by Jackie Ivie
“Well? Cat got your tongue?”
Of course he knew. They were using him to bait Reika, and then – if he was unwilling to join up – well. He was going to be the reason one of them got a fresh pair patch.
“Why don’t you tell me?” he asked finally.
“Vampires kill easy. If you know where to hit. And what to use.”
“A wooden stake through the heart. Let me guess,” Darryl replied.
“Yeah,” the kid at his right side spoke up. “Only if you use consecrated wood made from a cross, it’s even more devastating.”
“There’s something more devastating than death?” Darryl asked.
“No. I meant, you don’t even have to hit the heart. Or…where they used to have a heart. Any hit with one of our special arrows will disable a vampire. That makes it easier to get close for the kill.”
“That why you carry crossbows?”
“Not all of us. Hans over there? He’s got a longbow. Gets great distance and accuracy. And Geoff prefers a Hunic backward curving bow. Don’t know why.”
“Because it’s quicker, dumbass. More power at any range.”
Darryl looked at the guy opposite and to the farthest right. Hans. He didn’t look like a Hans. He looked part African. He had a long bow all right. It topped his head by a foot. It was probably over five feet long. It was held against his left leg, the one closest to the cab wall. The fellow named Geoff was on their side of the truck, far left, at the rear. Darryl couldn’t see him, and didn’t bother looking. Scoping for weapons was in his plan. Getting caught doing it, wasn’t.
“I’m rather partial to knives,” he told them.
“You’ll like ours, then,” the young kid replied.
“Why?”
Young Kid pulled a combat knife from his belt on the far side, where Darryl couldn’t see. It took him some time to unlatch it. Over two seconds. And he had to look. The blade was double-edged and eight inches in length. Highly polished. Rarely used.
“They’re special-made. They use Holy Water in the quenching process, while a vial of it is hidden in the hilt. Right…here.”
The kid unscrewed the compass at the top and tipped it, revealing a vial of innocuous-looking liquid. Put it back. Screwed the top back on. It took him another three seconds to get it back in its scabbard and secured. And he had to look as he did it.
“Knives aren’t much use against a vampire. Only for the kill. And severing a head, if it comes to that. Beheading will kill a vampire just as much as a stake through the heart. It takes longer though. And there’s a bit more blood to it. Charlie really likes doing that, though. Don’t you, Charlie? “
“You know it, kid.”
Charlie was the guy exactly opposite Darryl. He had a wicked-looking blade, the match to Stephen’s, only it was in his hand within a blink’s time of speaking up. And he didn’t have to look.
“Charlie’s specialty is the blood eagle. Do you know what that is?”
“Uh…no.”
He did. He just had to gain some time to halt the reaction. A rush of pain radiated through his chest, before getting chased away by something close to anger. Then rage. His body was probably showing it, and if they had his vision capability, they’d know it. None of it seemed to stop his narrator. The kid was oblivious to Darryl’s taut frame right next to him.
“It’s a form of torture practiced by the Vikings. At least, they list it in their Norse sagas. You fillet the chest open, break the ribs, and then yank the lungs out to spread them out on the back. Then thoroughly salt everything. Think about it. If you stake a vampire through the heart, game’s over. They turn to dust. No fun in that. Right Charlie?”
It looked like the guy across from him nodded, slid his finger down his knife, and then gave Darryl a wicked-looking grin. It was hard to tell through the haze of pure red. They were talking about her. Reika. They wanted to take that gorgeous blond with the purplish cast eyes, whose body had delivered him to paradise, and torture her with the blood eagle? Or…maybe they were saving it for him.
Darryl pulled in a deep breath. Held it. Let it out. Did it again. On the second exhalation, he spoke. There wasn’t the slightest bit of warble attached to his voice.
“So…who uses guns? Anybody?”
“That’s enough Stephen. Clam it.”
Blockhead named the youth and tried to shut him down with the words, delivered briskly and sharp.
“Why?”
“Now.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
Darryl studied the group about him, digesting information. The Hunters appeared to be a quasi military organization; Blockhead outranking the others in the truck. They might be well financed, but discipline needed a swift kick. No sergeant would allow the response Stephen had given. That would earn a quick loss of stripes from Darryl. Their lack of discipline worked in his favor, as did the little lesson in weaponry they’d just given him.
Bows would be impossible to use in this space. Their knives were going to be the issue. And Charlie was going to be the first one on Darryl’s list. He’d just have to block the others from getting theirs out of their scabbards in the meantime. That left firepower. Blockhead opposite him was packing. Darryl had already seen the .357 strapped to the hip opposite Darryl’s dagger. There was at least one more. Somebody in here had his Beretta.
“You like talking so much; you want to tell us something?”
Blockhead started another conversation. Darryl looked him over for a bit before answering.
“Depends on what it is.”
“Are they as good in the sack as we’ve heard?”
Ouch. The heart thing stopped him from answering for a bit. Darryl twisted his face as if considering his answer. He didn’t know how well they could see, and it hid the other problem – the one afflicting his chest. I do not love her.
He cleared his throat. “Well…yeah. They’re amazing. In fact, I don’t think there are enough roses,” he finally replied. “Oh. Wait. You mean you don’t know?”
Blockhead sneered. “I’m not one for necrophilia.”
“None of you?”
Darryl turned right and left, checking the faces around him, putting an incredulous expression on his as they all shook their heads. “Man. You guys might want to consider that before you hack a head off next time.”
“Enough.”
“Well. You did ask.”
Darryl looked back to the collection of boots interlaced atop the floorboard. He got what he wanted. None of them had his advantages. None were half-turned. Letting him know was a big mistake. They wanted to play rough? He’d just have to play rougher. Heck. They probably thought that little bit of cord still held him.
Hunters. He’d never realized how little regard any of them showed for life. No wonder some people considered a vegetarian lifestyle. Darryl contemplated the truck bed beneath his boots at length. The truck slowed, as the driver down-geared. Stopped. Doors opened. Two men got out, including the driver. That Beethan jerk was probably the lone one still sitting in the cab, presiding over everyone as if that lordship title he claimed meant something. Maybe it did. Maybe he led them because it was hereditary. Or maybe they’d elected him…
No. Scratch that. Definitely granted by birth. Blockhead was proof. That guy could take out Lord Chester Beethan before mid-morning coffee break.
Darryl cocked his head slightly, listening to the sounds of large chains getting pulled through metallic brackets, followed by the squeal of doors that needed oiling as they were pushed open. The men got back into the cab. Slammed doors. The truck started off again, this time with a lurch of clutch action that sent everyone in the back sliding along the benches, while the truck stalled. Nobody said anything in the back. Someone up front got a cussing out. The truck restarted, shuddered into gear, and then entered a large cavernous area, the jet-engine sound giving away some more secrets.
The space was probably underground. The echo was solid. Non-metallic. And vast. Maybe designed for an undergro
und railroad. If Darryl remembered correctly, the Nazi regime had built a secret facility in Poland. Near the Czech border. Close to the Wenceslas Mine. The truck caught another gear as it gained speed. The sound grew denser.
These guys really needed an education in covert operations. They’d just given Darryl several more things. First, the young kid carried a knife he wasn’t very adept at. And Blockhead carried Darryl’s dagger. Both within easy reach. Secondly, the ground they traveled was smooth; nothing much in the way, like tracks. Third, the tunnel was getting smaller, and most likely darker. If he eliminated a light source, they’d probably need night vision goggles. He wouldn’t. Fourth, they’d left the entrance open and unobstructed. And unchained. Easy to escape through and then disappear. No one to see or interfere. And lastly, the driver was the nervous type. The dropped clutch was proof.
He’d be Darryl’s last obstacle. If he hadn’t run off by then.
These Hunters had some smarts, though. This truck, for instance. It had seen more years of existence than Darryl claimed, probably leftover from the Soviet occupation during the Cold War era. That explained the excess ventilation and rusted condition. No doubt they owned it because it blended in. They’d changed out the engine, however. The whine of a turbo-charged 5.7 liter diesel engine bouncing off the tunnel walls was proof.
Darryl concentrated, using his hyper-hearing to listen beyond the sound of his own blood moving through his veins. Any sounds from the others about him. Their reticence was a decided plus in his favor. He zoned in on the vehicle’s odometer, and heard it clicking. They passed the one kilometer mark…neared the second.
The truck slowed again, the down-shift drowning out the odometer. Fair enough. He had a good estimate. Looks like his immediate future included a bit of trauma, followed by a two kilometer sprint to freedom. And he wasn’t leaving the dagger behind. Any second now…
The truck stopped without warning, unseating the back occupants, amid a squeal of brakes. A siren blared into being from somewhere outside, penetrating the vehicle in waves of sound. It was accompanied by two spears thrown with lightning precision. They tore through metal, impaling Stephen and the guy on his right before lodging into the back of the cab, shuddering with the impact, the two Hunters skewered and gurgling on their very own shish-kabobs.
And Darryl was a blur of movement.
He shoved the man on his left so hard he slammed into the back wall and took Geoffrey and his bow with him. Before they hit, Darryl had launched across the truck, spinning to a sit right atop Blockhead’s lap. That made it easy to grab the Italian dagger with one hand, the .357 with the other. A twisting move got Charlie’s throat slit with a sideways slash. Charlie didn’t go easy, and Darryl felt the minute sting from Charlie’s knife embedded into his left thigh. The guy made a warbling kind of noise; shoved both hands to his throat and then fell forward. Darryl didn’t wait and watch. It was already too late for Blockhead. The guy had lousy reaction time. Darryl’s full twist to eliminate Charlie ended with stabbing Blockhead twice through the ribs beneath his left armpit, hitting his heart. A reverse saw the dagger slammed almost to the hilt into the last guy on the end’s chest. Less than a second later, Darryl was crouched with Hans and his seatmate in the pistol’s sights. Both tossed their weapons and raised their hands, the longbow clattering as it hit the floor. Darryl’s finger eased on the trigger, and then some moron decided spraying the truck with a Russian-made Kalashnikov RPK machine gun from outside was the perfect accompaniment to hell.
Bodies started jumping like marionettes, the already dead ones as well as those newly hit. Before the third bullet had left the chamber, Darryl flung himself to the floorboard between the benches, arms over his head, ignoring the pinch of a longbow against his eyebrow bone as well as the fresh burning sensation from the knife in his thigh. Now was a great time to thank the Hunters for their attention to detail. The floor wasn’t solid. Rust had eaten several holes through the metal right beside his face. That gave Darryl breathing holes while shrapnel rained onto him.
And then everything went silent. Suddenly and eerily and completely.
CHAPTER TEN
“Stop shooting, Ethelstone! Stop! Are you mad?”
“No. Just loving this gun. Look. I drew a picture for you.”
“A Celtic circle? Anyone can do that.”
“Oh, yeah? I’ll have you know it was not easy, even with armor-piercing bullets. But it is fun. You have to admit the U.S.S.R really knows how to craft a machine gun.”
Darryl craned his neck and glanced up. Yep. Light was coming through holes in the trucks sides that definitely resembled an interlocking Celtic symbol. He looked back to his air hole. That glance cancelled one of his earlier theories, too. The place wasn’t dark.
“You mean, they knew. Sometimes I cannot believe we are brothers. That’s an archaic weapon from a dead country.”
“Like I can keep up with who is making borders and taking countries, and naming territories. Happens too often. Every other century, I think.”
“Come on. I’d rather see how we did with our spears.”
The handle at the back twisted down. One of the bodies lying near Darryl groaned. That was probably Geoff, or the guy who’d been next to him. Darryl’s shove that started this melee just might have spared their lives. He didn’t look to verify. He didn’t care.
“Wait! You hear that?”
“Oh…balls. You don’t think Reika’s mate was in there, do you? No. He couldn’t have been. The Hunters wouldn’t bring him in such a truck. Look how easy it was to take. You don’t think he was in there, do you?”
“She’ll skin us.”
“What do you mean us? I don’t have the RPK.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you threw a spear, same as me. No getting out of that.”
“That was a good toss, too, wasn’t it? I’m sure mine was faster. Hit harder. Did more damage.”
“No way. Your arm is puny compared to mine.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Maybe later.”
“Well. Come on then. We might as well find out. Before she gets here.”
“You really think he was in there?”
“Probably.”
“You think he still…lives?”
“Would Reika choose a man weak enough to die in a truck full of Hunters?”
“What about the hail of bullets?”
“Would our Reika choose a man incapable of ducking from a few bullets?”
“Oh. Yeah. Good point.”
“I wonder how many we got?”
The truck door opened. Somebody tumbled out. He was still living as evidenced by the cry as he landed.
“Are you Reika’s mate?”
“Screw…you.”
“Ah. I am in luck! It’s a Hunter. Injured, but still breathing. Fresh blood. You carry on, Athlerod. I’m going to be…a bit busy.”
“No way. This is not my doing. Help me find Reika’s mate, and then we’ll both partake.”
Darryl kept his nose to the breathing hole, his mind empty. He didn’t want to see or know. It was bad enough he might actually have to come to terms with loving a vampire, without having to watch them feed. He shuddered in revulsion. Or maybe it was blood loss. He should probably get a tourniquet in place on his upper thigh. Pull Charlie’s knife out. See for himself how quickly a partially turned vampire healed.
“Oh…shit. Look. I sure hope he’s not in there.”
“Afraid so. Look how many Hunters there were. They only travel with this many when they’re protecting something of value. And just look at the carnage. Impressive.”
“Those are not bullet wounds.”
“Looks more like…blade work. You sure Reika isn’t here yet?”
“We should’ve waited.”
“And let them get him strapped into one of the sanctified wood holding pens? Bound with chains strewn with icons? Where are your wits?”
“Hey! Look! We both win!”
“What? Where?�
��
“Looks like our spears both hit. Although…yours seems to have taken out a small Hunter. That means I win. Come on.”
A body got plucked from the truck, tossed out where it thudded on a floor surface that didn’t sound like dirt. Sounded more like concrete.
“Never. Mine hit harder. Look. He might be small, but he was hit harder. My body is almost cleaved through.”
“Rasshol.”
“Pokker.”
“You call me a devil? You Haestpeis.”
“Horse penis? Why, for that, I’ll take you down! On your back. Legs. Now.”
“You could never win at wrestling me, Brother. I don’t know why…you keep…trying!”
Sounds of what could actually be two men wrestling and grunting came next. Darryl pushed to his knees and crawled toward the door. Once there, he slid out to his waist, bent to grab a bar beneath the door and rolled out, landing on his butt and jarring his wound. A quick glance showed a small bit of seepage around the knife hilt. There wasn’t much. Removing the knife was going to be messy. But it didn’t hurt like it should.
The Hunter who’d fallen out first looked over at him, and then collapsed back onto what was definitely concrete. They were in a sizeable bunker. At least one tunnel branched out from it. Darryl spun in a slow circle on his butt, checking the surroundings, locating two, extremely large men, grappling and struggling with their legs locked. They looked evenly matched. Darryl narrowed his eyes. Heck. They looked identical.
“Yo. Guys.”
He hailed them and watched the wrestling bout come to an instant halt. Legs got unlocked and both men were on their feet and approaching, looking even larger as they stood looking down at him. And pretty lethal.
“Ooh. Look, Ethelrod. Another one.”
“Give me your belt,” Darryl said.
“Who?”
“Either. Doesn’t matter.”