parking spot on the side of the road.
When the cars cleared, he crossed the street. A path led straight toward the lake; he followed it. A lonely howl sounded in the distance, the call of a wolf—even in the city.
“I’m scared,” she whispered, brushstrokes against Jack’s ears. A chill rose around him. He recognized the voice: the blind ghost from the hotel. But ghosts were usually restricted to a particular place.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
“The voices,” she said. “The feet. I hear many things. Many .”
He looked around, but the whispering had died down. The footsteps had ceased. “Weren’t you going into the light?”
“Can’t see light,” she said. “You said I could go to the warmth. You’re warm.” She paused. “What else can I do?”
He didn’t see her—or anyone else. This section of the lake appeared empty. He didn’t stop walking. “I didn’t mean for you to follow me. Isn’t there a next step for you, something beyond being stuck here?”
“I don’t feel stuck,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“Have you been with me all this time?”
It was another voice that answered. “Not all this time, no.” The knifeman, holding a gun now, stepped out of the shadows. Not as tall as Jack, close cut blond hair, eyes masked by shadow, he looked older than he was.
The ghost said nothing. If the chill was any indication, she swung behind Jack even as he turned to face the hunter.
“I didn’t think you’d seen me,” the hunter said. He held the pistol loosely, aimed toward, but not at, Jack. “I followed the wind.”
“The wind?”
“Strange, huh? That’s what I thought.”
They were bathed by moonbeams; no streetlights near them seemed to be lit. Jack had seen hunters before. Usually, they never noticed him.
A vampire hunter, Jack decided. Most had little imagination, no inkling of what else existed. Silence fell between them. Neither seemed to know what to say or do. Their situation was unique; Jack was no vampire, nothing to be hunted, neither threat nor ally. There should’ve been more space between them.
“Not just the wind,” the hunter said.
Jack felt it, too, how the wind came at him from all directions. It wasn’t strong. Surely just an illusion.
“Cats, rats, birds,” the hunter said.
The chill behind Jack—the ghost—tensed. Pressed tight against him, like feathers, imperceptible except to someone like Jack.
“Even them,” Nick said, nodding toward a homeless man a hundred yards up the path. He stood there, head tilted, between lampposts. Flexing the fingers of one hand open then shut, open then shut.
Jack Harlow had seen hunters in action twice. The first time, in the backroom of a club near Atlanta , a vampire attacked his prey, sunk his teeth into the man’s neck—not the sexual game the victim seemed to expect. This vampire was messy, spilling as much blood as he drank. The hunter came from the other end of the hall, stake in one hand, sword in the other. He buried the stake into the vampire’s back before he knew the hunter existed. Shoved it in deep. Blood spurt out. The victim dropped to floor, exhausted and hurt but not dead. The hunter took the vampire’s head with one clean slice. Then the victim’s. Jack had retreated deeper into the shadows, unseen as the hunter dragged the bodies, one at a time, through the back door and into the alley, and then set fire to both. The vampire flashed. He burned so quickly, it seemed like he’d been made of paper with pre-burnt insides, and even the ash dissipated in the air. The victim—whom the hunter expected would become a vampire—burned more slowly, less cleanly and completely. Still, the hunter was satisfied.
The second time, it was a team of two women, one acting as bait. She strolled along the dark pier, fully aware of the eyes upon her. Three vampires descended on her. These were the misshapen, pale-faced, hairless creatures a la Nosferatu . Mindless, too. While she defended
When the cars cleared, he crossed the street. A path led straight toward the lake; he followed it. A lonely howl sounded in the distance, the call of a wolf—even in the city.
“I’m scared,” she whispered, brushstrokes against Jack’s ears. A chill rose around him. He recognized the voice: the blind ghost from the hotel. But ghosts were usually restricted to a particular place.
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
“The voices,” she said. “The feet. I hear many things. Many .”
He looked around, but the whispering had died down. The footsteps had ceased. “Weren’t you going into the light?”
“Can’t see light,” she said. “You said I could go to the warmth. You’re warm.” She paused. “What else can I do?”
He didn’t see her—or anyone else. This section of the lake appeared empty. He didn’t stop walking. “I didn’t mean for you to follow me. Isn’t there a next step for you, something beyond being stuck here?”
“I don’t feel stuck,” she said. “Not anymore.”
“Have you been with me all this time?”
It was another voice that answered. “Not all this time, no.” The knifeman, holding a gun now, stepped out of the shadows. Not as tall as Jack, close cut blond hair, eyes masked by shadow, he looked older than he was.
The ghost said nothing. If the chill was any indication, she swung behind Jack even as he turned to face the hunter.
“I didn’t think you’d seen me,” the hunter said. He held the pistol loosely, aimed toward, but not at, Jack. “I followed the wind.”
“The wind?”
“Strange, huh? That’s what I thought.”
They were bathed by moonbeams; no streetlights near them seemed to be lit. Jack had seen hunters before. Usually, they never noticed him.
A vampire hunter, Jack decided. Most had little imagination, no inkling of what else existed. Silence fell between them. Neither seemed to know what to say or do. Their situation was unique; Jack was no vampire, nothing to be hunted, neither threat nor ally. There should’ve been more space between them.
“Not just the wind,” the hunter said.
Jack felt it, too, how the wind came at him from all directions. It wasn’t strong. Surely just an illusion.
“Cats, rats, birds,” the hunter said.
The chill behind Jack—the ghost—tensed. Pressed tight against him, like feathers, imperceptible except to someone like Jack.
“Even them,” Nick said, nodding toward a homeless man a hundred yards up the path. He stood there, head tilted, between lampposts. Flexing the fingers of one hand open then shut, open then shut.
Jack Harlow had seen hunters in action twice. The first time, in the backroom of a club near Atlanta , a vampire attacked his prey, sunk his teeth into the man’s neck—not the sexual game the victim seemed to expect. This vampire was messy, spilling as much blood as he drank. The hunter came from the other end of the hall, stake in one hand, sword in the other. He buried the stake into the vampire’s back before he knew the hunter existed. Shoved it in deep. Blood spurt out. The victim dropped to floor, exhausted and hurt but not dead. The hunter took the vampire’s head with one clean slice. Then the victim’s. Jack had retreated deeper into the shadows, unseen as the hunter dragged the bodies, one at a time, through the back door and into the alley, and then set fire to both. The vampire flashed. He burned so quickly, it seemed like he’d been made of paper with pre-burnt insides, and even the ash dissipated in the air. The victim—whom the hunter expected would become a vampire—burned more slowly, less cleanly and completely. Still, the hunter was satisfied.
The second time, it was a team of two women, one acting as bait. She strolled along the dark pier, fully aware of the eyes upon her. Three vampires descended on her. These were the misshapen, pale-faced, hairless creatures a la Nosferatu . Mindless, too. While she defended
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