call the vet.”

  Doc Near has been practicing veterinarian medicine in the greater LonePine area at least since I was born. I know this to be true because he delivered me. Since the nearest hospital is about as small the local drug store, and the M.D. only comes up from Jackson on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Doc Near is accustomed to treating a variety of human ailments and conditions on top of his animal doctoring.