Growing Shadows in the Desert

by Danielle Williams

  The DuFresnes are gone.

  The sheriff’s horse disappeared weeks ago.

  Now the vampire that took them wants to chat.

  Short Story. 2,400 words.

  Growing Shadows in the Desert

  by Danielle Williams

  Published 2018

  © Copyright 2018 Danielle Williams

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Pixelvania Publishing.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to convey a sense of realism. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photos by Igam Ogam and Neil Fedorowycz on Unsplash.

  His spurs clinked as he drew over the dirt. His horse had been turned weeks ago.

  ‌—‌weeks! Going on a month. A month since the DuFresnes disappeared…‌and that savage family, too…‌

  and the sheriff had been forced to go on foot ever since.

  He was picking his way down off a hill, glancing up to take in the scrub brush and dirt that lay before him. Soon his shadow would grow long.

  He stumbled, throwing up dust. Yes, he didn’t want to be late for that golden hour, when the wicked sun would be full at his back and the creature‌—‌fiend‌—‌whatever‌—‌would be trapped in its lair.

  He paused, breathing. Sweat dampened his moustache. When he looked up again, he saw it.

  The lean-to had been abandoned by its owner long before the fiend arrived, so that wasn’t what shocked him. It was the little square of neat-knit planting rows stitched into the earth beside the claim. It didn’t eat, so why was it planting?

  And how many more homesteaders would it take?

  The sheriff hurried to the valley floor. Someone had to stop it. The law was him, and more importantly, the homesteaders were his‌—‌no, in his watchcare. The Wilkersons were sickening, lying on their straw ticks exhausted even as he walked. He wouldn’t let another family be lost. So he would confront the fiend.

  Even though it had been the fiend’s idea.

  * * *

  He was halfway to the valley when he heard the hoof steps. The sheriff looked up from the dust.

  “Saddie?”

  Maybe she hadn’t been turned. Maybe the fiend had just snacked off her, set her loose.

  He hadn’t made it to the lean-to in time. His shadow stretched purple before him. The sun blared orange behind him, so powerful the dust seemed to glow.

  A dark shape came out of the dust. The light made him feel in control. Then his eyes saw through the distortion of the shadows and he froze like a rabbit.

  It was Saddie. She had been turned‌—‌and was carrying her new master on her back.

  The fiend.

  Dressed in all black, he blended with the shadow, molded with Saddie’s black pelt, which had been curried to velvet, though it no longer shone, not even in the blaze of the wicked sun.

  At least, the sheriff thought the figure on Saddie’s back was a he. But if it was, he dressed like a hifalutin’ lady back East at a funeral‌—‌wide-brimmed cart wheel hat, veil, even gloves that were black, with black lace over the backs of his hands. The sheriff checked quickly to be sure he wasn’t riding side saddle.

  The fiend stopped before him. The only flesh he could see was through his veil, and it was palest white. The sharp jaw, sunken eyes, and hooked nose: yes, a man.

  The two fangs jutting into his lower lip, like an overgrown rat: yes, a fiend.

  The fiend smiled down upon him. “Lovely evening, isn’t it, Sheriff? Don’t you just love the heat coming out of the earth?”

  He thought having the sun to his back would protect him. In the back of his mind, he thought the heat might, too. He was pale like something blind and slimy beneath a rock; fire would be its demise, and heat a weakness, surely.

  But no. It had come out here and met him.

  “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of John, Marilyn, and Becky DuFresne.”

  The fiend scoffed softly. Gently, even. “Come now, sir‌—‌oh, I beg your pardon. Sheriff. The DuFresnes are no more murdered than your horse here.”

  Saddie gazed at him with an eye tinged in red.

  “Whatever you did to them is good as death.”

  “Oh? Do you typically make your rounds upon a dead horse, Sheriff? I feel certain dead people do not plow rows so neatly as that.” He gestured with a gloved hand that wasn’t holding the reigns, back towards his lean-to.

  They’d done it?

  And now that he was closer, the sheriff could see the well built up on the hill. It was one of the biggest the sheriff had ever seen. From here he could just make out the funny plaited shape sticking up over the cover. Just like the one covering the DuFresne’s well.

  “You took em from their homestead, away from their people. That’s kidnapping. And you didn’t have the manners to ask for a ransom.” If he didn’t turn them, perhaps they were only slaves, unchanged…‌

  But did he do that to Saddie?

  “I took them, true,” said the fiend. “It is a lonely place out here.”

  The sheriff’s head jerked upwards, but he couldn’t see the fiend’s face clearly enough to further decode the emotion he might have heard in his voice.

  The fiend continued. “But to be fair, I didn’t spirit them away far. Why, if they’re in‌—‌what is it you’ve named it? Bristlefield‌—‌they’re meant to come west. I only took them a little further. It only took you two day’s walk to find us, didn’t it, Sheriff?”

  “Coulda taken me a day’s ride if someone hadn’t stolen my horse.”

  The fiend’s head bowed, conceding the point, long enough for the sheriff to study the crown of his hat. A black ribbon lined it, a river of shine interrupting the black felt.

  Keeps his head covered. Almost like a religious man. A mockery.

  “I didn’t mean to cause you inconvenience, Sheriff. Only, they’re always hungry at first, and the game is scarce. Then, John told me they could start planting crops with a horse.”

  The sheriff snorted. Saddie was no plow nag.

  “Indeed. She’s not very good at it. Perhaps later we may trade for a beast better suited.”

  “If you don’t come with me now, I’ll shoot you dead.” The sheriff raised his rifle, trained the iron sights on the fiend’s chest.

  Strangely, the fiend ducked so his face was right in the center of his aim. All at once, his beady eyes seemed to accelerate towards the sheriff, growing huge, while the glowing dirt around him fell away till it was a speck…‌

  Then the world returned back to normal.

  Only he wasn’t looking at the fiend’s face through the reticle, because the fiend had the rifle laid across his lap, up on Saddie.

  The sheriff held up one empty hand, then the other, looking at them in wonderment. He felt betrayed‌—‌but by which part of him he couldn’t say.

  The fiend watched him, arms lightly folded over his gun. Gold light gleamed off the metal in parts. The watching was soft, made of thoughtful eyes.

  “It is lonely here for you, isn’t it, William? When Polly died, you left your old…‌well, everything! Thought the adventure and work would fill your mind…‌which it did, until winter. Then there was nothing to do but mourn her.”

  The sheriff’s mouth went dry. How could he know? Strong and quick enough to take the gun‌—‌strong and quic
k, he understood. But to hear the thoughts of his mind, said aloud…‌He couldn’t have heard it from the DuFresnes. William kept to himself. Besides, those thoughts were his exact words he’d thought, words he’d never said aloud to another, for fear of what they might do if allowed loose.

  In the end, he could only say in his dust-dry voice, “You ain’t fit to say her name, devil.”

  The fiend just nodded. “I’ve been where you are, William.” The shape of his face changed in profile, the peaks of his nose and fangs more prominent as he lifted his black gloved hand off the gun and studied it. He rubbed thumb against satined forefinger. “Perhaps I’m still there.”

  Don’t let him distract you.

  “Whatever you’ve done to the DuFresnes, they can’t come back‌—‌it’s as good as murder. Their oldest was studying in the next town over. When she comes back, I’ll have to tell her she’s an orphan, thanks to you.”

  “Orphan? Can’t come back? Whatever do you mean? Their appetites waned days ago. The only thing preventing them from returning to greet their daughter is you, Sheriff.”

  The gall! For a moment, the sheriff couldn’t speak.

  The fiend continued. “I didn’t know what you’d incite the townspeople to do to them if they returned. That’s why I left you the letter. I hoped we might come to an agreement.”

  “Sad you didn’t get their oldest as a snack, too, you sick-swilling‌—‌”

  “Ah-ah.” He held up a genteel hand. “I don’t do what I do casually. So there’s no need to sully your character with unseemly insults.”

  “You stole a plow, a horse, and killed two people. You’re nothing but a parasite!”

  It was the first time the thing had lost his temper, and the snarl frightened the sheriff cold. There were many more teeth, quite sharp, behind the ratty-looking fangs. But as quickly as the snarl had come, the mouth closed up again. The fiend looked heavenward‌—‌

  skyward

  as if asking

  asking who?

  for patience.

  “Forgive me, Sheriff.” He was digging into his jacket.

  Then, a fist-sized bag was flying through the air. Shocked, the sheriff half-caught it. It bounced off his hands once with the clink of metal, and then he flailed, caught it for good. He undid the drawstring and looked inside.

  Coins. Real silver, too. Wasn’t silver supposed to stop fiends like him?

  The sheriff looked up, confused, now, but ready to be disgusted if this was a payoff.

  “Payment in full for your fine horse and the plow.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Sheriff, I‌—‌you know how difficult it is to start somewhere anew. I’ve done it many a time and in no place I’ve lived has anyone accused me of sponging off others. No, we shall trade fairly with the other homesteaders and you and all of them will come to value it.

  “You see, I come from a place far more…‌sophisticated than you. I only need a little time and resources, but you soon will see my town become greater than any of your Eastern cities. If your people will stay and show some neighborly hospitality from time to time, it will soon benefit both our people.”

  The sheriff’s head was spinning. A city? Come from a place more “sophisticated”? How much time as “a little”?

  He didn’t want to think what the fiend meant by neighborly hospitality.

  The sheriff’s fine horse walked forward two steps at a gentle nudge to its side. The fiend leaned down, offered him a stiff piece of paper. Paper! Aside from the fiend’s last note, it had been a year since he’d seen paper. It was a brilliant white, like the snows that had fallen that past winter. Written upon it was a list: grain seed, 1 bag‌—‌10 coins. 1 cock, three hens or pullets‌—‌15 coins. Wood, rope, pigs, and other unsurprising homesteader supplies were written elegantly at the top. At the bottom, though, the list turned strange and frivolous: pairs of rabbit teeth (1 sml silver/30 pair), dyed feathers (negot.), and bird call lessons (3p/week‌—‌must be of HIGHEST ACCURACY).

  “That will get us started.”

  The sheriff glared at him over the list. “What about blood?”

  “We will be willing to trade for that, too. John and Marilyn seemed to be the best of you; I’m certain we’ll soon have something your people will value enough.”

  “…‌to…‌trade for their blood.”

  “Or their animals’ blood.” The fiend spread his arms in explanation. “I am knowledgeable in the art of bleeding animals.”

  The air was cooling with the purpling sky.

  “You’ll pay us for supplies…‌trade in blood…‌build a…‌a city out here, in no-man’s-land…‌and then…‌?”

  The fiend smiled warmly. “We all will prosper.”

  A breeze blew up, cold across the sheriff’s ears.

  He crumpled the fiend’s list. He released it. It fell and the wind carried it bumping across the sheriff’s boot, over the brittle brush like a tumbleweed.

  The fiend’s smile receded as he watched it disappear into the darkening plain.

  “William‌—‌Think of the family. They’ll be torn apart.”

  “I ain’t never making a deal with you.”

  “William.”

  The sheriff looked up. The fiend had removed his hat. Its black lace veil fluttered in the wind. The sheriff noted this detail in the corner of his mind that wasn’t consumed with the bald head and the crabbed oversized ears hiding up in the hat.

  It’s really true. He’s a thing.

  Then the sunken eyes caught him.

  The land around the sheriff shrank to a hard purple point before softening like a mist.

  When he opened his eyes again, the sheriff was laid out in front of Doc Chetta’s door. Moonlight shone off it. The sheriff heaved breath into himself. He asked himself how he had got there. Answers did not come, though he demanded them of his body.

  Something dropped by the sheriff’s ear. It took time before he could turn his head to look at it, though, on account of the dull ache in his neck, the weakness making his body drag through time. It was a paper package‌—‌he thought a dress could be in it‌—‌addressed to the DuFresne’s remaining daughter.

  Motion made him raise his gaze. He watched, voiceless, as a black dog

  or is it a wolf?

  trotted towards the homesteads, silent as shadows.

  He pushed himself onto his elbows. The bag of coins on his chest tinkled and fell to the ground. When he reached for it, something crinkled in his breast pocket. His cold fingers fished a while before they grabbed hold of it.

  He even ripped it when he unfolded it. He was so cold…‌

  My dear Sheriff,

  It saddens me we could not come to an agreement matching your sensibilities.

  Should you wish to reconsider (or if you resign your position as the sheriff of Bristlefield) I pray you’ll leave a letter in your window notifying me. I’ll be certain to see it when I visit again.

  Please give the dress to the DuFresne’s oldest when she gets back, and let her know she is welcome to visit her parents anytime.

  I surely remain

  Your Humble Neighbor,

  F. Kolar

  Lord of the Clan Orlock

  P.S. Please don’t worry about the Wilkersons. I will take good care of them.

  Special Thanks…‌

  …‌to everyone at Mastodon.art who gave feedback on the cover.

  Sneak Preview

  Long before he met a sheriff in the desert, F. Kolar was Prince Friedrich of Hriana, heir to Everlush, son of the dragon Lumina, older brother to his dragon-sister Star. Together with the fae, goblins, and other beings of Everlush, they fought for a dying world…‌

  Read on for a special sneak preview of The Horror of Hriana.

  FLIGHT OF FLAME

  We climb up the path. The goblins and the wild wives and Leonora the healer leave us when we reach the mortals’ level. We proceed upwards until we come to a door in the wall, wide eno
ugh for Mother and Star to stand side by side, wings out.

  Mother lowers her head. “Climb on, son. Hold fast to my horns.”

  I put my weight down slowly, careful to step only where the skin looks taut and solid with bone. I take my seat. Even her bones are warm.

  Her sweeping horns have hundreds of ridges crossing them. The main body of each horn forks into a smaller branch. These forks are not so far apart. I wrap my arms around them, clasp my hands together.

  “Brace your legs, too, right here.” Her tail curves around to show me the spot, in the crooks where the main horn bodies leave the curve of her skull. I place my feet into the gap.

  Mother lifts her head, and I rise with her.

  “You are light as a daisy seed! Your direction must turn towards air.”

  She curves her neck back on itself until her head is almost flush with the shoulders of her wings. Next to us, Star does the same.

  “I’ll focus on reclaiming the north side. Star, please do an edge check and reclaim what you can. If you have any difficulty, come find me.”

  “I know, Mother.”

  “It’s good that you know. We’re ready, Kiama.”

  Kiama and her selkies‌—‌her pod mates‌—‌lower the door. It lays flat ahead of us like a brown tongue. Cold air rushes past. I like the smell of it‌—‌it is the freshest air I’ve taken in thus far in my short time awake‌—‌but it leeches away the heat I have drunken in today. I crouch low to Mother, arms straining because I am still wrapping them around her horns.

  All but one of the selkies climb onto Star. No one takes a place on her head. On the ground, Félicité’s sirens wrap their arms around the dryads, whose green, brown, and red skins look dull against their pale, lean sisters.

  Mother and Star spread their wings, then spring forward, running.

  At the end of the drawbridge, they leap.

  With the leap, Mother changes. We change. The body beneath me feels whole still, but no longer solid, like her form is nothing but a container for air. It feels right. Jealousy scratches at me, just for an instant.

  Her clawed wings pump, tilting the length of her body up, down, making it bob, but her head holds level. Her skin glows gently blue.