Demon Deathchase (20 page)

As Caroline’s eyes went from a look of agony and disbelief to a haze of death, Leila
stared into them and smirked. “Too bad. You know, I noticed something while you were
ordering me around. Seems there’s at least one woman you bit who didn’t wind up your
own personal marionette.” Leila, it seemed, possessed an unusual resistance to the
demon’s call, though she had not known it until now.

When Leila turned her eyes from the falling body of the beautiful woman, the death
match seemed about to be decided.

As soon as he’d batted down all of the rough wooden needles D hurled at him during
a leap back, Mayerling felt composure coming over his mind. It was the next instant
that he saw a thick flash of silvery light. His injured arms hadn’t recovered their
previous speed yet. D’s longsword, thrust with calculated precision at this hole in
Mayerling’s defenses, slid neatly into the Noble’s stomach.

As the Noble thudded to the ground in a bloody mist, the girl ran like the wind to
his side. “Please, try not to shake me so much,” Mayerling told her. He smiled wryly
under his pained breathing.

D came over. Two pairs of eyes met, the huntsman and the prey. Both men’s eyes had
a mysterious hue of emotion to them.

“You did well to dodge that strike,” D said softly. No matter how deep the wound to
Mayerling’s stomach, it wouldn’t be the end of a Noble. Once the sword was pulled
out, even a wound from D would eventually heal.

“Why did you miss?” asked Mayerling.

The girl and Leila—who’d also come over once her own deadly little battle was done—looked
at D in surprise.

Giving no answer, D bent over and took several strands of the girl’s lengthy hair
in hand. Pulling out a dagger, he cut off a lock about eight inches long and put it
in one of his coat pockets. “So long as I have some of her hair, the sheriff’s office
will be able to confirm her identity,” he said. “Baron Mayerling and his human love
are dead. Never show yourselves before mankind again.”

An indescribable light welled up in the girl’s eyes.

D took hold of the hilt of his longsword and pulled the metal out of Mayerling’s body.
His blade rasped back into its sheath. “There’s the ten million right there. Easy
money.” Without another word, D walked toward the exit.

“D!” Leila shouted. She was about to go after him, but at that moment a roaring wind
caught her ear.

When D whipped around at the sound of flesh being penetrated, he saw the steel arrow
that pierced Mayerling’s chest. From the angle of it, he gleaned where it’d been fired
from, and a flash of silvery white flew from D’s right hand. It rebounded off the
high ceiling and was barely blocked by a figure who made an easy, spider-like dash
sideward.

“Borgoff!” Leila cried out.

D saw her brother, too. But was it really Borgoff? There was a huge, gaping hole in
his stomach that did nothing to conceal the deep red scraps of entrails, sinew, and
bone within. Half of either thigh was exposed bone, and the right side of his face
was just a skull. Such was the fate one met when attacked by flesh-eating mint ants.

Laughing maniacally, he shouted, “You’re next, jerk!”

Black bits of lightning streaked at D, but each and every one was struck down. The
corpse didn’t have quite the same skill it’d possessed in life. Hoping to attack from
a different angle, Borgoff ran across the ceiling to the wall. He was confident of
his speed. Of the speed he’d had in life.

A second later, his shoulder and the top of his head were pierced by flashes of white
that shot vertically from below, where by all rights no one should’ve been able to
get him. If that’d been the extent of the damage, the already dead Borgoff wouldn’t
have had any problems. Due to D’s ungodly skill, however, one of the wooden needles
rebounded and shattered his right ankle, which was just denuded bone. His remaining
leg couldn’t continue to support his weight of nearly two hundred and twenty-five
pounds, and Borgoff’s massive frame fell head over heels from a height of some thirty
feet before smashing against the lobby floor.

“Damn it all!” He spat the words down at his own barely fleshed chest. “But if
his
memory serves me, there’s still something I can do.” Borgoff’s grotesque right hand—bones
with chunks of flesh still clinging to it—went into his pants pocket.

At that moment, the drifter who was searching for food in the bus parked right in
front of the spaceport jumped as he heard a tiny explosion from one of the beds lined
up in the back.

D was cloaked in a ghastly aura as he walked toward Borgoff, but, suddenly, a young
man stood between them.

“There you are, Grove,” Borgoff’s corpse said in Borgoff’s voice. “Do your thing!
Kill all of these fuckers.”

Before he’d finished speaking, D leapt. His longsword sank into the youth’s shoulder
and went through it like water.

The youth wasn’t looking at D. He was gazing at the long-haired girl in a corner of
the lobby as she cradled a figure in black and sobbed. A hue of sadness suddenly invaded
his flushed face. He shook his head ever so slightly from side to side.

“Gro . . . Grove?!” Borgoff stammered in disbelief.

Before his brother had finished saying his name, the young man became transparent,
then quickly faded away.

When agony seemed to force Grove’s desiccated form to sit up in bed, the horrified
drifter inched ever closer to him, but, the instant the youth appeared before him,
the intruder was scared out of his mind. The youth’s sad gaze was trained on the convulsing
body, and then he put himself against it. The second he did, he started to melt into
the feeble form, and a shudder ran through the still upright body. Then it moved no
more.

Walking to Borgoff’s body, D quickly pressed the palm of his left hand to its chest.
There was an anguished cry. From Borgoff’s feet.

Something squirming around inside Borgoff’s thigh seemed to be gradually rising toward
his chest, inch by inch, as if it was being pulled up on a string. Past the stomach
it went, slipping through organs left exposed by the gaping wound, and when it reached
the spot directly under the palm of D’s hand, the crunch of meat and bone reverberated.
It gave a scream in its death throes, but that ended soon enough.

D pulled his left hand away. The tiny mouth in the middle of his palm opened. From
it, something like a catfish tail wriggled out, but it was soon sucked back in. Once
again, there was the crunching sounds of mastication, and then its tongue lolled out
to lick its lips before disappearing, lips and all.

Without even a glance at Borgoff, who was now a true corpse, D turned in the girl’s
direction. She’d fallen by Mayerling’s side. Checking her pulse, Leila looked at D
and shook her tear-streaked face from side to side.

One of Mayerling’s claws was jabbing into the girl’s chest. The girl had taken hold
of it and thrust it into her own bosom.

D’s gaze was somewhat weary as he looked down at the amazingly serene countenance
she wore in death. He heard Leila’s voice from somewhere.
Love’s so great . . . So why does it have to go so wrong?

The human and the Noble—each died as they’d lived. The human as a human, the Noble
as a Noble . . .

“She said thank you,” Leila said absentmindedly.

D took the lock of hair out of his coat pocket. That was all that remained of the
girl now.

Some time later, the drifter—who’d received a large sum in gold from the gorgeous
young man in black to bury the pair—stepped into the lobby. The wind that slipped
in with him blew the strands of hair from where they’d been placed on the girl’s shoulder,
scattering them randomly across the empty hall.

—

At the entrance to the spaceport, Leila got down off D’s horse. “I’m going to this
town up north,” she said to the gorgeous countenance trained on her. “It’s a little
place, and it’s always covered with snow, but this young guy who runs the butcher
shop there asked me to marry him once. He’s the only guy who ever knew my last name
and said it didn’t matter. By now, he’s probably got a wife and kids already, but
then he said he’d wait as long as he had to. I’m sorta counting on that.”

D nodded. “Godspeed,” he said.

“Right back at you.”

D urged his horse forward. Leila remained stock still behind him, and about the time
the blue darkness was starting to hide her, a faint smile slipped to D’s lips. If
Leila had caught sight of it, she probably would’ve reflected with pride on how her
parting words had inspired it until the end of her days.

It was just such a smile.

—

I

—

On the Frontier, nothing was considered more dangerous than a journey by night.

Claiming the night was their world, the Nobility had once littered the globe with
monsters and creatures of legend, as if to adorn the pitch black with a touch of deadly
beauty. Those same repugnant creatures ran rampant in the land of darkness even after
the dominance of the Nobility had faded. That was how the vampires bared their fangs
at the way of the world, a human idea that ordained the light of day as the time for
action and the dark of night for restfulness. The darkness of night was the greatest
of truths, the vampires claimed, and the ruler of the world.
Farewell, white light of summer.

That was why the night was filled with menace. The moans of dream demons lingered
in the wind, and the darkness whispered the threats of dimension-ripping beasts. Just
beyond the edge of the woods glowed eyes the color of jasper. So many eyes. Even well-armed
troops sent into devastated sections of the Capital felt so much relief after they’d
slipped through the blocks of dilapidated apartment complexes they’d flop down right
there on the road.

Out on the Frontier it was even worse. On the main roads, crude way-stations had been
built at intervals between one lodging place and the next. But, when the sun went
down on one of the support roads linking the godforsaken villages, travelers were
forced to defend themselves with nothing more than their own two hands and whatever
weapons they could carry. That was why there were only two kinds who would actually
choose to travel by night. The Nobility. And dhampirs. Particularly if the dhampir
was a Vampire Hunter.

Scattering the shower of moonlight far and wide, the shadowy form of a horse and rider
climbed a desolate hill. The mount was just an average cyborg horse, but the features
of the rider were as clean and clear as a jewel, like the strange beauty of the darkness
and the moon crystallized. Every time the all-too-insistent wind touched him, it trembled
with uncertainty, whirled, and headed off bearing a whole new air. Carrying a disquieting
aura. His wide-brimmed traveler’s hat, the ink black cape and scarf darker than darkness,
and the scabbard of the elegant longsword that adorned his back were all faded and
worn enough to stir imaginings of the arduous times this traveler had seen.

The young traveler had his eyes closed, perhaps to avoid the wind-borne dust. His
profile was so graceful it seemed the Master Craftsman in heaven above had made it
His most exquisite work. The rider appeared to be thoroughly exhausted and immersed
in a lonely sleep. Sleep—for him it was a mere break in the battle, but a far cry
from peace of mind.

Something else mixed with the groaning of the wind. The traveler’s eyes opened. A
lurid light coursed into them, then quickly faded. His horse never broke its pace.
A little over ten seconds was all they needed to reach the summit of the hill. Now
the other sounds were clear. The crack of a gun and howls of wild beasts.

The traveler looked down at the plain below, spying a mid-sized motor home that was
under attack. Several lesser dragons were prowling around it—more “children of the
night” sown by the Nobility. Ordinarily, their kind dwelt in swamplands farther to
the south, but occasionally problems with the weather controllers would send packs
of dragons north. The migration of dangerous species was a serious problem on the
Frontier.

The motor home was already half-wrecked. Holes had been ripped in the roofs of both
the cab and the living quarters, and the lesser dragons kept sticking their heads
in. The situation was clear just from the smoking scraps of wood, the sleeping bags,
and a pair of—partially eaten and barely recognizable human bodies lying in front
of the motor home. Due to circumstances beyond their control—most likely something
to do with their propulsion system—the family had been forced to camp out instead
of sleeping in their vehicle like they should. But words couldn’t begin to describe
how foolhardy they’d been to expect one little campfire to keep the creatures that
prowled the night at bay. There were three sleeping bags. But there weren’t three
corpses.

Once again a gunshot rang out, a streak of orange from a window in the living quarters
split the darkness, and one of the dragons reeled back as the spot between its eyes
exploded. For someone foolish enough to camp out at night, the shooter seemed well-informed
and incredibly skilled with a gun. People who lived up north had usually never heard
where to aim a kill-shot on southern creatures like these lesser dragons. But a solution
to that puzzle soon presented itself. There was a large magneto-bike parked beside
the vehicle. Someone was pitching in to rescue them.

The traveler tugged on the reins. Shaking off the moonlight that encrusted its body
like so much dust, his cyborg horse suddenly began its descent. Galloping down the
steep slope with the sort of speed normally reserved for level ground, the mount left
a gale in its wake as it closed on the lesser dragons.

Noticing the headlong charge by this new foe, a dragon to the rear of the pack turned,
and the horse and rider slipped by its side like a black wind. Bright blood didn’t
spout from between the creature’s eyes until the horse had come to a sudden halt and
the traveler had dismounted with a flourish of his cape. The way he walked toward
the creatures—with their colossal maws gaping and rows of bloody teeth bared—seemed
leisurely at first glance, but in due time showed the swiftness of a swallow in flight.
All around the young man in black there was the sound of steel meeting steel time
and time again. Unable to pull apart the jagged teeth they’d just brought together,
each and every one of the lesser dragons around him collapsed in a bloody spray as
gashes opened between their eyes. And the dragon leaping at him from the motor home’s
roof was no exception.

The young man’s gorgeous countenance seemed weary of the cries of the dying creatures,
but his expression didn’t change in the slightest, and, without even glancing at the
two mangled bodies, he returned his longsword to its sheath and headed back to his
cyborg horse. As if to say he’d just done this on a lark, as if to suggest he didn’t
give a thought to the well-being of any survivors, he turned his back on this death-shrouded
world and tightened his grip on the reins.

“Hey, wait a minute,” a masculine voice called out in a somewhat agitated manner,
and the young man finally stopped and turned around. The vehicle’s door opened and
a bearded man in a leather vest appeared. In his right hand he held a single-shot
armor-piercing rifle. A machete was tucked through his belt. With the grim countenance
he sported, he’d have looked more natural holding the latter instead of a gun. “Not
that I don’t appreciate your help, bucko, but there’s no account for you just turning
and making tracks like that now. Come here for a minute.”

“There’s only one survivor,” the young man said. “And it’s a child, so you should
be able to handle it alone.”

A tinge of surprise flooded the other man’s hirsute face. “How did you . . . ? Ah,
you saw the sleeping bags. Now wait just a minute, bucko. The atomic reactor has a
cracked heat exchanger and the whole motor home’s lousy with radiation now. That’s
why the family went outside in the first place. The kid got a pretty good dose.”

“Hurry up and take care of it then.”

“The supplies I’m packing won’t cut it. A town doctor’s gotta see to this. Where are
you headed, buddy? The Zemeckis rendezvous point?”

“That’s right,” the young man in black replied.

“Hold on. Just hold everything. I know the roads around here like the back of my hand.”

“So do I.” The young man turned away from the biker once again. Then he stopped. As
he turned back, his eyes were eternally cold and dark.

The child was standing behind the biker. Her black hair would’ve hung past her waist
if it hadn’t been tied back by a rainbow-hued ribbon. The rough cotton shirt and long
skirt did little to hide her age, or the swell of her full bosom. The girl was a beauty,
around seventeen or eighteen years old. As she gazed at the young man, a curious hue
of emotion filled her eyes. There was something in the gorgeous features of the youth
that could make her forget the heartrending loss of her family as well as the very
real danger of losing her own life. Extending her hand, she was just about to say
something when she crumpled to the ground face down
.

“What did I tell you—she’s hurt bad! She’s not gonna last till dawn. That’s why I
need your help.”

The youth wheeled his horse around without a word. “Which one of us will carry her?”
he asked.

“Yours truly, of course. Getting you to help so far has been like pulling teeth, so
I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you do the fun part.”

The man got a leather belt off his bike and came back, then put the young woman on
his back and cleverly secured her to himself. “Hands off,” the man said, glaring at
the youth in black as he straddled his magneto-bike. The girl fit perfectly into the
seat behind him. It looked like quite a cozy arrangement. “Okay, here I go. Follow
me.” The man grabbed the handlebars, but, before twisting the grip starter, he turned
and said, “That’s right . . . I didn’t introduce myself, did I? I’m John M. Brasselli
Pluto VIII.”

“D.”

“That’s a good name you got there. Just don’t go looking to shorten mine for something
a little easier to say. When you call me, I’ll thank you kindly to do it by my full
name. John M. Brasselli Pluto VIII, okay?” But, while the man was driving his point
home, D was looking to the skies. “What is it?” the biker asked.

“Things out there have caught the scent of blood and are on their way.”

The black creatures framed against the moon were growing closer. A flock of avian
predators. And lupine howls could be heard in the wind.

—

Expectations to the contrary, no threat materialized to hamper the party’s progress.
They rode for about three hours. When the hazy mountains far across the plain began
to fill their field of view and take on a touch of reality, John M. Brasselli Pluto
VIII turned his sharp gaze to D, who rode alongside him. “If we go to the foot of
that there mountain, the town should be by. What business you got with them anyway,
bucko?” he asked, but when D made no answer he added, “Damn, playing the tough guy
again, I see. I bet you’re used to just standing there doing the strong, silent type
routine and getting all the ladies, chum. You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you
that—just don’t count on that always doing the trick for you. Sooner or later, it’s
always some straight-shooter like me that ends up the center of attention.”

D looked ahead without saying a word.

“Aw, you’re no fun,” the biker said. “I’m gonna gun it the rest of the way.”

“Hold it.”

Pluto VIII went pale for a minute at the sharp command, but, in what was probably
a show of false courage, he soon gave the grip starter a good twist. Uranium fuel
sent pale flames spouting from the boosters, and the bike shot off in a cloud of dust.
It stopped almost as quickly. The engine was still shuddering away, but the wheels
were just kicking up sand. In the dazzling moonlight, his atomic-powered bike was
not only refusing to budge an inch despite its five thousand-horsepower output, it
was actually sinking into the ground slowly but surely. “Dammit all,” he hissed, “a
sand viper!”

The creature in question was a colossal serpent that lived deep in the earth, and,
although no one had ever seen the entire body of one, they were said to grow upwards
of twenty miles long. Frighteningly enough, though the creatures were said to live
their entire lives without ever moving a fraction of an inch, some believed they used
high-frequency vibrations to create fragile layers of earth and sand in thousands
of places on the surface so they might feed on those unfortunate enough to stumble
into one of their traps. These layers moved relentlessly downward, becoming a kind
of quicksand. Due to the startling motion the sands displayed, those who set foot
into them would never make it out again. To get some idea of how tenacious the jaws
of this dirt-and-sand trap were, one had only to watch how the five thousand horses
in that atomic engine strained themselves to no avail. For all the bike’s struggling,
its wheels had already sunk halfway into the sand.

“Hey, don’t just stand there watching, stone face. If you’ve got a drop of human blood
in your veins, help me out here!” Pluto VIII shouted fervently. His words must’ve
done the trick because D grabbed a thin coil of rope off the back of his saddle and
dismounted. “If you screw this up, the rope’ll get pulled down, too. So make your
throw count,” the man squawked, and then his eyes went wide. The gorgeous young man
didn’t throw him the rope. Keeping it in hand, he started to calmly walk into the
quicksand. Pluto VIII opened his mouth to howl some new curse at the youth, but it
just hung open . . . and for good reason.

The young man in black had started to stride elegantly over deadly jaws that would
wolf down any creature they could find. His black raiment danced in the wind, the
moonlight ricocheting off it as flecks of silver. He almost looked like the Grim Reaper
coming in the guise of aid, but ready to wrap a black cord around the neck of those
reaching out to him for succor.

The rope flew through the air. Excitedly grabbing hold of the end of it, Pluto VIII
tied it around his bike’s handlebars. The rest of the coiled rope still in hand, D
went back to solid ground and climbed onto his cyborg horse without saying a word.

“All right! Now on the count of—” Pluto never got to finish what he was saying as
his bike was tugged forward. “Hey! Give me a second. Let me give it some gas, too,”
he started to say, but he only had a moment to tighten his grip on the throttle before
the bike and its two riders were free of the living sands and its tires were resting
once more on solid ground.