The Best of Penny Dread Tales (19 page)

His fist slammed down on the desk. “It is the law and the lore! You come onto our lands, and you are ours. The peasants warned you!”

So many years of scholarly pursuit, yet I make the mistake of a first year. I had forgotten the lore that the locals taught me, so caught up in the existence of the
Oupire
as I had been. Too late to go back and check my notes for a scholarly argument. My family was dead, and I was not far behind. Wetness made a line down my cheek. Apparently I didn’t have long before the damn of emotion was to burst, if the lone tear was any indicator.

Do you see now my dear reader? Do you see how I am to blame for our deaths? It was that night so long ago, when we had first known the fallacy of our wisdom. As I had killed his kin, so he would kill mine. For years he had stalked us, watched us. He had fallen upon our unsuspecting families, striking at our connections to this world. Did he seek to drive me to the same end that I suspect he had driven Niles? Yes, I believe he did. He had hoped to madden me, to strike such grief into my heart that I would gladly welcome death.

He taunted me and prodded at me, and when I should have been at my weakest, I let him see it. I let my pain show and allowed myself to look once more at her cold corpse; her lifeless eyes set within her pale face. He moved faster than most men could follow. To most he would have seemed a blur. Even I could barely see it happen. In my brief moment of revealed weakness he had crossed the distance between us, his hand had reached out to my throat, and he had revealed his nature with his teeth. But my training had taught me to anticipate this, even to provoke it.

Was he to grab me, would he kill me, or would he torment me some more? I recall this thought dimly gracing the edges of my mind. To be honest, my dear reader, I do not know the answer. His hand never reached my throat; his teeth never met my flesh. His eyes, those luring orbs, had held rage. I can remember seeing it in the corner of my eye as I looked at my sister’s corpse. How I wished that she had been there to see what I had done.

I stared at her as his hands clawed at my arm. When he gurgled, I turned to him. Those horrible orbs … did they hold fear or surprise? I do not know. His hands left my arm and began to grope the blade that had pierced his neck. I looked over that blade and met his eyes. The inscriptions upon my blade, holy etchings from a dozen world Mythologies, glowed a faint blue, and his blood had begun to ooze down its length.

I stared into his eyes as the life passed from them. He tried to speak but could not. My blade, hidden within my cane, had pierced the center of his throat. He expunged his final breath, and with it a splash of blood. It caught me in the face, but I did not care. I had won, but at a horrible price.

My left hand still held the cane from which I had drawn the blade. As quick as he was, I was prepared. Pushing against the exposed cog on the head of the cane’s shaft, a micro-hydraulic fired and the opening shifted slightly as the cog raised. I flipped the cane around, and tapped the open end against his chest. There was a flash, then he and the cane caught fire. I dropped the ruined cane shaft and released the blade, groggily watching the single red shell roll across the floor. The pressure switch in my cane was only good for one shot, but sometimes that was all you needed.

I had learned well from my mentor, letting my instincts take over when my brain could no longer make decisions. Ruthven had mistaken me for a human, when in truth I was a hunter. My feelings, my fears … nothing can stand between me and my hunt. And the hunt never ends. I watched the Oupire burn as the fire slowly spread across the room.

In the end I was a coward. I chose a few seconds of flight and a swift end over staying with my sister in the fiery airship. Just a few steps to reach the window, then the ground rushed towards me, delivering a swift end.

***

To my demise, as Ruthven had mistaken me, so too had I mistaken him. In all my travels I had never claimed to know everything, or even to learn all that there was to know of the subjects of my studies. I still maintain that for everything I learned, there was much more left undiscovered. You see, as my cane had hidden my attack, his blood had hidden his. I know now that it was the blood which had led to my death, for in the hours that followed I had awoken unharmed. I began to rant about things that even I knew to be madness. I had died. Why had the world forced me to live? My ravings did not go unnoticed. In my state I was aware of some small things. I knew for instance that I had become a suspect in the deaths of my family and of my host. After all, I was mad, was I not?

***

And now, dear reader, you know my tale. You have seen my demise and the price of my arrogance. And yet I live still. For how else could I pen these words? What I failed to know then, what I could not have known, was the true touch of the Oupire. My torment was not to end with my life. Upon my deathbed passed my first soul, but awakened by the Oupire’s blood, my second soul arose. The soul of a hunter is tenacious at best. It would not allow me to die. As I have said before, “the hunt never ends.”

So read.

Follow the works I have written, the clues laid therein. Find a way to destroy me, to deliver my soul—if you dare. I await you dear reader, where they have sequestered me and my supposed madness at the Bethlam Royal. I await you in Bedlam.

***

The Noonday Sun

Vivian Caethe

The noonday sun shimmered across the black land as mirages smudged the border between earth and sky. Places like this in the New Mexico Territory bred ancient stories and whispered dark secrets. Hazel could imagine obscure tales hidden in the sharp-edged volcanic rock and the winding tunnels that yawned like open mouths to swallow the sky.

She rode into Cibola on the day after her twentieth birthday, getting fewer stares than she had anticipated. The rumors about the town—that it was cursed with a plague, with monsters, with witches—had drawn her to it. There had been rumors of “lloronas,” vampire-like creatures endemic to the area. As a monster hunter, it was her trade to seek out such places.

The streets were empty, and only a few women watched from their windows as she rode down the empty main street. The only motion came from the dust that puffed around Rocinante’s hooves as they came up in front of the saloon. She searched each of their faces, hoping she would see Dulcinea’s.

The heavy sound of Rocinante’s hooves on the packed dirt echoed through the empty streets. If a curse hung over this town, there might not be that many folks left to wander around during the day. The silence stretched as the afternoon faded the wooden storefronts to silver, the adobe walls to gold.

Reaching the center of town, she dismounted from her Belgium draft horse and stretched. Rocinante was the biggest horse she’d ever seen, and stood close to seventeen hands. He gave her room to hide behind as she checked her powered armor’s fittings, ensuring the long ride hadn’t jostled anything out of place. Rocinante permitted her to pat him affectionately as she tied him in the shade.

Looking up, she read the sign above the door, “Small Comfort Saloon.” She snorted. If lloronas owned it, the comfort would be solely theirs. She loosened her guns in their holsters and pushed open the swinging doors.

The brothel’s interior cooled Hazel’s sunbaked eyes as she glanced around, her hands resting casually on the butts of her Schofields. What sort of saloon in the Territories was empty at noon?

The short, mustached bartender looked up when she entered. “Something to drink, miss?”

“Whatever you have.” She took off her hat and placed it on the counter next to her. The bartender poured her a shot from an unlabeled bottle.

As she toyed with the shot glass, she dearly wished she could take off her duster, but the sight of her armored exoskeleton in a new town tended to have one of two predictable results: she became a freak show or some trigger happy fool’d decide she needed to be relieved of the exoskeleton on principle. She wished she had a penny for every time she heard, “What’s a pretty lady like you doing with all that metal?”

Of course, they didn’t ask when they saw her legs. Polio had been her greatest curse and her greatest blessing. Without it, she never would have donned the exoskeleton nor had the courage to become a monster hunter. She had heard of monster hunters growing up, but who hadn’t? Tales of Sheriff Pat Garrett had kept her riveted for weeks. She still felt the small twinge of jealousy at the thought of his adventures hunting the werewolf Billy the Kid.

The wilds of the West teemed with monstrous creatures. The string of forts that ran up and down the Rocky Mountains were testament enough to the danger. She had traveled to Arizona to hunt chupacabras attacking ranchers’ cows, gone to the rough country of Colorado to look for sasquatches that threatened the mining operations. And now she had come to New Mexico, the land of enchantment, the heart of monster country.

“What brings you to these parts?”

Hazel looked down at the empty shot glass then glanced to the open door to the kitchen where an edge of skirt could be seen. “I’m looking for an old friend, picking up work as I go along.”

“Are you a mercenary?”

“Sort of.” Hazel allowed a wry smile to crack her face. “I’m more of a bounty hunter, but I don’t aim for men.”

“I’ve heard tales of folks like you. You go after the monsters.” The man had a strange gleam in his eye. Could that be hope?

“Yeah.” Hazel smiled. “You seen any monsters around here?”

“Cibola is too small to be a town.” The man looked away. “And the People protect us.”

“The Indians?”

“Their mesas surround this area and the land is sacred to them. They wouldn’t let monsters live here.”

“But you’ve heard stories, haven’t you?”

“Would you like some breakfast? I’m the best cook in Cibola. But I don’t get to cook very often. Most of the men drink their dinners.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

The man’s jaw set stubbornly. “The People protect us. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just a sickness, is all.”

“Sickness?” Hazel asked.

He sighed. “There’s been stories about witches that attack the men in their sleep. Some of them have gotten sick. The People won’t come into town until they’ve passed or got better. Most of them don’t get better.”

“And then they die,” Hazel said. His story sounded familiar enough to confirm her suspicions. There were lloronas here. Her attention went back to the skirt in the kitchen. It wasn’t like such creatures to hide. They were bold, sensual. “Who’s hiding in the kitchen?”

The edge of a skirt twitched and Hazel exchanged a glance with the bartender. She stood, putting her hand on her right revolver. “I feel compelled to tell you, sir, that I do not much care to be spied upon. Nor do I take chances in my profession.”

“Come on out, niña.” Juan sighed.

The girl that stepped from the kitchen looked like Dulcinea. Hazel hid her reaction. There was no use in getting her hopes up.

“You don’t look like one of them,” Hazel said.

The girl flushed. “Just because I live here doesn’t make me one of the employees.”

Hazel opened her mouth then realized they were talking about two different sorts of things. She had forgotten this was a brothel as well as a saloon.

The girl recovered her composure. “Who are you looking for? Your old friend?”

“An old friend of mine. We grew up together, but my family … well, it’s not a pretty story.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it.” The girl seated herself at the bar at a safe distance from Hazel. “It’s been awhile since I’ve heard a story from a stranger.”

Hazel took a breath, hurt by the implication that she was a stranger. Perhaps she had been wrong after all. “Well … like I said, I grew up on a ranch in Texas. Our cook had a little girl, only a couple years younger than me, and we used to play together.” Hazel took a sip of coffee. “My father, well … he wasn’t a very good man when it came to women. My mother shouldn’t have been surprised, but he made some overtures at the cook after her husband died. My mother got wind of it and was out for blood. She would have had the woman whipped, you see. The cook wasn’t white like my family; she was from south of the border, somewhere in Mexico.”

Hazel paused, looking at the girl out of the corner of her eye. She was caught up in the story, but without a flicker of recognition. After a moment, Hazel took a breath and continued. “Well, I warned the girl and her mother. T’wasn’t right what my father had done, what my mother was going to do. My friend and her mother escaped in the middle of the night, headed out for the Territories before my mother could get the hands riled up. My mother was as bad as my father. She was just better at hiding it.”

“So you’ve come out here looking for your friend and her mother?” the girl asked.

“I heard she might be out here, might be in trouble with all the monsters here,” Hazel said. “Heard about the curse here too, like I said. Figured if nothing else, I’d get a bounty from the railroad. They don’t like it when there’s interference at their depots.”

The girl nodded. “What was your friend’s name? Maybe I’ve seen her around town.”

“Dulcinea,” Hazel said. “Her name was Dulcinea.”

Shocked, the girl’s expression turned from curious to bewildered. “If I’m her, I don’t remember you at all.”

Hazel shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “I figured it was a long shot.”

“No, it’s not that.” The girl shook her head, dark tresses spilling over her shoulder with the motion. “I don’t remember anything. I don’t … I don’t even remember my mother’s face.”

“I’m sorry,” Hazel said, her throat constricting. She swallowed and spoke again. “If you think … you might be her. I can tell you about your mother if you’d like.”

The girl nodded shyly. Hazel sat on the stool next to her and took her hand, marveling at the softness against her own rough skin. “She had a smile that could light up the night. She had the most beautiful accent; it made everything she said sound like music. I remember sitting in the kitchen with you, listening to her sing as she made empanadas, both of us just happy to be there and hoping to sneak one or two.”

Dulcinea laughed softly. Hazel continued. “She was always singing, smiling. She was the most beautiful woman on the ranch, and your father was madly in love with her. They used to walk around the pasture at dusk, holding hands and watching the stars come out.”

“Your mother … you look a lot like her.” Hazel took a breath. “You have her hair. It was always so soft and long. She used to let us brush it at night, after your father died.”

“Did you miss me?” Dulcinea asked, then blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …”

“Of course I did. I wouldn’t come looking for you if I didn’t.” Hazel smiled. She owed the girl a debt, for what her family did to her and her mother. It was more than forcing them to flee, it was forcing them to flee in the middle of monster territory.

“What are you doing here?” A woman’s voice intruded.

Hazel looked up to see a pale woman standing in the hallway. She stood, her hand going to her guns. The woman advanced down the stairs. Her skin was deathly pale, and she wore a nightgown even though it was well past noon. “Who are you? Get away from her!”

“Sarah, it’s all right. She’s my friend.” Dulcinea moved so she stood between Hazel and the woman. “We were just catching up.”

Another woman came down the stairs behind Sarah. They could have been twins. “Get away from her, Dulcinea. You don’t have any friends.”

“Rachel, it’s all right.” Dulcinea’s smile wavered.

In these parts, creatures like these women were called lloronas, foul creatures that preyed on the men of the Southwest. She had suspected when she heard of the curse ailing Cibola, but there was nothing like confirmation staring you in the face to get the blood boiling.

She unsnapped her holster and eased one of her Schofields out with her left hand. Juan had disappeared into the kitchen, and Dulcinea should have as well. If she needed to, Hazel could push Dulcinea out of the way and bear down on the two lloronas.

“Dulcinea.” Hazel pitched her voice low, even though she knew that the creatures could hear her. “You need to get out of here. Get into the sunlight.”

“But, this is Sarah.” Dulcinea turned to Hazel. “Sarah and Rachel are my guardians.”

“Go!” Hazel shoved Dulcinea out of the way. The girl gasped and stumbled. Sarah lunged down the stairs toward them. Claws grew from the woman’s fingers as she slashed at Dulcinea. Hazel blocked and pushed Dulcinea further toward the door. The llorona’s claws skittered across Hazel’s exoskeleton, tearing gashes in her leather duster.

“Monster hunter!” Rachel spit. Fangs distorted the woman’s mouth as she made a grab for Dulcinea. The girl screamed and tried to scramble out of the way. Hazel didn’t have a good shot, not with the girl dithering about. Instead, she swung the butt of her Schofield into Rachel’s nose with a crunch. The creature snarled and spit again. Black viscous blood spattered across Hazel’s duster, sizzling where it struck.

She couldn’t take on both of them and keep Dulcinea safe at the same time. Growling in frustration, Hazel holstered her gun and pushed the girl toward the swinging doors. Sunlight would protect them. She could come back for the monsters later.

Stumbling into the blinding sunlight, Hazel pushed Dulcinea forward until they were free of any shadows. Tied by the entrance to the saloon, Rocinante stomped dangerously. Hazel pulled her guns and pointed them at the dark entrance of the saloon.

Dulcinea bit back a scream and pointed down the street. Looking, Hazel cursed softly but vehemently.

Dead miners shambled down the street toward them, still clothed in their funeral best.

“Come on.” Hazel grabbed the girl’s wrist and dragged her to Rocainte. She felt more than saw Dulcinea’s gaze on her arm, on the metal of her armor.

Letting go of Dulcinea’s hand, Hazel took hold of the reins and murmured to the stallion as he fussed. Reluctantly, Rocinante knelt before them. Glancing back down the street, she mounted quickly, flashing metal in the sunlight. Dulcinea stepped back, her eyes on Rocinante’s hooves. Hazel held a hand down to her. “Get on and hold tight.”

She yanked Dulcinea off the street as the massive horse stomped, baring his teeth when he saw the creatures. Hazel smiled and murmured, “All right, Rocinante. Let’s go.”

The once-men turned toward them, sniffing the air. Hazel called over her shoulder, “It’ll only be a moment before they catch wind of us. We will outrun them for now, but their mistresses will join them at nightfall.”

She felt Dulcinea’s grip tighten around her waist as Rocinante tensed and charged. The immense horse barreled down the main street toward the once-men. The last time Hazel had fought creatures like this, they had swarmed at the slightest motion. Rocinante could outrun them, but only if they got through the horde first.

Behind her, Dulcinea hummed a song that tickled the back of Hazel’s memory. Rocinante seemed to feel something from it, his charge became smoother, his strides longer. He barreled into the once-men, trampling them as Hazel fended off their grasping hands. Fingers turned to talons by death grasped and grabbed, trying to find purchase on Hazel’s duster.

Dulcinea shrieked. Hazel glanced back. One of the creatures grabbed her skirt, winding its talons into the folds. Flicking her wrist to extend the knife in her armor, she twisted in the saddle and cut through Dulcinea’s skirt. The girl gasped and flinched, but the once-man fell back, the scrap of cloth clutched in its hand.