Vampire Seeker (8 page)

“Yep,” he said, and looked front.

We travelled in silence for several moments and the urge to tell him everything was overpowering. I wanted to tell him where
I was really from, what had happened to me, and how I got here. It was like I wanted to confess; I wanted him to hear my confession.

So, blowing smoke from the corner of my mouth, I looked at him and said, “Preacher, where am I?”

Without looking back at me, he simply said, “Colorado, my dear child, Colorado.”

Then the moment was gone, the need to tell him everything had passed. So I said, “What month is it?”

“November,” he said, looking at me curiously.

“And the date?”

“Sunday the 11
^th
,” he told me, and then added, “Shouldn’t you at least know what the date is or is your memory really that
shot-through?”

“And if it’s a Sunday, shouldn’t you be in church or something?” I said right back.

Sensing something was wrong, he rattled the reins, and glancing at me he said, “You have nothing to fear but fear itself,
Samantha Carter. You’ll find out the reason the Almighty has seen fit to bring you here. There is no such thing as an
unanswered prayer.”

“I don’t ever remember praying for…” I started.

“The Lord doesn’t always give you what you want,” he said, his cold eyes trained on me again. “But
he does give you what you need.”

“What do I need?” I asked him.

“To know that you were right,” he said.

“Right about what?”

“That vampires really do exist,” he said, looking front again and whipping the reins. Not another word passed
between us until we reached the town of Black Water Gap.

A short distance from the dusty-looking road that cut through the centre of town was a wooden board that had been whitewashed.
Written across it in black paint were the words,
Welcome to Black Water Gap
. The wagon trundled past the sign and into town. Men and women passed up and down the streets. Some of these people were
dressed better than others. The women, I noticed, wore long, pretty dresses with frills at the ends of each sleeve and at
the hems. Others wore dainty gloves and carried lacy umbrellas over their shoulders. Men wore suits, waistcoats with watch
chains glinting from them. Their suits were sombre-looking, grey or black in colour. They wore what looked similar to bowler
hats on their heads. I had never seen so many men all in one place with long, droopy moustaches. A few children darted along
the street, calling out to each other as they chased a wooden hoop. Their feet kicked up plumes of white dust which looked
like ash.

I looked in wonder at the buildings, which stood lined on either side of the street. Again, I was struck by how similar everything
looked to the movies I had seen. But then I guess, if I were making this whole new world up in my head as I waited to be found
in 21
^st
century London, wouldn’t my mind create a reality with images I had previously seen?

We passed a blacksmith’s, built from planks of pale wood. The building was tall, with a roof that slanted away on either
side. Across the front in black coloured stencil, it read,
Smiths – Blacksmith & All Metal Work. Anvil Work – Horse Shoeing – Wagon Workshop.
To my right I saw a small wooden building with the words
Bath House
written across the front of a wooden board that swung to and fro in the wind. Now, I really wouldn’t have minded making
a stop there. The thought of a nice deep bath full of water to sink into made me miss home more than anything. Next to this
there was a telegraph office, but I knew there was no Internet or Wi-Fi here. On the opposite side of the street there was
a clean white building, which was raised on a wooden boardwalk, with steps leading up to it. The sign above it read in huge
black lettering,
The National Bank
. Now if my mind was creating everything I was seeing, I wouldn’t have been too surprised if a group of bandana-covered
men burst through the doors in a hail of bullets, clutching banks bags with the ‘$’ sign on the front of them.
But we passed it quickly and quietly, there was no gunfire, sticks of dynamite exploding, or bank robbers.

Next to the bank was a larger building, and again, this was raised on a boardwalk. It had wooden pillars supporting a wooden
overhang with a sign hanging from it which read,
General Store - Dry Goods and Clothin’.
On the porch there was a stack of barrels and two rocking chairs. In these sat two bearded old men, who played some game
on a black and red chequered board.

Ahead I could see Harry, Louise, and Zoe slow their horses outside a tall building. It was on two levels with a railed walkway
running around the top of it. Off of this, there were several doors. Fixed to the side of the building, there was a wooden
staircase that led up to the walkway and the rooms leading from it. Just like the General Store, there was what looked like
a porch leading to a set of thick doors. There were several windows set on both floors and in each of them burnt an oil lamp.
The building looked clean and welcoming, and I didn’t have to read the sign above the porch to realise it was the town’s
hotel and saloon.

There was a timber rail fixed to the ground outside, and Harry and the others tethered their horses to it. There was a tin
drinking trough, which the horses were quick to bury their muzzles into. The preacher slowed our wagon to a stop and climbed
down from the seat, and I followed. The others joined us beside the wagon. Taking a watch and chain from his coat pocket,
the preacher looked at it. Then turning to the others, he said, “It’s time we met with this Englishman, Spencer
Drake.”

With his hat pulled low, the long tails of his coat trailing out behind him, the preacher climbed the steps and pushed open
the set of batwing doors, and entered the saloon.

A wooden bar ran the length of the saloon to the left. There was music, which came from a piano in the corner. The player
was stooped over it, seated on a stool. The main floor area was covered in circular tables, and at them sat men who played
poker, dominos, and dice. Unlike the westerns I had seen, there wasn’t the imposing atmosphere that I had expected.
It wasn’t like being in a pub in central London, either, but it definitely wasn’t like the saloons I had seen
in movies. There wasn’t any straw on the floor or a string of prostitutes patrolling the wooden balcony that circled
the upper floor of the building.

We followed the preacher to the bar and he ordered five beers. To be honest, it was too early in the day for me to start drinking
beer, but I wasn’t going to say anything. The bitter tasting coffee which the preacher had given me that morning was
the last time I’d drank anything, and my throat had started to feel dry. The bartender was smartly dressed in a clean
white apron, and his black hair was greased flat. A circular pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his pointed nose.

He poured the beers from a keg resting on a shelf behind the bar, and the preacher slid a handful of coins across to the bartender,
who scooped them up in his fist.

“We’re meeting a Mr. Spencer Drake here,” the preacher said, then took a sip of the frothy beer. His already-white
moustache became covered in the froth and he armed it away.

The bartender eyed him, and then looked along the bar at the rest of us. Turning back to face the preacher, he nodded towards
the furthest corner of the saloon and said, “The gentleman you are looking for is seated right over there.”

“Bless you,” the preacher smiled, tipping the brim of his hat at the bartender. Then, taking his beer, he headed
across the saloon. Harry and the others scooped up their drinks and followed him. I took mine, and heading across the room,
I took a sip and grimaced. The beer was warm, but it was better than nothing, so I took another sip.

The corner of the room where Spencer Drake waited for us was the darkest part of the saloon. Even the oil lamps which were
fixed to the wall did little to light it. He was seated at a table beneath the stairs that led to the upper balcony. He sat
alone with his back to the wall, but even in the semi-darkness, I couldn’t help but notice how good looking he was.
His hair was raven black and the ends of it rested against the crisp white collar of his shirt. His skin was fair and smooth-looking,
and not one whisker shone through his skin. I glanced over at Harry and the untidy growth that covered the lower half of his
face like a dirty shadow. Drake’s eyes were of the purest green and they were sharp and piercing. But it was his mouth
that I was drawn to. His lips were perfect, with a cupid’s bow that any model back home would have died for, and I couldn’t
help but wonder what it would be like to be kissed by them. Although his face was long and slender, his features were masculine
and dominant-looking. Apart from his obvious good looks, which I could see hadn’t gone unnoticed by Zoe as she sat with
her mouth open like a trap which had been sprung, Spencer Drake was impeccably dressed. Around the collar of his white shirt,
he had tied a burgundy coloured silk tie. He wore a long dress coat, which was charcoal grey with black velvet lapels. Beneath
this, he wore a waistcoat, with a gold watch and chain. It wasn’t scratched and kept in his coat pocket like the preacher’s.
His hands were steepled before him and I could see that his fingernails had been clipped perfectly and were clean, not like
the rough and dirty hands which Harry had held me with that morning.

Once we were all seated, the preacher spoke. “Spencer Drake?”

“Yes,” Drake replied, his voice soft but strong. “And this is your – how should I describe them?”
he said, looking at each of us in turn. “Team? Gang? Disciples?”

“There were twelve disciples, Mr. Drake, and they were all men,” the preacher corrected him, his cold blue stare
an equal match to Drake’s piercing green eyes. “It is I who is the disciple, and I follow the path of a man far
greater than you or I ever could be.”

With a wry smile tugging at the corners of his perfect mouth, Drake said, “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend
you.”

“It’s not I you have to fear offending,” the preacher said, raising his warm foamy beer and taking a slurp.
His eyes didn’t leave Drake’s once.

“It’s just that – how can I put this without offending
anyone
,” Drake said. “You don’t appear like any holy man that I have ever encountered before.”

“The Lord cut his brethren from many types of cloth,” the preacher said back, stony-faced.

“But you don’t carry a Bible or a crucifix,” Drake came back with that half-smile.

“Do I need one, Mr. Drake?” the preacher asked, his eyes now as pale as his skin.

“Which one? A Bible or a cross?” Drake shot back, his voice still calm and even.

“You tell me?” the preacher asked him, a wry smile now tugging at his lips.

“For a man who professes to hunt vampires, I thought one or both would be essential,” Drake said.

“And is that why you want to hire us?” the preacher asked him flatly.

“No, not at all,” Drake gave a dry laugh. “But before we get down to the true nature of my business with
you, let me take a guess at who you all are.” Peering out of the gloom at us, he looked at Louise and said, “You
must be Louise Pearson.” Then, looking at Harry, he said, “Harrison Turner.” Switching to Zoe, he said,
“Zoe Edgar.” Looking at me last, he paused, and then added, “and if I’m not mistaken, you must be
Marley Cooper. Why, you are far more beautiful than the rumours would suggest.”

“You are wrong,” I said, looking back into his eyes. “My name is Samantha Carter and…”

“Like me, you are English,” he cut in, his eyes seeming to flash momentarily. “Your accent is from London,
if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And from what part of that great city do you hail from?” he smiled, and that mouth looked so kissable.

“Whitechapel,” I told him.

“Whitechapel?” he said, cocking an eyebrow with interest. “Such an impoverished part of town. And I wager
that you are glad you have made good your escape?”

“Escape?” I asked him with a frown, and I could sense that the others gathered around the table were all staring
at me.

“Why, such a place as Whitechapel wouldn’t be safe for a beautiful young woman such as your good self,”
he smiled at me again, and I wished he would stop doing that.

“Safe?” I said numbly, my attention drawn back to his mouth.

“Why, the killer of course,” he said, his smile fading into a bloodless line. “If you truly have come from
Whitechapel, then you surely must have heard of the Ripper? Jack the Ripper?”

“Sure I’ve heard of him,” I said, picking up my glass and taking a sip of the warm beer.

“A terrible, terrible thing indeed,” he almost sighed. “Why, only just before leaving London myself, I read
in the newspapers of his latest attack. The poor girl’s throat had been severed through to her spine, her abdomen had
been emptied of organs, and her heart was missing. The papers were full of it.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a sickening image of a young woman being mutilated crept forward. It was like a dream that
I couldn’t quite recall. I suddenly felt sick and woozy. Before I truly knew what was happening, a strong hand was gripping
my upper arm and pulling me back into my seat.

“Are you okay?” someone asked, and I glanced sideways to see Harry. He had hold of my arm. “You nearly fell
into your beer.”

“Is she okay?” I heard Spencer ask as he pressed a snow-white hankie into my hand. The skin covering his fingers
felt soft like silk.

“It’s just the beer,” Harry grunted, taking the hankie and handing it back to Drake. “She’ll
be just fine.”

“Maybe it was all the talk of those brutal killings…” Drake started as my head began to clear.

“Perhaps,” Louise said, looking sideways at me.

“Shall we just get down to business?” the preacher asked, staring into the gloom where Drake almost seemed to
shelter.

“Let’s,” Drake smiled again, as Harry took his seat. “But first, tell me, whatever happened to Marley
Cooper? She was one of your
gang
– wasn’t she?”