Hunters of the Dusk (7 page)

“Was he nervous?” Mr. Crepsley asked. “Did he follow you when you left?”

“No. He just went stiff when he saw the marks, then acted as though he hadn’t seen them. But he knew what the marks meant — I’m sure of it.”

Mr. Crepsley rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “Humans who know the truth about vampire marks are uncommon, but some exist. In all probability he is an ordinary person who has simply heard tales of vampires and their fingertips.”

“But he
might
be a vampire hunter,” I said quietly. “Vampire hunters are rare — but real.” Mr. Crepsley thought it over, then decided. “We will proceed as planned, but keep our eyes open, and you or Harkat will remain on watch by day. If an attack comes, we shall be ready.” He smiled tightly and touched the handle of his knife. “And waiting!”

CHAPTER TEN

B
Y DAWN WE KNEW
we had a fight on our hands. We were being followed, not just by one person, but three or four. They’d picked up our trail a few miles outside the town and had been tracking us ever since. They moved with admirable stealth, and if we hadn’t expected trouble, we might not have known anything was wrong. But when a vampire is alert to danger, not even the fastest human can sneak up on him.

“What’s the plan?” Harkat asked as we were making camp in the middle of a small forest, sheltered from the sun beneath the branches and leaves.

“They will wait for full daylight to attack,” Mr. Crepsley said, keeping his voice low. “We will act as though all is normal and pretend to sleep. When they come, we deal with them.”

“Will you be OK in the sun?” I asked. Though we were sheltered where we were, a battle might draw us out of the shade.

“The rays will not harm me during the short time it will take to deal with this threat,” Mr. Crepsley replied. “And I will protect my eyes with cloth, as you did during your purge.”

Making beds in the moss and leaves on the ground, we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and settled down. “Of course, they might just be curious,” Harkat muttered. “They could simply want to see . . . what a real-life vampire looks like.”

“They move too keenly for that,” Mr. Crepsley disagreed. “They are here on business.”

“I just remembered,” I hissed. “The guy in the shop was buying
guns!
”

“Most vampire hunters come properly armed,” Mr. Crepsley said with a grunt. “Gone are the nights when the fools toted only a hammer and wooden stake.”

There was no more talk after that. We lay still, eyes closed (except for Harkat, who covered his lidless eyes with his cloak), breathing evenly, pretending to sleep.

Seconds passed slowly, taking an age to become minutes, and an eternity to become hours. It had been six years since my last taste of vicious combat. My limbs felt unnaturally cold, and stiff, icy snakes of fear coiled and uncoiled inside the walls of my stomach. I kept flexing my fingers beneath the folds of my cloak, never far from my sword, ready to draw.

Shortly after midday — when the sun would be most harmful to a vampire — the humans moved in for the kill. There were three of them, spread out in a semicircle. At first I could hear only the rustling of leaves as they approached, and the occasional snap of a twig. But as they drew closer, I became aware of their heavy breathing, the creak of their tense bones, the panicked pounding of their hearts.

They came to a standstill ten or twelve yards away, tucked behind trees, preparing themselves to attack. There was a long, nervous pause — then the sound of a gun being slowly cocked.

“Now!”
Mr. Crepsley roared, springing to his feet, launching himself at the human nearest him.

While Mr. Crepsley closed in on his attacker at incredible speed, Harkat and me targeted the others. The one I’d set my sights on cursed loudly, stepped out from behind his tree, brought his rifle up, and got a snap shot off. A bullet whizzed past, missing me by several inches. Before he could fire again, I was upon him.

I wrenched the rifle from the human’s hands and tossed it away. A gun went off behind me, but there was no time to check on my friends. The man in front of me had already drawn a long hunting knife, so I quickly slid my sword out.

The man’s eyes widened when he saw the sword — he’d painted the area around his eyes with red circles of what looked like blood — then narrowed. “You’re just a kid,” he snarled, slashing at me with his knife.

“No,” I disagreed, stepping out of range of his knife, jabbing at him with my sword. “I’m much more.”

As the human slashed at me again, I brought my sword up and out in a smooth arcing slice, through the flesh, muscles, and bones of his right hand, severing three of his fingers, disarming him in an instant.

The human cried out in agony and fell away from me. I took advantage of the moment to see how Mr. Crepsley and Harkat were doing. Mr. Crepsley had already got rid of his human, and was striding toward Harkat, who was wrestling with his opponent. Harkat appeared to be winning, but Mr. Crepsley was moving into place to back him up should the battle take a turn for the worse.

Satisfied that all was going in our favor, I switched my attention back to the man on the ground, psyching myself up for the unpleasant task of making an end of him. To my surprise, I found him grinning horribly at me.

“You should have taken my other hand too!” he growled.

My eyes fixed on the man’s left hand and my breath caught in my throat — he was clutching a hand grenade close to his chest!

“Don’t move!” he shouted as I lurched toward him. He half-pressed down on the detonator with his thumb. “If this goes off, it takes you with me!”

“Easy,” I said, backing off slightly, gazing fearfully at the primed grenade.

“I’ll take it easy in hell.” He chuckled sadistically. He’d shaved his head bald and there was a dark “V” tattooed into either side of his skull, just above his ears. “Now, tell your foul vampire partner and that grey-skinned monster to let my companion go, or I’ll —”

There was a sharp whistling sound from the trees to my left. Something struck the grenade and sent it flying from the human’s hand. He yelled and grabbed for another grenade (he had a string of them strapped around his chest). There was a second whistling sound and a glinting, multi-pointed object buried itself in the middle of the man’s head.

The man slumped backward with a grunt, shook crazily, then lay still. I stared at him, bewildered, automatically bending closer for a clearer look. The object in his head was a gold throwing star. Neither Mr. Crepsley nor Harkat carried such a weapon — so who’d thrown it?

In answer to my unvoiced question, someone jumped from a nearby tree and strode toward me. “Only ever turn your back on a corpse!” the stranger snapped as I whirled toward him. “Didn’t Vanez Blane teach you that?”

“I . . . forgot,” I wheezed, too taken aback to say anything else. The vampire — he had to be one of us — was a burly man of medium height, with reddish skin and dyed green hair, dressed in purple animal skins that had been stitched together crudely. He had huge eyes — almost as large as Harkat’s — and a surprisingly small mouth. Unlike Mr. Crepsley, his eyes were uncovered, though he was squinting painfully in the sunlight. He wore no shoes and carried no weapons other than dozens of throwing stars strapped to several belts looped around his torso.

“I’ll have my shuriken back, thank you,” the vampire said to the dead human, prying the throwing star loose, wiping it clean of blood, and reattaching it to one of the belts. He turned the man’s head left and right, taking in the shaved skull, tattoos, and red circles around his eyes. “A vampet!” he snorted. “I’ve clashed with them before. Miserable curs.” He spat on the dead man, then used his bare foot to roll him over, so he was lying face down.

When the vampire turned to address me, I knew who he was — I’d heard him described many times — and greeted him with the respect he deserved. “Vancha March,” I said, bowing my head. “It’s an honor to meet you, sire.”

“Likewise,” he replied cheerfully.

Vancha March was the Vampire Prince I’d never met, the wildest and most traditional of all the Princes.

“Vancha!” Mr. Crepsley boomed, tearing the cloth away from around his eyes, crossing the space between us, and clasping the Prince’s shoulders. “What are you doing here, sire? I thought you were farther north.”

“I was,” Vancha sniffed, freeing his hands and wiping the knuckles of his left hand across his nose, then flicking something green and slimy away. “But there was nothing happening, so I cut south. I’m heading for Lady Evanna’s.”

“We are too,” I said.

“I figured as much. I’ve been trailing you for the last couple of nights.”

“You should have introduced yourself sooner, sire,” Mr. Crepsley said.

“This is the first time I’ve seen the new Prince,” Vancha replied. “I wanted to observe him from afar for a while.” He studied me sternly. “On the basis of this fight, I have to say I’m not overly impressed!”

“I erred, sire,” I said stiffly. “I was worried about my friends and I made the mistake of pausing when I should have pushed ahead. I accept full responsibility, and I apologize most humbly.”

“At least he knows how to make a good apology,” Vancha laughed, clapping me on the back.

Vancha March was covered in grime and dirt and smelled like a wolf. It was his standard appearance. Vancha was a true being of the wilds. Even among vampires, he was considered extreme. He only wore clothes that he’d made himself from wild animal skins, and he never ate cooked meat or drank anything other than fresh water, milk, and blood.

As Harkat limped toward us — having finished off his attacker — Vancha sat and crossed his legs. Lifting his left foot, he lowered his head to it and started biting the nails!

“So this is the Little Person who talks,” Vancha mumbled, eyeing Harkat over the nail of his left big toe. “Harkat Mulds, isn’t it?”

“It is, sire,” Harkat replied, lowering his mask.

“I might as well tell you straight up, Mulds — I don’t trust Desmond Tiny or any of his stumpy disciples.”

“And I don’t trust vampires who . . . chew their toenails,” Harkat threw back at him, then paused and added slyly,
“sire.”

Vancha laughed at that and spat out a chunk of nail. “I think we’re going to get along fine, Mulds!”

“Hard trek, sire?” Mr. Crepsley asked, sitting down beside the Prince, covering his eyes with cloth again.

“Not bad,” Vancha said with a grunt, uncrossing his legs. He then started in on his right toenails. “Yourselves?”

“The traveling has been good.”

“Any news from Vampire Mountain?” Vancha asked.

“Lots,” Mr. Crepsley said.

“Save it for tonight.” Vancha let go of his foot and lay back. He took off his purple cloak and draped it over himself. “Wake me when it’s dusk,” he yawned, rolled over, fell straight asleep, and started to snore.

I stared, goggle-eyed, at the sleeping Prince, then at the nails he’d chewed off and spat out, then at his ragged clothes and dirty green hair, then at Harkat and Mr. Crepsley. “
He’s
a Vampire Prince?” I whispered.

“He is,” Mr. Crepsley smiled.

“But he looks like . . .” Harkat muttered uncertainly. “He acts like . . .”

“Do not be fooled by appearances,” Mr. Crepsley said. “Vancha chooses to live roughly, but he is the finest of vampires.”

“If you say so,” I responded doubtfully, and spent most of the day lying on my back, staring up at the cloudy sky, kept awake by the loud snoring of Vancha March.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

W
E LEFT THE VAMPETS
lying where we’d killed them (Vancha said they weren’t worthy of burial) and set off at dusk. As we marched, Mr. Crepsley told the Prince of Mr. Tiny’s visit to Vampire Mountain, and what he’d predicted. Vancha said little while Mr. Crepsley was talking, and brooded upon his words in silence for a long time after he finished.

“I don’t think it takes a genius to surmise that I’m the third hunter,” he said in the end.

“I would be most surprised if you were not,” Mr. Crepsley agreed.

Vancha had been picking between his teeth with the tip of a sharp twig. Now he tossed it aside and spat into the dust of the trail. Vancha was a master spitter — his spit was thick, globular, and green, and he could hit an ant at twenty paces. “I don’t trust that evil meddler, Tiny,” he snapped. “I’ve run into him a couple of times, and I’ve made a habit of doing the opposite of anything he says.”

Mr. Crepsley nodded. “Generally speaking, I would agree with you. But these are dangerous times, sire, and —”

“Larten!” the Prince interrupted. “It’s ‘Vancha,’ ‘March,’ or ‘Hey, ugly!’ while we’re on the trail. I won’t have you groveling to me.”

“Very well —” Mr. Crepsley grinned
“— ugly.”
He grew serious again. “These are dangerous times, Vancha. The future of our race is at stake. Dare we ignore Mr. Tiny’s prophecy? If there is hope, we must seize it.”

Vancha let out a long, unhappy sigh. “For hundreds of years, Tiny’s let us think we were doomed to lose the war when the Vampaneze Lord arose. Why does he tell us now, after all this time, that it
isn’t
cut and dried, but we can
only
prevent it if we follow his instructions?” The Prince scratched the back of his neck and spat into the bush to our left. “It sounds like a load of guano to me!”

“Maybe Evanna can shed light on the subject,” Mr. Crepsley said. “She shares some of Mr. Tiny’s powers and can sense the paths of the future. She might be able to confirm or dismiss his predictions.”

“If so, I’ll believe her,” Vancha said. “Evanna guards her tongue closely, but when she speaks, she speaks the truth. If she says our destiny lies on the road, I’ll gladly tag along with you. If not . . .” He shrugged and let the matter rest.

Vancha March was
weird
— and that was putting it mildly! I’d never met anyone like him. He had a code all of his own. As I already knew, he wouldn’t eat cooked meat or drink anything but fresh water, milk, and blood, and he made his clothes from the hides of animals he hunted. But I learned much more about him during the six nights it took us to reach Lady Evanna’s.