She Returns From War
Page 27
When the desert night had swallowed up the last of the hellish chorus, Victoria allowed herself to breathe. Turning around, she swept her gaze through the brush, searching for the fallen master's minion, but the feral creature had vanished. She took a step toward the ruins when Cora's voice stopped her.
"Take my sword," the hunter said, her voice rattling deep in her chest.
Kneeling down next to Cora, Victoria put a hand on the hilt of the hunter's saber. Starlight glimmered on the blade as she drew it from its sheath.
"Cut off his head."
Victoria stood and turned toward her fallen foe before the hunter's words hit home. "What?" she asked.
Cora merely looked at her and nodded.
Taking a breath, Victoria marched toward the vampire's corpse. Nausea swept through her at the thought of decapitating a man, even this one, but she forced it down. If it was the only way to make sure the monster stayed dead, then she would do it.
Victoria looked down at Washington's face, and her fingers involuntarily tightened around the saber's hilt. The dead man's face was frozen in the rictus of his dying scream, but the fire was gone from his eyes. He looked like an ordinary man, one who might have passed many a hot afternoon in Cora's saloon. A strange sense of pity passed through her. Once, this man had been no different from any other, trying to make his own way in a world as dangerous as it was mad. He had chosen a path of darkness and demons, perhaps beguiled by the man he pretended to be, the one called Fodor Glava. So damned, he had become a monster in soul as well as in body, ultimately leading him to his death by her hand. A tragic end to a tragic tale.
The memory of his hands around her throat, his promises of rape and murder, returned to her, and her pity vanished beneath a landslide of loathing. Her skin crawled at the thought of his icy touch. Gripping the hilt of the saber with both hands, she raised it above her head.
"Bastard."
Moonlight flashed on the polished blade as she brought it down on the vampire's neck. It sliced through the undead flesh as if it were jelly. The head of Washington Jones rolled a few feet before coming to rest, long strands of dirty yellow hair splayed out like the legs of an insect. Victoria shuddered at the thought and turned away.
Retracing her steps, Victoria returned to the hunter's side. "It's done."
Cora did not answer.
Kneeling down next to her, Victoria softly called out her name. The lean, weathered face did not stir. No breath rose and fell beneath her shirt. A smile still lingered on her lips, and the sight brought one to Victoria's own. Despite the blood on her shirt, the carnage that surrounded her, Cora Oglesby was a vision of peace. Her hat lay to one side of her head, the brim painted by threads of her hair. The moonlight softened the hard lines of her face, taking the years away from her. In its bluish hue, Victoria could still see the face of the girl she had been, the face her husband must have seen when they first met. They were together again at last, after all their long years of separation. The thought made Victoria's smile widen, and she felt a tear slide down her cheek.
"Rest well, my friend," she whispered, touching the hunter's hand. "You've earned it."
Victoria lingered there a moment longer, a captive of the powerful serenity that had settled over the ruins. She took a deep breath, drawing the cool desert air into her lungs. It smelled of dust and blood. She wanted to carry this place inside her forever, just as it was, stained with the blood of heroes and monsters. To forget would be a dishonor to the woman who lay beside her.
Finally, Victoria roused herself. Her cold muscles creaked in protest as she stood. Moving to wipe her eyes, she realized she still held Cora's saber in her hand. Bending down, she wiped the gore on a nearby bush, then carefully slid the blade back into its sheath. Metal rasped against metal, sending echoes bouncing off the nearby walls.
Reaching toward her own belt for the hunter's gun, she paused. Cora's words came back to her, telling her to take the gun with her back to England so she could enact her own vengeance. Victoria smiled again. "I will wear it with pride," she said, "and I hope to someday be worthy of it."
Tipping her hat to her friend, Victoria turned and started walking toward the ruins. Somewhere near their weathered walls, she knew her horse must be waiting. For the first time in her life, she found herself eager to climb into a saddle and ride beneath the stars, the night flowing around her in dark rivers of purple and blue and brown, forever searching for the break of dawn.
EPILOGUE
Early morning sunlight streamed through the windows, making Victoria's eyes sparkle like a mountain lake in summer. She rested her head against the glass, watching the distant mesas march past beneath the empty sky. The train swayed gently as it clacked and clamored along its route. Victoria could feel sleep coming for her, peering into each row as it stalked up the aisle, eager to cover her in its warm embrace.
Somewhere behind her, another car followed hers over the winding steel rails. Inside, her luggage was doubtlessly bouncing and thumping in time to the clacking and swaying. Beside it sat an ordinary coffin, unadorned and simple. Victoria never imagined herself traveling with such a thing, but she would not refuse Cora her dying wish to be buried next to her husband. Sheriff Morgan had offered little resistance, saying that Victoria was as close to kin as the old hunter had. He seemed eager to rid himself of the whole affair, and Victoria didn't blame him for it. Only a few short months ago, she would have felt the same.
Her thoughts drifted far away from the desert, lingering in a moonlit spring night, one that seemed so long ago now. Instead of the hulking shapes and burning yellow eyes of the hounds, she remembered the fine cut of her father's overcoat and the way her mother's hat seemed to forever teeter on the verge of slipping off. In her drowsy haze, Victoria could almost feel the soft scratching of her favorite scarf, and a dreamy smile spread beneath her tired eyes.
Around her, other passengers spoke in hushed tones, trading gossip and rumors like currency. Sunlight flashed and jumped along the windows, sending brilliant spears dancing through their hair and across their faces. Oblivious to them, the young woman slept, lulled by the gentle rocking of the train as it carried her out of the unforgiving wilderness and back toward the green fields and quiet rivers of her home.
About the Author
Lee Collins has spent his entire life in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. Despite this (or perhaps because of it), he generally prefers to stay indoors reading and playing video games. As a child, he never realized that he could create video games for a living, so he chose to study creative writing at Colorado State University. Upon graduation, he worked as an editorial intern for a local magazine before securing a desk job with his alma mater.
Lee's short fiction has appeared in Ensorcelled and Morpheus Tales, the latter of which awarded him second place in a flash fiction contest. In 2009, a friend challenged him to participate in National Novel Writing Month, and the resulting manuscript became his debut novel, The Dead of Winter.
In his spare minutes between writing and shepherding graduate students at his day job, Lee still indulges in his oldest passions: books and video games. He and his girlfriend live in Colorado with their imaginary corgi Fubsy Bumble.
leecollinsfiction.com
@leecollinsfict
Acknowledgments
Thanks always to my constant companion and best friend Tori for standing strong against my legions of writing grumps. Thanks to my wonderful beta readers for their donations of time and invaluable advice, to my editors Lee and Marc for their keen eyes and keener cuts, and to Darren and Mike for their fantastic work. Thanks to everyone at ChiCon 7 for making my first official convention such a lovely experience. Finally, thanks to my brother Joe for his enthusiasm, support, and generous gifts of alcohol.
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An Angry Robot paperback original 2013
1
Copyright (c) Lee Collins 2013
Lee Collins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 0 85766 274 3
eBook: 978 0 85766 276 7
Cover Art: Chris McGrath.
Set in Meridien by THL Design.
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham, ME5 8TD.
All rights reserved. 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 permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
She Returns from War
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Acknowledgments