The Empty (3 page)

The Siberian night was cold and harsh, with bitter winds that sliced through the flesh, and a deepening snow that made movement cumbersome and wearying. They spent the first night beneath the roots of a large tree that had been partially uprooted in some time past. The tree base, angled like a shed as the massive trunk leaned against adjacent trees and offered some small protection from the elements. The hole, left where it had stood, hid them from scouts searching for escapees such as themselves. It was a miserable night with Dolnaraq weeping for his dead father and for his mother, who by now had likely been dragged across the cold hard ground by some lusty molt. Dolnaraq was as bitter as the Siberian freeze.

Tresset had surely lost family as well. No, he had not physically witnessed his father’s death, but surely the event had occurred. The forces of the northern pack had been too fierce, too well organized for any to have survived. And as for his mother—one of his father’s numerous mates—well, she would have done to her what all females had done to them. As such, she would certainly soon bear Tresset a new brother or sister—only this pup, he would never know. Such was the way of the world. There was, he must admit, some small pang for the female. She had defended Tresset against his older brother—a pup born of another female—and had eventually driven the older one off when he’d become too cruel to the slight and fragile Tresset. She’d tended to her pup’s every need, and given freely of herself.

These thoughts of family lost did not occupy his mind, nor did he ponder his own dilemma—that he and Dolnaraq were now on their own, responsible for their own survival in this harsh, bitter land. No, what drove Tresset’s psyche were the scenes of battle. The strategy. The quick, decisive attack. The flanking molts. The way the northern pack had descended as if from nowhere, forcing his people into indefensible positions. There was a genius in the assault, a subtlety even within the fierce, grotesque brutality of it all. Tresset wished he could talk with their chieftain, sit beside him, learn of his strategy, and absorb his skill and ingenuity. This meeting was never to be. Tresset would eventually learn strategy, but the path was one he could not have yet imagined on that harsh, miserable night.

* * * *

Tresset led as the two reyaqc pups took to moving about the wooded lands of the Siberian wilderness, avoiding other reyaqc packs for fear they’d be seen as spies and executed on sight. Though the younger Dolnaraq often complained of proximity to the troublesome humans, Tresset made sure they always stayed within a two day’s walk of human settlements as there was the ongoing need for essence. It was his duty, after all, to look after his younger, more timid companion.

Dolnaraq continued to draw from foxes as well as human beings, and with each infusion, became less the freak and more the molt he had dreamed of becoming. Tresset became a molt as well, choosing the fierce mountain cats as his sustaining species. On occasion they came upon one of the wandering gypsy tribes that dotted the region in the early nineteen hundreds. Some of these clans were most receptive, having lodged reyaqc gypsies before, while other groups cursed them as werewolves or vampires, chasing them off with torches and shotguns. Neither of the pups cared much for these foul-smelling humans, but living briefly with a traveling clan offered a respite from the continuous grind to survive. It also gave Tresset a chance to question humans and learn of wars and strategies previously unknown.

In this manner they moved about Eastern Europe, from Siberia to Belarus, through Poland, and eventually into Germany, traveling about the northern parameter near the Baltic Sea, nearing cities and towns such as Rostock, Lubeck, and Kiel. This time was a transitional one for the humans, a time of growing industrialization and of political unrest, but the two young reyaqc cared little of this. They were not of the people. They were of themselves alone. None else mattered.

One night, as they hunted the streets of a tiny German village, the two decided to split one from the other. This was not uncommon. Nearly naked, and resembling beasts as much as they did men, they were prone to draw attention. At least separately they were less obvious, able to blend into the surroundings, to flee with no concern for the other. As well, should one be captured or injured, the other would still be free to initiate rescue. This had been Tresset’s strategy. Even now that they had each seen over twenty winters, Tresset was still the strategist between them.

He moved through narrow alleyways, keeping low and to the shadows. Tresset was slight of frame and stature, yet lithe and agile, quick of movement to both strike and flee. There were two men ahead at an intersection. It was autumn of 1908, and both wore light overcoats and flannel caps to ward off the light drizzle and the seeping chill. They appeared to be in dispute. Tresset understood very little of the language, but their voices rose, each attempting to out-shout the other. They spat as they spoke and waved their arms in grand gestures of proclamation all the while reeking of the drink that inhibited their capacities. Tresset smelled the adrenaline surge and the alcohol seeping from their pores as each man struggled simply to remain upright. There were other smells as well—sewage and sex, meats and perfumes, horses and swine. All of the detestable odors of humanity. How foul they were, these “civilized” people.

Stuttering something about “Abigail’s honor,” the larger drunk took an off-balanced swing at his companion. The other sidestepped the clumsy blow, but tumbled to his rump nonetheless. The big one, apparently believing he’d knocked the man to the ground, proudly crossed his arms at his chest, smiled stupidly down upon the other, and spewed useless verbiage. The smaller man, still seated on the damp cobblestone, kicked his right foot from one side to the other, tripping his gloating companion and sending him tumbling down. They rolled about, wrestling and punching and cursing. Tresset spat at the humiliating display. Would he be forced to procure essence from these pathetic creatures? Was that his lot?

He supposed so. As dismal as these two might be, they were hidden away from the crowds, and in their current conditions, quite easy prey. As well, it had been nearly three weeks since Tresset had last received essence and he could feel the withering from within his limbs. His skin had become pale, nearly transparent, his features dull. Attack now, infuse the needed essence, then later, select another and then another, each with strong intellect and solid stature. Survive now. Thrive tomorrow.

Now, one of the drunks was on his knees, vomiting onto the deep red bricks, his belly retching, and his throat gagging as he expelled the foul contents of his stomach in violent, splattering surges. Tresset moved as quickly as a mountain cat, slashing this one across the neck with his short but lethal talons, mercifully eliminating his misery. Then, kicking him aside, he clutched the other in his hands, jerking him to an upright position, and glaring into the clouded and confused eyes. His face was puffy and unshaven, lined with the deepening crevasses of approaching age. His eyes were bloodshot, with lids hooded and droopy. His lips were large uneven flaps barely concealing rotted teeth. The human stared down at his companion as death throes caused the lifeless form to shudder and squirm in the rank pool of vomit and blood. The human winced as the bed of tiny hollow spines emerged from Tresset’s right palm, penetrating the back of his neck even into the core of his spine.

The electric tingle of essence raced through Tresset’s form, burning as it dispersed about his body. His vision blurred, becoming dark and red. His mind screamed a thousand different insanities as his muscles curled and cramped. The drunk shuddered and then vomited. Tresset pulled free of him, turning to stumble up the alleyway even as the now-unconscious man fell face-forward onto the unforgiving cobblestone, his two front teeth shattering upon impact.

The agonized molt fought for clarity of mind. This was the most dangerous time, just after the infusion, while he was disoriented and nearly incapacitated by his body’s sporadic acceptance and rejection of the new essence. Tresset lurched as he made his way around a corner, righted himself and then staggered forward. A gas streetlamp flickered, sending flittering shadows across the moist stone surface. Tresset fought nausea, vertigo. He steadied himself with a flattened palm against a tiny brick home. His stomach buckled. He slumped to his knees, retched a dry heave. Then, clutching an iron fence, Tresset pulled himself upright. He could not allow himself to succumb this close to the still-warm bodies. Until he’d recovered, distance was his greatest defense.

Sounds tickled his ears: laughter, giggling, a carriage drawing nearer. He heard the snort of a horse, and his glossy eyes perceived a lumbering form making its way up the uneven avenue. The recessed doorway of a small home was to his right. Tresset nearly fell into the tiny space, obscuring himself from the passersby. He considered rising again, but his body offered only sporadic quivers at his best efforts. His head lulled to one side, connecting with the hard stone wall beside him with a subtle
thunk
. It was only now, slumped and weakened, that he realized the drizzle had become a downpour. Tresset closed his eyes. Just a few moments. Just enough time to gather his bearings. Then he’d reunite with Dolnaraq and they could be away from this foul-smelling place.

* * * *

Tresset awoke the next morning. The fresh smell of moisture hung in the air. Despite the cleansing rain of the night before, he could still smell the man’s vomit on his chest. He snorted and gagged, wishing he could scour the skin from his own form. Blinking several times, he attempted to focus on his surroundings. It was early, the sun not yet inching above the eastern horizon. Few of the humans had yet to wander from their shelters. Tresset’s muscles were still cramped. His head throbbed and it was an effort to pull his vision into focus. He listened to the sounds of the village, his ears twitching at approaching voices—only three thus far, and a carriage, possibly two, beyond that, the unnatural sound of a motorcar far in the distance.

He rose, tripping on the still-damp cobblestone, and then angled his head first to one side and then the other, listening to the sharp clattering pops and cracks of his bones seeking alignment. He extended each leg individually, working out the knots. A wave of vertigo washed over him and he nearly stumbled. His muscles still twitched and his innards turned and retched. Something within the drunken man’s essence did not agree with his system. It wasn’t the alcohol. That foul substance which humans used to purposely muddle their own capacities was not held within essence, and therefore not transferred. No, this was something at a more basic level—an inherited defect or disease. Tresset would need to infuse again soon, attempt to dilute this one’s effect on the whole.

But first Dolnaraq.

It was nearly daylight and the two had yet to reconnect. Tresset sniffed the air, drew in the invisible particles floating about on the gentle breeze. All of the obvious odors were there—sewage, sweat, meat cooking, moss, livestock, decay. No Dolnaraq. The breeze was from the southeast. It was possible that Dolnaraq was downwind and thus obscured. But this made little sense. Downwind would mean Dolnaraq had spent the night in the heart of the village, for the forest was to the south. It would not make sense for the young molt to move north, deeper into the confines of humanity.

Tresset sniffed at the breeze, cocking his head, inhaling in quick, short snorts. His ears twitched at every sound. There was nothing on the air. No musky odor, no low growl or whispered message. No sense that Dolnaraq had been near to this place. Tresset staggered several steps up the rocky boulevard, moving northward, nose lifted to the breeze. Dolnaraq could not be far. The village was small. Surely Tresset would find him within minutes. Still, moving closer to the populace, especially in his weakened condition, seemed little wise in any strategic sense.

He paused, sniffed. His ears twitched. Voices. Panicked. Back from where he’d felled the drunks. Now doors opening and slamming shut. Racing footsteps. More shouts. The shrill sound of a metal whistle, then an authoritative voice barking commands. Additional voices. A female’s shriek. A gun cocking. Multiple footsteps spreading out in each direction. He had become the hunted.

Tresset glanced in each direction. To the right. The narrow alleyway. None had yet entered there. He turned to flee, but his legs were still weak. His movement was slow, awkward. He staggered through the trash-strewn alleyway. How foul these humans. A mangy canine emerged from between two structures. It growled and yapped until Tresset swiped at it with his talons, nearly missing the beast in his unbalanced state. But he did connect. Not a lethal strike, but a wounding one, enough to cause the small gray creature to scurry off with a terrified whimper.

There were footsteps and then shouts from immediately behind. “
Der
werwolf
. Werewolf.”

Tresset turned, growling deeply and baring his long sharp teeth. If they wanted werewolf, he could give them werewolf. In fact, it was often these myths that brought fear into the human limbs, weakening them, causing men to doubt their ability to slay this strange foe. They believed that only silver could kill the were-beast, and so frequently fled when in truth they had the means to fell the molt where he stood.

Tresset charged, not giving the humans enough time to logic through the situation. No guns had yet been raised, and no fool leader had yet mustered the courage or the wit to realize that they outnumbered Tresset seven to one. His movements were still slow and awkward, but the space was confined. In less than two second’s time he had clamped his jaw on the nearest man’s throat, thrashing from side to side as his teeth sunk deeper into the flesh. Then, in one fierce move, he jerked his head back in a splay of red and pink, nearly half of the man’s neck still hanging from between his clenched teeth.

Spitting the warm meat onto the street, Tresset swiped his talons, catching the nearest man across the left side of his pudgy round face. There were screams, shouts, curses, but no gunshots. The space was too close, the risk of striking their own too high. Tresset used the confusion to his advantage, growling like a beast, slashing, biting, not giving the mob a moment to organize. Already, two of the men fled, weeping like frightened females. They were cowards, but would draw the attention of others. Adrenaline surging, Tresset’s earlier weakness was forgotten. He bit another man directly in the face, leaving his ample nose hanging only by a thin thread of flesh. Tresset leapt over a fallen man, barreled into another, and sprinted out of the alley and around the nearest corner. He fled three buildings south and darted onto another avenue, then ran down yet another road, all the while moving toward the nearby forest.