The Jaded Hunter

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Rick startled. His hand hit his beer. Knocking the bottle onto the table and floor, the liquid dumped out, gurgling until empty. He ignored it, staring at the large vampire before him. Behind the intruder, the door was still locked, his windows undisturbed.

  “You’re him, aren’t you?” Rick asked, his mouth hard. He expected to face Jaden’s devil some night. He just didn’t expect it to be so soon. He knew if the vampire got past him, Jaden would be helpless to fight him off. And he was the one who drugged her and left her vulnerable. He had to protect her. It was his duty.

  Tyr watched the man in displeasure. He heard Rick’s mortal heart beating violently, though his body was calm. He smelled the strength in his blood, a strong life full of health.

  “I have come for Miss MacNaughton. Step aside,” Tyr ordered. To his pleasure, the man didn’t move. He was glad he didn’t. He wanted to fight him. He wanted to hit him for presuming to take Jaden away. He wanted to hit him because Jaden went with him. Tyr could detect her sleeping in the man’s bedroom.

  “She won’t leave here,” Rick said. “State your business.”

  “My business?” Tyr chuckled, a humorless sound meant to instill fear. “You know what I am, mortal. I am her master and I have come for her. You have no business trying to stop me.”

  “Jaden has no master.” Rick took a step back, keeping his body between the vampire and the door.

  “Do you think you are good enough for her, mortal? Do you think you can understand her?” He detected the feelings the man possessed and hated them. He tried to block them from his mind, not wanting to feel the other man’s love. Taunting where he knew he would do the most damage, Tyr continued, “You’ll never be worthy of her. She knows it too. I can feel inside her. I feel everything inside her. I know her better than you ever could. She is beyond you, mortal.”

  Rick shivered. Tyr’s strike was deep, his words denting the hope the man clung to.

  “She won’t have you,” Tyr whispered. “And she does not love you.”

  “And you won’t have her.” The man growled, darting forward to attack. Bravely, he struck out.

  Tyr let him punch his jaw, feeling the hard snap of it glancing off his chin. His mouth opened. A thin trail of blood dripped where his bottom fang tore open the delicate tissue of his lip. Licking the bloody wound, his gaze bore into the man. The gashed closed, healing shut. Rick hesitated. The two stared at each other for a long, silent moment. Then suddenly, with a snap of his hand, Tyr hit him. The mortal went flying across the room, banging loudly into the plaster wall. His body dented into it before crumpling on the ground.

  Tyr frowned. This was a strong man, one who would be a great human warrior. But he was no match for a Dark Knight. An army would be no match for him. Tyr knew mortals couldn’t kill him. They had tried and they always failed.

  Tyr stalked to the fallen soldier. Rick groaned, looking up at him weakly. Tyr grabbed him by the collar. Hatred and jealousy seethed in his breast. Tyr acted on animal instinct, his fangs straining to bite into the man’s neck. The man moaned at the sharp pierce gouging into his artery. Tyr’s fangs sliced through flesh like it was water. Rick’s lips parted to draw a ragged breath. Spit gurgled up from his throat. He was helpless against the monster sucking and drinking along his skin.

  Tyr swallowed with blind abandon, unmindful of what he did. He felt the man’s life slipping away. He felt death coming swiftly as he stole the man’s existence. The mortal’s power flooded him. Suddenly, Tyr stopped. He pulled back, his eyes tortured with what he was doing. The soldier hung limp, passed out from the rapid blood loss. Blue lines edged the man’s lips. Blood trailed from four puncture marks on his thick neck.

  Tyr felt the heady energy life swirling in his head. He felt it in his eyes, filling them with the power of bloodlust. His mouth opened wide, wanting to continue, wanting to taste, glorying in the pureness of the man’s heart, the pureness of his blood. Rick was untainted by the normal human failings. His story was in the flavor of his life’s essence. He was a good soldier, doing what he thought was best for the world.

  Tyr’s mouth closed as he fought to gain control over his greedy hunger. Pulling his lips over his teeth, he swallowed the remaining drops of blood lingering in his mouth.

  Slowly, Tyr lowered the man to the ground. Rick wasn’t dead, but if he lost any more blood he would be soon. Tortured by what he had almost done out of jealousy, Tyr bit his finger, drawing a droplet of his own. Swiping the wounds on his victim’s neck, he watched as his blood sealed the holes. The man might live, but he would be weak for some time if he did.

  Without a backward glance, Tyr went to Jaden. He saw her sleeping peacefully on the bed. She didn’t move. Her heartbeat was steady, too steady for a dhampir. Her power was dulled. He couldn’t wake her.

  Crossing to her, Tyr leaned the back of his hand to whisk past her face. Her eyes opened briefly to stare at him. Her pupils were small pin-pointed dots of black.

  Jaden? he whispered into her mind, his lips not moving.

  “There are too many secrets, devil. You cannot hope to discover them all,” she said, before falling into the lethargy of sleep once more. The flash of awareness was enough. Tyr knew she was drugged.

  He had no choice but to take her with him. In her condition, there was no way for him to discover what she knew. Her eyes would be unreadable, clouded as they were with the haze of sleep. Her mind would be numbed from the forced slumber. As she dreamed, her thoughts would scatter, making the leftover fragments hard to decipher. It would take too long for him to probe within the muddled depths. Tyr cursed. He wouldn’t have his answers tonight.

  Scooping her up into the fold of his arms, he rested her cheek against his chest. She mumbled lightly before settling next to him. Her hand twitched, pressing against his heartbeat before falling to her stomach. Going towards the living room window, he stepped dispassionately over the man who didn’t move, who barely breathed.

  Tyr jerked open the window with one hand, unable to form into mist with his burden. On last impulse, he grabbed the duffel bag laden with feminine clothing and slung it over his shoulder. If Rick recovered, he didn’t want the man fingering Jaden’s intimates again. He didn’t want the mortal to have anything of hers. Tyr had little time to wonder at the jealous act as he left. Within a blink, he was gone, flying effortlessly through the night with Jaden in his arms.

  * * *

  Mack pulled the mauve privacy curtains along the metal track to block out the insufferable sounds of misery. The thick material was no match for the howls of pain escaping the lips of a man withdrawing from heroin. Directing a scowl at Tom, he ordered, “For goodness sake, Carter, get Rick a private room!”

  Tom nodded, hurrying to do as he was commanded.

  Mack wrinkled his nose, sniffing in protest against the disinfectant smell of the hospital. The intensive care unit was unusually lively due to the man hollering obscenities at passing nurses as his body thrashed against restraints. One moment he was begging for drugs, the next he was cursing the world for his misfortune. Mack had no pity for the man. He had no compassion for the weakness of addicts.

  Eyeing Rick’s pale form on the bed, he met the man’s wakening gaze. His cheeks had started to flush from the three units of blood he had been given, but Mack could tell the man was still weak from his ordeal. Absently, he tossed his leather briefcase and coat onto a chair.

  Going to the bed, he looked at the large IV in Rick’s arm. The clear plastic tube led up to a hydrating bag of saline. The man’s skin was clammy, his face taut against his cheekbones.

  “What happened?” Mack asked in a matter-of-fact tone. The man in the bed next to them yelled in pain, again demanding drugs. Rick flinched.

  Mack frowned. Turning, he disappeared behind the curtain.

  Rick heard a loud smack and then silence. When Mack came around the corner, he was wiping his knuckles on a handkerchief. Drawing closer to the bed, Mack laid his hand on the railing.

&nbs
p; “There, I daresay he won’t be bothering anyone for a spell,” Mack said by way of explanation. Rick smiled in tired gratitude.

  “What did the doctor say?” Rick queried, mindful of eavesdroppers. “Did you talk to them?”

  “They don’t know what to think. At first they thought it a suicide attempt or internal bleeding, but they didn’t find any wounds. They said you lost a lot of blood and were given a transfusion.”

  “How long have I been out?” Rick moved as if to sit up.

  “Two days. They gave you something to sleep at Tom’s request. He signed you in. He would’ve taken you to our personal facility but there was no time. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the doctors. They won’t be asking you anymore questions.”

  “Two days?” Rick groaned in exasperation. He tried to push himself up only to fall back again with a shiver. “We have to go. I can’t stay here.”

  “What happened, Rick? Where’s Jaden?” Mack watched him carefully.

  “She wasn’t found?” Rick asked sharply, his head clearing. “He must have taken her. He said he was coming to take her.”

  “Who said?” Mack asked.

  “Some vampire,” Rick mumbled. Mack lowered the railing on the bed as Rick tried to sit up. He swung his legs over the edge. Grimacing at the annoying needle stuck in his arm, he pulled it out with a hard yank. “He was strong, Mack. Unlike any I’ve seen before.”

  Rick’s arm trickled with blood. Mack handed him his handkerchief.

  “I tried to fight him. I couldn’t. His mind was like a black hole that sucks you in. I have never seen anything like this creature. I doubt a hundred men could’ve stopped him.” Rick absently blotted his small wound. Silently, he added, let alone one solitary woman.

  “Tyr,” Mack whispered.

  “What is this Tyr?” Rick glanced up. “I heard Jaden mention it.”

  “He’s the demon you fought, son,” Mack said with a hard pat to the man’s shoulder. “You’re very lucky. He isn’t known for his mercy.”

  “The devil,” Rick muttered, shaking his head. “I should have listened to her. Jade tried to warn me. God help me, Mack, I drugged her like you ordered. She planned on running away. I should have just let her go. Instead, I left her helpless and at that monster’s mercy.”

  “It’s not your fault. None of us could’ve known what was coming.” Mack stood, turning at the sound of an entering nurse. The woman pulled back the curtain.

  “Mr. Fletcher?” The woman stopped cold, gasping in dismay to see her patient sitting up in bed, his discarded IV hanging to the floor. She pulled her hands from the front pockets of her light blue scrubs as she rushed forward. “You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

  Rick grimaced, ignoring the woman. Looking pointedly at Mack, he said, “Get me discharged.”

  Mack nodded as he gathered his briefcase in hand. Throwing his jacket over his arm, he strode from the room.

  The nurse placed her hands on her hips. “You are not going anywhere for a couple days, Mr. Fletcher. The doctor will never allow it.”

  “Hmm,” Rick answered. He lay back at her insistence, feeling a little weak and not completely averse to the pampering. “My friend is very persuasive.”

  “So am I,” she challenged. Rick smiled at her, his eyes roaming naturally over her small frame. Tilting her head, she asked, “Finished?”

  Rick chuckled at being caught staring. With a groan, he closed his eyes. “I need to get out of here. I’ve been in bed too long.”

  * * *

  Island of Delos, Cyclades

  The carved stone chamber of the council was imbedded far beneath the surface of the small island, hidden away from human eyes and the ferocity of the Aegean sun. A large stone table, circular in shape with a large hollow center, graced the middle of the council hall. In the middle of the unbroken circle, in the hollow, the floor was sunken a few feet below the table’s legs with a short pedestal in the direct center holding a lighted torch for illumination. It was not a place that immortals and mortals alike would be fond of finding themselves. Once someone entered the circle to be judged, it was rare that they were allowed back out alive.

  High-backed chairs surrounded the table in eight spots, all but one occupied by leaders of the tribes. The Moroi chair stood empty. It was well known and pitied that Vladamir, tribal leader of the Moroi, was in a sopor. He did not partake of human blood, only rested in his unnatural sleep. It was not known why the Moroi leader had chosen such a life only that it had been so for a long time. Another vampire of the same tribe, Jirí, ruled in his place. Jirí was a loyal tribesman, but not fully trusted by the other council leaders. They often omitted him, without his knowledge, from talks of old things.

  Colorful mosaics decorated the walls depicting vampires, both legendary and real. Around the doors, dark red draperies hung, framing the thick, old wood. The round table dominated the rectangular room, its legs and edges hand carved with old designs. The floors were formed with gray marble slabs, a black impression of the tribal symbols carved into the stone behind each of the eight chairs. In front of each chair the symbol of the tribe was again imprinted into the wood tabletop.

  The firelight from the center torch cast its ghoulish contrast on the faces of the seven attending leaders. Each tribe originated from a different region across Europe and Asia, each leader officially in charge of their region. Though, in the old days, before the time of an organized council, there had been more tribes. Warring and petty jealousy had driven tribes to conquer tribes—much like the human forces conquered other weaker nations. It had been a glorious time for the vampire—the bloodshed and anguish of the old days.

  The remaining eight formed the council, each possessing their own unique abilities. They all excelled in certain powers, passing on the strong force to their benighted children. But for all their differences, they were ultimately descendent from the same true bloodline.

  Theophania of the Vrykolatios was keeper of the island and of all vampiric secrets. She lounged lazily in her high-backed chair, her legs and arms draped with the seductive allure of an ancient queen, her straight black hair flowing over her shoulders to her waist. She had a face that could lure men to their deaths, even without her vampiric powers. Often servants would crowd her, fanning her body with large palms. They would bring her mortals to eat upon like grapes. Theophania found herself above the hunt for food, not liking to waste the energy it took to capture her prey. Her place was acknowledged as the head of the circle. She lived an isolated existence, away from the influence of modern life, thriving on the old ways. Because of her isolation, she was respected and looked to preside over the gathering.

  Her sister, Chara of the closely related Vrykolakas tribe, was at her side. Both sisters were dark and beautiful, and although they were not twins, they could easily pass as such with little effort. Whereas Theophania dressed as an ancient, showing a large amount of her skin beneath her metal bodice, Chara was more contemporary in her tastes with a revealing dress of thin black and lips painted the color of blood. She’d often slick back her black hair and wear large amounts of dark eye makeup. When she smiled, she exposed the tips of her fangs with the practiced ease of endless centuries.

  Andrei of the Myertovjec was placed alongside Chara. His flirtatious eyes and lust for living, though he was dead, made him a charming companion but highly unreliable. He, too, had dark hair and a face so beautiful women ached to look at him. The Myertovjec’s appetite for sex was only to be outdone by their craving for drink. His kind often threw impulsive parties, feasting on whole families in a single night with the vigor of an all-out orgy.

  Ragnhild of the Drauger clan made his place at the left side of Theophania. No one could remember the elder’s human name, or why the Drauger leader allowed them to call him Ragnhild, a name traditionally belonging to a woman. He too had a taste for the old ways, missing the lusty lifestyle of the old Norseman. His weathered voice boomed when he spoke like the dictating lord over his manor. Long
braids bound through the blond hair at his temples and he was the only vampire with a beard. How he managed to keep it was a mystery to even the council. And Ragnhild, in his vanity over the trim whiskers, was not telling his secret.

  Ragnhild was seated next to Vishnu of the Rakshasa. Vishnu carried herself as the Indian princess she had been in life. The richness of her clothing wrapped around her slender body in silken grace. Her temper was short and her patience constantly tried, much like the god she had been named for. Her arms were adorned with bracelets. The long locks of her black hair parted in the middle to spill about her shoulders to frame her wide almond-shaped eyes. Her gaze sought those around her with a keen, dark gray beauty.

  Amon, leader of the Impudula, carefully beheld all those around him. When he sat, he had a tendency to lean towards Vishnu. They shared a common bond of blatant, unashamed self-indulgence. His black skin shone almost gold as he threw out the presence of a supreme being. It was only for the council that he left his homeland of Africa where he lived a quiet existence in a grand palace.

  Pietro of the Llugut was the last. He had been chosen for the dark gift past the prime of his youth, which often gave his handsome features the appearance of knowledge and grace. His chair stood opposite Theophania, which was to his liking. He didn’t care for the immortal woman and his feelings were well acknowledged and returned. Pietro was the last of his line and refused to make more of his tribe. He sat brooding in his silence, ignoring all but the torch as it caught his attention. As the leaders talked amongst themselves, Pietro listened intently to all their words, his ears perking up beneath his dark veil of permanently graying hair. His fingers curled, settling beneath his flat nose.

  Completing the circle, between Andrei and Pietro, was Jirí’s appointed seat. It stayed empty.

  “Ragnhild,” Chara began. She looked at her sister, both of them exchanging secretive sulks. Ragnhild turned his Viking-blue eyes to the women. Chara smiled a seductively sweet smile that made Andrei frown. “What have you heard from your knight?”