Dead of Winter (12 page)

  "That's a mighty fine trunk you got there, sir," Cora said.

  "Isn't it, though?" the stranger replied, turning to her and smiling. "I purchased it from a quaint little shop in Sussex. Burgess Hill, if I remember correctly. Though I must admit I rather neglected to consider its size when picking it out. It holds a fine number of texts, but I'm afraid it gets rather cumbersome as a result."

  "Is that right?" Cora said, unable to contain a smirk. "Maybe you could find yourself a servant to haul it around for you and save yourself the work."

  "Oh, I'm afraid I'm not quite that high in station. Yet, anyway. I hope one day to afford a nice staff of my own, perhaps even a valet, though of course one must own a buggy for that." He laughed, a rich sound that made his round belly jiggle. "Until such time, however, I must resign myself to my burden." He thumped on the trunk and laughed again.

  "Well, at least you're cheerful about it," Cora said.

  "The fine cider back in the city may have something to do with that, I think."

  Cora's eyebrow arched. "Cider's your drink, is it?" When the man nodded, she shook her head. "Can't say I care for it much myself. Not when there's whiskey handy."

  The man's round face twisted into a grimace. "Awful stuff, if you ask me. I honestly can't fathom who first took a sip and decided it was fit for human consumption. Most likely an Irishman."

  Cora couldn't believe what she was hearing. "A man who don't drink whiskey? How can you even call yourself a man?"

  "Quite easily, actually. Of course, I could call myself a roasted ham for all the good it would do. The names a man gives to himself aren't worth tuppence if he can't stand behind them, I say."

  "And what's the name you call yourself?"

  "James Townsend, if you please." He tipped his hat to her, and Cora nodded in reply. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

  "Name's Cora Oglesby." She kicked the bench in front of her, but Ben just grunted. "That sorry sack of sod there is my husband, Benjamin Oglesby."

  "Always a pleasure, to be sure," James said.

  "Ain't so often we see a Brit out here in the West. What brings you to our little corner of the world?"

  "Business, as one might expect." James smoothed down his ruffled shirt. "I'm on my way to a place called Leadville to see to my employer's affairs."

  "Well, ain't it a small world?" Cora said. "So happens Leadville's our stop, too."

  "Splendid!" James clapped his hands together. "You will have to give me the proper tour! I've always harbored a desire to see the legendary American West firsthand!"

  "You ain't been up there before?"

  "Oh, good heavens, no! Do I look like the sort of man who frequents such backwoods places?" He sat up straighter. "As it happens, I'm recently come from London herself, and she's where I lay my head when I'm not running about in the wide world."

  "How does that work out?" Cora asked. "I mean, what with your boss out here in the States and all."

  "Oh, Lord Harcourt would never dream of getting the dust of such a rustic place on his jacket. No, he resides at court and takes his tea with the finest nobility. He's even been called before the Crown a time or two, or so he's told me. A proper lord, he is, and wealthy enough to keep his investments halfway around the world."

  "Investments? He deal in liquor or ladies?"

  "Neither," James replied. "Lord Harcourt deals in silver. He owns a mine to the north of the town of Leadville."

  "Fine trade, as far as it goes," Cora said. "Whole reason for the town's existence, or so I'm told. Not that we ever had the money or gumption to dig for our own."

  "I thought not."

  "You thought not?" Cora asked, leaning toward him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing! Nothing at all!" James waved his hands in surrender and leaned away from her. "I only meant that you don't really look the sort to dally about all day while others do your work for you."

  "So you're saying we ain't fancy."

  "No! Well, yes, but I don't mean to offend! I only meant to imply that you have the look of a gunfighter or an outlaw. A roguish look, if I may be so bold."

  "How do you know we ain't? Maybe we're fixing to rob you blind and dump your corpse off the next bridge."

  The blood drained from the British man's face. It was clear he hadn't considered such an option. He swallowed once, then looked down at his hands. They rode in silence for a few moments, listening to the clacking of the wheels beneath them.

  Finally Cora laughed. "You look a sorry sight, Mr London. No, we ain't planning you any harm. Why, we'd just as soon save your hide for the right price."

  "I shall keep that in mind," he said. His hand reached for something beneath his shirt as he muttered something under his breath. Cora could make out the shape of a cross through the cloth.

  "You're a religious man, I take it?"

  "Well, yes. As much as I need to be, at least."

  "Is that right?" Cora crossed her arms. "How much does that come out to, do you find?"

  "Enough to keep me alive."

  "Well, ain't that an oddity? Most folk I met says they're into religion for what happens after death, not what happens before. What is it about religion as keeps you alive?"

  "I can't see how it's really any of your business."

  "Fine, have it your way," Cora said. "Just a mite surprised to hear a man give an answer that may as well have been mine."

  James gave her a sidelong glance, then pretended to find something on his shirt that needed his immediate attention. Cora watched him fidget, a smirk on her lips. After a few moments, her gaze fell to the trunk. "Say, why do you carry all them books with you, anyhow? Ain't it a pain to lug that old trunk everywhere?"

  "Well," James began, his eyes looking around the coach for words. "You see, I am something of a scholar, as you may have gathered."

  "A scholar?" Cora asked. "So you're a doctor, then?"

  "Well, not exactly. To tell you the truth, my area of expertise is somewhat… unusual."

  "What's that?"

  A furious blush crept across the British man's cheeks. "I expect you will find it rather odd, and I did so myself when I first learned of the discipline. It was a Dutchman who let me in on the secret, actually." He took a deep breath, then turned to face her, his dark eyes small in his round face. "I am what some might call a vampire scholar."

  "You don't say?" Cora said.

  "Yes," James said, nodding. "I know it sounds absurd, but it really is a valid area of study. As I said, it was a friend of mine, a Dutch physician, who opened my eyes to the existence of vampires. He is quite well-versed in the Occult, especially where the undead are concerned. He's actually hunted them in the past, and taught me some of his art."

  Cora burst out laughing, nearly falling out of her seat. The Englishman waited for her to stop with an unhappy look on his face. When she finally regained her composure, tears glistened in the corners of her eyes.

  "I hardly think it's a laughing matter," James stated.

  "I'm sorry," Cora said, wiping her eyes. "It's just the thought of a round little feller like you hunting down vampires."

  James lifted his chin. "I've battled my share of the undead, thank you kindly."

  "I'm sure you have," Cora said, suppressing another laugh.

  "Anyway, what would a simpleton like you know of such matters? You probably spend your days gambling and drinking, blind and stupid to everything around you."

  "No need to get a bee in your bonnet," Cora said. "As it happens, I've bagged me a few vampires in the past."

  "Ah, of course," James said, folding his arms and looking away. "And how long ago was this?"

  Cora thought for a bit. "Last one was about ten years ago, I'd say. Me and Ben here ran a vampire nest out of Denver. Ain't been none since then, though. Maybe they all got scared and hid away."

  "You ran a vampire nest out of Denver, you say?"

  "Well, burned it is what we did. Had to shoot a few of them in the process, though."

  "Hmph," James snorted. "A likely story. A real vampire hunter knows that a vampire can only be killed by running a stake through its heart and removing its head."

  "Maybe that's true where you come from," Cora said, "but out here in the West, we're right smart about it. All it takes is a bullet to the heart or the head."

  "Nonsense–"

  "Let me finish," Cora interrupted. "All it takes is a bullet, but it's a special bullet, you follow? Made of a silver alloy and blessed proper by a priest. Most of my bullets are even made out of silver that once belonged to crosses."

  James scoffed. "I've never heard anything so preposterous. What sort of vampire hunter travels without a stake? You must be mad to think that you can just shoot a supernatural creature and expect to live through the encounter. I expect you simply mistook some poor old man for your vampire and shot him.

  "If I did, I reckon I'd be rotting in some jail somewhere. We do got laws out here."

  "Yes, well, what did this vampire of yours look like?"

  "Like a proper one," Cora said. "Had him a pale face what looked like bread dough and a mouth full of nasty fangs. What was left of his clothes just hung off his body in tatters. Hated sunlight, had a thing for blood, and carried himself like a badger."

  "A badger?"

  "All fangs and drool and growling."

  "Ah!" James's face lit up with recognition. "I don't suppose he seemed to possess any notable reasoning faculties?"

  "If by that, you're asking if he could think, I'd say no."

  "Exactly as I thought, then," James replied, looking satisfied with himself. "What you encountered was a
vrykolakas."

  "Pretty sure it was a vampire, King George. I happen to be an expert in spook hunting myself, and I know me a vampire when I see one."

  "To be sure, and you are correct, after a fashion. The creature you described is correctly termed
vrykolakas
, and it is indeed a type of vampire."

  Cora's brow furrowed. "A type?" she asked. "You mean to say there's more than one type?"

  "Naturally," James said. "If the ranks of the undead only consisted of the
vrykolakas
, I daresay they wouldn't command nearly as much respect and fear as they presently do."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow."

  James turned to face her, his earlier animosity forgotten in his scholarly delight. "Much like moths, vampires have two distinct stages of life. The first stage,
vrykolakas
, is by far the more common type, so it is little wonder you are ignorant of any other. These vampires are exactly as you described: powerful and fearsome, yet feral. This is due to the possession of the reanimated corpse by a blood-drinking demon."

  "Right," Cora said. "Vampires don't have souls like regular folk."

  "A common belief, but only partially accurate. As I said, the
vrykolakas
is the more common variety of vampire, so it follows that most folklore concerning vampires is primarily influenced by its characteristics and behavior. The
vrykolakas
has the intelligence level of a high-end mammalian predator, such as a wolf or your American grizzly bear. Smarter than your average cow, but by no means able to reason or strategize. In addition, they are usually solitary, which makes incidents involving them relatively simple to resolve."

  "Except when they gang up, like in Denver," Cora said, shifting her weight. "You ain't telling me anything new. If you've got a point, best be getting to it quick."

  "Yes, yes, of course," James replied, not skipping a beat. "So, if the
vrykolakas
is the only kind of vampire in existence, why has the vampire been feared above all other supernatural creatures for so many centuries?"

  "I reckon it's because they're scary. Watching a man get his throat torn out by a walking corpse tends to shake most folk up a good bit."

  "Quite true, but no more so than watching, say, a werewolf perform the same feat."

  "Just say what you're going to say."

  "Right. My point is simply that, left to its own devices, the
vrykolakas
would be no more fearsome than any other creature of the night. So, in order to garner the terrifying reputation the race of vampires possesses, they must have another ace in their hole, so to speak."

  "Another kind of vampire?"

  "Yes! Exactly!" James exclaimed, holding up a finger.

  "Just like you said awhile back." Cora shook her head. "Is all you Brits this prone to gabbing? It's a wonder you all ever get around to anything else."

  "I should be glad of the opportunity to learn my trade if I were in your position."

  "I would be if I'd learned anything. All you've done is talk my own knowledge at me."

  "Establishing context, my dear," James replied. "Without context, any further knowledge is useless at best, dangerous at worst."

  "Can't imagine it being no worse than not being shared at all."

  "Americans," James said with a hint of exasperation. "I don't know which is worse, your ignorance or your impatience."

  "We tend to get impatient when people as can relieve our ignorance take too long to get it done."

  "Not exactly the most welcoming attitude for those seeking to share their knowledge and insights with you."

  "You know, I think I changed my mind," Cora said. "I think I will throw you off a bridge."

  James went pale. "Of course, some might say your impatience possesses a certain roguish charm all its own." Cora glared at him, and he answered with a nervous smile. "I'll get right to it."

  "Glad to hear it."