herself (and well ) with a long, wooden spike, her partner shot the creatures with a crossbow. The bolts lodged deep into their backs. The “bait” slit their throats with a machete.
It was never pretty, the business of hunting. Jack stared at the hunter who had found him and wondered if he suspected Jack was a vampire. No, the stake would’ve already found its mark.
“Don’t trust him,” the ghost’s voice said in Jack’s ear. “He’s warm, too, but he’s cold. So very cold.”
“So,” the hunter finally said. “What was that thing?”
Jack hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer. He went with the truth. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have,” the hunter said. “But not exactly like it. This was different.”
“Very.”
The vagrant in the path had come closer. Jack had not seen him approach.
Three or four layers of clothes, despite the relative warmth. Holes in his shoes. Switchblade in the unmoving hand, unextended . A mad, vacant stare in his eyes.
“And what about that?” the hunter asked, nodding toward the vagrant. “Not what it appears?”
Slowly, Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
2.
Nick Hunter watched the homeless man carefully. The man walked slowly, leaning slightly to the left. His face was sandpaper, unshaven for days, but not an uncontrolled beard, his eyes wild and unfocused. The switchblade hung uneasily between gloved fingers. His clothes were tattered and layered, making him appear twice as large as he probably was.
He didn’t seem to notice Nick at all.
His eyes, focused on the man Nick had found, the destination of the wind—of everything—the man who seemed almost calm. Only almost , because something was askew.
These were not vampires, neither of them. The wind’s destination, in fact, appeared entirely human. The vagrant, however, was something else. The unwashed odor, the dirt and grime, the vacant looks—they hid something.
“What are you?” Nick asked. He didn’t take his eyes off the vagrant, but wasn’t speaking to him.
“Me? Just Jack. That’s all I am.”
“Just Jack, eh?”
The vagrant lunged forward, suddenly agile and fast, the blade springing out. He swung it upwards, like pitching a softball, and grabbed for Jack’s shoulder with the other hand.
Jack jumped back and to the side, putting the bum between him and Nick, the lake immediately behind him.
“You,” the bum said, pointing at Jack with the blade. “You!”
“Me, what ?” Jack asked.
The bum shook his head—as if trying to shake a cat loose—and jabbed the knife in the air again. “ You! ”
Nick aimed his gun at the back of the bum’s head. “I think that’s enough,” he said. Jack, whoever and whatever he was, had answers he wanted.
The bum didn’t acknowledge Nick. “You,” he whispered.
“He’s accusing you,” Nick said. In a fraction of a moment, he could adjust his aim and put the bullet between Jack’s eyes.
“I’ve done nothing.”
The bum raised the knife to swing down. One step. Two.
Nick shot him. The bullet cleanly struck the back of the head. Out the other side and into the lake somewhere. The bum’s forward motion continued. He swung the knife down at Jack.
Jack fell sideways, the weight of the bum throwing him but the knife missing its mark. The bum laughed and raised the knife again.
Nick stepped forward and, from behind, pressed his own blade against the bum’s throat. Purplish blood welled up at the neck; more oozed from the gunshot wound. “I don’t know what you are,” Nick said, “but I’m willing to bet you need your head, so you’d better give me one damned good reason not to cut it off.”
Jack pulled himself off the ground as the bum rose slowly to his feet, letting Nick keep his long knife right where it was. Dropped the switchblade and held both hands, open, palms up, to the sides.
So close, however, Nick got a good whiff of the bum. Whiskey. Cigarettes. Mold. Rotten eggs. Shit.
It was never pretty, the business of hunting. Jack stared at the hunter who had found him and wondered if he suspected Jack was a vampire. No, the stake would’ve already found its mark.
“Don’t trust him,” the ghost’s voice said in Jack’s ear. “He’s warm, too, but he’s cold. So very cold.”
“So,” the hunter finally said. “What was that thing?”
Jack hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer. He went with the truth. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I have,” the hunter said. “But not exactly like it. This was different.”
“Very.”
The vagrant in the path had come closer. Jack had not seen him approach.
Three or four layers of clothes, despite the relative warmth. Holes in his shoes. Switchblade in the unmoving hand, unextended . A mad, vacant stare in his eyes.
“And what about that?” the hunter asked, nodding toward the vagrant. “Not what it appears?”
Slowly, Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
2.
Nick Hunter watched the homeless man carefully. The man walked slowly, leaning slightly to the left. His face was sandpaper, unshaven for days, but not an uncontrolled beard, his eyes wild and unfocused. The switchblade hung uneasily between gloved fingers. His clothes were tattered and layered, making him appear twice as large as he probably was.
He didn’t seem to notice Nick at all.
His eyes, focused on the man Nick had found, the destination of the wind—of everything—the man who seemed almost calm. Only almost , because something was askew.
These were not vampires, neither of them. The wind’s destination, in fact, appeared entirely human. The vagrant, however, was something else. The unwashed odor, the dirt and grime, the vacant looks—they hid something.
“What are you?” Nick asked. He didn’t take his eyes off the vagrant, but wasn’t speaking to him.
“Me? Just Jack. That’s all I am.”
“Just Jack, eh?”
The vagrant lunged forward, suddenly agile and fast, the blade springing out. He swung it upwards, like pitching a softball, and grabbed for Jack’s shoulder with the other hand.
Jack jumped back and to the side, putting the bum between him and Nick, the lake immediately behind him.
“You,” the bum said, pointing at Jack with the blade. “You!”
“Me, what ?” Jack asked.
The bum shook his head—as if trying to shake a cat loose—and jabbed the knife in the air again. “ You! ”
Nick aimed his gun at the back of the bum’s head. “I think that’s enough,” he said. Jack, whoever and whatever he was, had answers he wanted.
The bum didn’t acknowledge Nick. “You,” he whispered.
“He’s accusing you,” Nick said. In a fraction of a moment, he could adjust his aim and put the bullet between Jack’s eyes.
“I’ve done nothing.”
The bum raised the knife to swing down. One step. Two.
Nick shot him. The bullet cleanly struck the back of the head. Out the other side and into the lake somewhere. The bum’s forward motion continued. He swung the knife down at Jack.
Jack fell sideways, the weight of the bum throwing him but the knife missing its mark. The bum laughed and raised the knife again.
Nick stepped forward and, from behind, pressed his own blade against the bum’s throat. Purplish blood welled up at the neck; more oozed from the gunshot wound. “I don’t know what you are,” Nick said, “but I’m willing to bet you need your head, so you’d better give me one damned good reason not to cut it off.”
Jack pulled himself off the ground as the bum rose slowly to his feet, letting Nick keep his long knife right where it was. Dropped the switchblade and held both hands, open, palms up, to the sides.
So close, however, Nick got a good whiff of the bum. Whiskey. Cigarettes. Mold. Rotten eggs. Shit.
Similar Books
