THE WORK OF A MURDERER

THE WORK OF A MURDERER

chapter 6

I

—

Perhaps the moon was mourning. Lamenting the fact that it was such a beautiful moonlit night. Wondering why humans were always killing one another. But the moon’s grief was somewhat misdirected. The eleven shadowy figures now dashing across the wilderness couldn’t be called human. Each had eyes tinged blood red, and from between lips twisted in deadly rapture there poked ferocious fangs—fangs that gnashed, showing just how these men trembled with expectations of blood and slaughter. They had no need for horses. Their legs carried them three times as fast as they had when they were human, and they never tired. Those crimson eyes could see through the darkness of night as if it were midday.

The saplings and high grass ahead of them swayed with the night breeze. They were about to leap over them without the slightest hesitation when everyone halted ten feet shy. That they came to a dead stop without even breaking form was testament to their amazing new physical prowess. There wasn’t even a sound when their feet hit the ground.

All eyes turned in unison to the front of the pack. Their run had been cut short by an object that had rolled out in front of them. A skull.

Who threw that?

Their eyes shot to the bushes. At that instant, there was the sound of something else landing behind the brush. Not surprisingly, it was another skull, pale in their night vision.

All eleven saw the same thing simultaneously—a stark pillar of flame reaching up into the heavens behind the bushes. After a second, they leaped back, recognizing the white pillar for what it was. It wasn’t there. There were no flames, no fiery column. All there was at present was something that caused icy-cold beads of sweat to form on the brows of the eleven men—an eerie aura that was not of this world.

“I’ll be damned,” Toma murmured. “I remember this place. I should’ve finished you off so that you’d never have to hear the song of the dead a second time. No, I don’t suppose stabbing you once more would be any different, would it?”

“Let’s go, boss,” one of them cried. It was Sumatro. A deadly automatic rifle stretched from his right hand.

The men said nothing, their stunned faces turning to Toma as one. They’d expected him to instantly give them the command to move out.

“Let’s roll!” one of them urged testily.

Just then, they heard the exquisite voice of the darkness, filled with inhuman ecstasy, coming from beyond the bushes. “Come,” it said.

“D,” Sumatro groaned as if his mouth were gnawing on the inky blackness.

“D,” Dacia said, the darkness he bit off staining his teeth.

“D,” someone else said.

“D!”

“D!”

“D!”

But how did they all know that name?

Though they knew who it was, the shadowy figure in the bushes remained melded with the darkness.

“Boss?” Sumatro said in a voice choked with the terror of someone who’d realized the truth.

Toma was frightened. A fear beyond mortal ken clearly clung to his hardened features. What was he afraid of? Wasn’t the Nobility just another name for the rulers of the night? Fear not; the night is your world!

A change came over his face. Little by little, his lips twisted into a new shape. A smile. He jabbed a misshapen finger in the direction of the bushes. “Go!” he yelled, as if he himself were leading the charge.

Sumatro pulled the trigger. A fireball exploded in the darkness—a bullet from a gun that would never miss again.

“Go!”

Six of the men charged into the brush, the wind swirling in their wake. Their palpable lust for slaughter rapidly moved forward—then vanished unexpectedly.

Toma’s face froze, as if at the bidding of the darkness. What had awaited them? Was this stillness their fate? There was no echo of blade against blade, no shots ringing out, just the moonlight. No, something else drifted through the night. Toma sniffed at the air.

“The smell of blood,” he said, his voice quavering. His shoulders, his head, his entire body also trembled faintly but quickly. Bones cracked in his tightly balled fist. “Blood! Blood! Blood! How many died? Tell me that, D!”

The darkness kept its silence.

“Boss?” one of remaining men inquired. “Should we, uh, go?”

He shook his head. “What a fine stench.”

“Huh?” the man said, unable to understand his superior, who gazed raptly up at the moon.

“Don’t you think so? The blood is life. And life is sweet. The founts of life for half a dozen men—ah, I was right to send them in there.”

Bewildered, his underling stammered, “Boss . . . you mean to tell me . . . you purposely sent them to . . .”

Toma called into the bushes, “You can hear me, can’t you, D? I’m going to fight you again now. But I must rise to the occasion. Kindly return the corpses of the six men you cut down—those fresh, still-dripping dead.” He extended both arms, beseeching his unseen foe.

“Boss?” The underling aimed the long spear he carried at Toma. “How could you? Those were our guys—and my kid brother!”

Toma stared back at the man’s face, ablaze with murderous intent. “Get that spear up!” he told him.

“What?”

“Everyone, spears up! If you don’t have one, raise your guns. Point your swords to the sky!”

Something threw a shadow across the moon. It was said there were canals on the lunar surface dug by the Nobility. As if hurled from those same canals, a black form sailed through the air, impaled without warning on an underling’s long spear. Another man had a long spear. Two others had rifles. Three corpses fell, skewered on them as if by magic.

Toma drew both his swords. Bodies fell on each of them, too. The last deliveries from the heavens were Sumatro and Dacia. As if testing the weight of the dead, Toma thrust both arms toward the sky with all his strength.

“Oh, they don’t have heads,” he practically moaned.

The air instantly grew dense.

“What the—”

Perhaps he’d been standing there all along. It didn’t seem strange that a figure of otherworldly beauty stood in front of the bushes. A man that gorgeous could work miracles. He moved forward smoothly.

The outlaws couldn’t fathom what was about to occur; perhaps their newfound immortality made them complacent. Before they could knock the corpses from their weapons, they saw gleams of light sinking into their own chests.

Without a glance at the falling dead and their crumbling remains, the death dealer in black walked toward Toma.

“Take that!”

Toma swung both arms down. The corpses flew from his swords and struck the approaching figure in the chest and hip but bounced off him. At the same time, Toma was sent flying. Crashing into a stand of trees fifteen feet away, he came to a halt. A heavy object slammed into his stomach. When it fell to the ground, he saw that it was Dacia’s severed head.

Catching his breath, Toma jumped back, but at that instant a sword blade slashed deep into the nape of his neck. Falling over clumsily, he struggled desperately to his feet. The shadowy figure was bearing down on him like a great mountain, his sword raised to strike. The squeal the outlaw let out as he prepared to parry the blow was one of terror.

The figure swung his one sword down at the two the leader held over his head. A clang rang out. The sword was stopped—but only for a heartbeat. The steel of Toma’s two blades shattered easily, and his head split in two. As the outlaw leader sank limply, the blade that had just been pulled from him made a ruthless thrust into his chest.

Look at me, D. Look at the expression of supreme bliss I wear! the leader thought briefly, and then he was swallowed by the darkness.

A breeze blew by as if to appease the incredible silence of the moonlight.

“I’m at a loss for words,” said the hoarse voice that rose from the death-strewn wastes. “It took me a full day to regenerate. Did being dead that long make you this crazy? Or was the problem that as soon as you came back to life, all these wannabe Nobles came along, stinking of blood? Whatever it was, you sure let loose on them! If I had to choose one word to describe it, it would be brutal.”

The shadowy figure said nothing as he sheathed his sword. The mysterious emptiness that came to the victor at the battle’s end coiled mercilessly around the young man.

“At any rate, the threat to the village of Geneve is gone. Without their leader, they’re just a flock of crows. They couldn’t make it a thousand yards before scattering to the four winds. I think we can call this a job well done—huh?” the source of the voice exclaimed, noticing that D hadn’t taken his hand from the hilt of the weapon he’d sheathed. “What is it? Are there stragglers, or some kind of monster?”

D made no reply, remaining poised for deadly action, but before long he brought his hand away from his weapon, saying, “Let’s go.”

Once he began walking, there was no further hesitation. Never looking back, the elegant silhouette melted into the darkness.

And then in a section of the wilderness where death alone lay, the moonlight shone down and the wind blew in feeble sobs. Time passed, irrespective of death, and when a presence appeared, it seemed to come from the same stream of time. It had no form, no color; it was merely a presence, so tremendously large it covered the wilderness, driving the darkness mad and making the moonlight sing a requiem for the dead. The presence seemed to creep over to Toma’s remains.

Do you want to live? it seemed to ask.

There was immediately a response. No . . . not anymore. Please, just leave me at rest.

Fine. I’ll make you live. Live as a true Noble.

That was all there was to it.

From Toma’s left eye, a single crimson thread slowly began to rise into the air. On closer inspection, the same threads rose from all the corpses that lay there, tingeing the moonlight with red.

This is the thread of life, unknown to all. All that remains is to tie it once more, the presence chanted in the void. This isn’t over yet, D!

—

II

—

“Old man!” someone called to him. In the dark cloud of his besotted consciousness, the cry spread like a liquid, forming a crack from which the voice issued. “Wake up, old man. It’s me!”

Old Man Roskingpan used his hand to pry open his crusty lids. His eyes were bloodshot from drinking. The old man lived in a house that stood alone on the western edge of the village. Though he frequently went out, no one really came to see him. These days, he couldn’t even recall the faces of the wife and child he’d lost to a mountain tsunami years earlier. He’d also forgotten how he’d burned the photograph that sat on his desk, because it caused him nothing but pain. As he looked all around, he thought that he must’ve been dreaming.

“The window, old man,” the voice seemed to whisper in his ear, and as he was turning to look, pain shot through his neck and shoulder. The aches raced all the way down to his waist. Though everything else was growing fuzzy, this alone grew sharper with the passing years.

“Who the hell is it? At this hour, of all things . . .”

It took him thirty seconds just to turn toward the window. Aside from a sole burning candle, the room was completely dark. Someone’s face was pressed against the window, with its black panes of glass and white frame.

“You . . . You’re that hired gun . . . Gil, was it?”

“That’s right. Let me in.”

“What brings you out here? State your business.”

The sieve that was his memory still retained bits and pieces of the incident he’d become involved in the previous night, as well as the fact that this giant of a man was one of the three mercenaries who’d gone off with D on a demolition mission. As far as Roskingpan knew, the four of them hadn’t come back.

“I brought some medicine that’ll fix what ails you, old man.”

It was quite a distance from the bed to the window. Yet the old man’s brain found nothing peculiar about how clearly he could make out the words of someone speaking in a low voice through thick glass.

“What ails me? Ain’t got no such problems.”

“I’m sure every muscle in your body aches,” the mercenary said. “Even the littlest movement makes it feel like you’re coming apart at the shoulders, elbows, and knees, right? Your eyes don’t see so well, hands and feet don’t move as nimbly as you’d like—that’s what I’d say ails you.”

There was no denying that he’d drunk at the saloon with the mercenary two or three times, but the old man still didn’t understand why he’d come there in the middle of the night to talk to him. “Well, as far as that stuff goes, just wait; you’ll get there someday, too. If you came out here to make fun of me, you can go right on back.”

“No, I can fix you.”

It took a few seconds for the old man to ask, “What? Stop yanking my chain!”

“I’m not joking with you. Let me in and see for yourself. I’m not gonna do anything. I don’t figure an old-timer like you has a bunch of money stashed, so I’ve got no reason to try anything, do I? In another couple of hours, I’ve gotta leave the village. Figured the least I could do was help you out a little.”

Staring for a while at the enormous face barely illuminated by the candlelight, the old man got out of bed. The motion was enough to make his back hurt, with jolts shooting down his spine. The taste of booze lingered in his mouth. It was on account of the alcohol that he decided to accept the implausible explanation for the mercenary’s visit.

It took quite a while to walk over to the door, where he undid the bolt. He was terribly short of breath. But Roskingpan didn’t have to do anything further. The door opened from the other side, and the huge form came in, along with a black wind.

“I have to be invited in first,” Gil muttered, oddly enough, looking down at the old man. His eyes were giving off a red glow.

“But you’re . . .” the old man murmured, backing away at the sight of the fangs that poked from between the man’s thick lips. “No . . . Don’t tell me you’re . . .”

“See, while two of my buddies were causing a commotion, I came over the west wall. There’s a spot that’s not too tough to climb. Of course, the way I am now, no wall’s gonna stop me any more than a bank of clouds would.” Leering at the terrified old man, Gil said, “I was lying when I said I was leaving soon. That bit about wanting to help you was bullshit, too. But don’t worry none. I’ll keep my promise. In return, I need a little help from you. Okay? I’m counting on you.”

The old man finally realized that the tales he’d heard countless times since childhood, each time with an admonishment, were talking about precisely what was happening to him now. Pointing to the chair beside him, he said, “Okay. Have a seat, then.”

—

It was nearly noon of the next day when D returned. Permitted entry to the village after a strict check, he told the people assembled there that all of the enemy’s long-range ordnance had been destroyed.

“I knew we could count on you,” Rust said, eyes agleam.

“What about the mercenaries?” the Hunter asked him.

With a dour face, Rust related the previous night’s unholy battle from start to finish.

“Did you look for Gil?” D asked.

“We’ve been searching for him since last night.”

Nodding, D said, “It’s probably safe to assume he’s already slipped in. Be on the lookout for any villagers acting suspiciously, too. He’ll need somewhere to hide.”

“We’re already looking into that,” Lyra interjected from where she stood beside Rust.

“Well, that’s just dandy—you’re like a grown-up man with her help, eh?” a hoarse voice said suddenly. Rather than getting angry, they all looked at D with bulging eyes.

“There’s something we need to discuss,” D said to Rust.

“Sure thing. I have to go tell the mayor what you accomplished. Wait for me back at my office.”

Rust raced off in his skeleton vehicle, leaving Lyra behind.

As the Hunter headed toward the office down a road where the scent of grass and the smell of earth wafted by, the hoarse voice inquired in a reproachful tone, “Why didn’t you tell them you took out the enemy’s leader?”

“Just a hunch.”

“A hunch?”

“I slew him. But I get the feeling he hasn’t been destroyed yet.”

“That’s preposterous. He’s already rotting away! There’s only one person with the power to come back from that.”

Nothing from the Hunter except a meaningful look.

“Hey, are you serious? But I didn’t sense anything!”

“It’s just a hunch.”

“Well, if he gets involved, when that guy rises from the dead he’ll be just like a Noble. You think it’ll be just the leader?”

D didn’t answer.

“It might be that we’ve ended up throwing gasoline on the fire. What’ll you do?”

Again, there was no reply.

“Against ten Nobles, this village’s defenses would be like thin air. Even you’d be in danger.”

Once the figure of unearthly beauty had walked out of their field of view, the villagers let the tension drop from their shoulders at last.

“When I see a looker like him, suddenly I don’t give a crap about outlaws or this village or anything.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Folks better keep their wives and daughters locked indoors!”

“That reminds me, it was about this time last year Belgo’s wife disappeared, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” another man said, pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. “I wonder whatever became of Tajina’s daughter and old Mrs. Colbecky’s husband.”

“That stud of a drifter probably came to town and got ’em to leave with him before anyone was wise to him.”

“No doubt,” said another, and they all laughed at the man’s joke, but then the air grew uncomfortable and they held their tongues.

Apparently trying to make amends, the man who’d joked about it said, “Though that guy could probably find them, eh?” He grinned at the others, but they all looked away.

Finally, one of them said, “When the outlaws get here, all hell’s gonna break loose. Anyone goes missing then, and they’ll never be found, just like those others. We’d all better stay on our toes, okay?”

Nodding at that, the members of the group dispersed to return to their respective posts.

The man who’d made the joke halted and watched the others go. “Now I’ve heard it all. You guys haven’t been on your toes a day in your lives,” he said, grinning and reaching around to pat the back of his waistband. What he really wanted to do was pull the blade out and lick it. “It doesn’t matter how many people disappear; they’ll never get it through their thick heads.”

The man was Billy.

—

Rust was adamantly opposed to D’s suggestion that all the villagers gather in one place while they dispensed with the Black Death gang. It was an hour after D’s return, and they were back at the sheriff’s office. The mayor, Sheryl, and even Odama were present as well.

“The women and children I can understand. But I can’t figure why you’d send men there who could contribute to the fight. Even without their missiles and laser, the enemy will be strong with a pseudo Noble to lead them. We’ll need every combatant we can get.”

The expression Rust had used, “pseudo Noble,” was synonymous with “pseudo vampire.” Different people preferred one term or the other.

“They won’t be attacking the same way,” said D.

“What do you mean by that?” Lyra inquired in a low voice.

Suddenly, D’s voice changed. In a hoarse tone, he said, “I’ve been keeping quiet about this so as not to cause undue alarm, but most of the enemy have been turned into pseudo Nobles.”

The room became an icebox.

Squeezing his left hand closed, D said with a certain resignation, “This is unverified, as I only saw him from a distance, but there’s a chance their leader possesses the same power as a true Noble.”

“The real thing?” the sheriff said in a dazed tone no one there had heard him use before.

“No, if he’s not a pure Noble, he’d have to be the same as all the other second-rate wannabes,” Lyra said, shaking her head. Resolutely, she added, “We’ve got any number of ways to deal with him. D, are you sure about what you just said?”

“Nope,” the hoarse voice responded.

“Cut the comedy with the ventriloquist act. That crummy little voice doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m certain,” D assured her.

Furrowing her brow, Lyra said, “If that’s the case, then the enemy—”

“They’ll probably scale the wall under cover of darkness. All they’ll have to do is jump over it.”

“Once they’re inside, it’s hopeless,” the hoarse voice said, seeming to bait Lyra.

The mayor nipped that in the bud, asking, “What do you make of this, Sheriff?”

“I’m with him. Against one pseudo Noble we’d have been okay, but even five would be more than our present defenses could keep out. And once they’re inside, they’ll be tough to hit. Add to that a real Noble, or a vampire of comparable strength to one, and it’d be impossible to stop them.”

“You’re worthless!” Deputy Mayor Odama barked, slamming his fist down on the table. Huffing and puffing, he continued, “Mr. Mayor, the villagers and I will hold you strictly accountable for hiring this incompetent as our sheriff. I feel I should demand a recall election for both of you, right here and now.”

“And you’d take control of everything?” Lyra said.

Something in the way she said it made the deputy mayor redirect his insolence at her. “Take control? No, be in control? If that’s what you meant, come out and say it. It’s simply that—”

There was a click from Lyra’s left hand. It was the sound of a hammer being cocked. A tiny pistol was pressed against Odama’s temple. Of modest caliber, it was small enough to conceal in the palm of her hand.

—

III

—

“This is what they call a derringer. She’s a cute little gal, but when she shows her teeth, even the big men fall for her.”

“You . . . You miserable bitch . . . A lowly drifter like you . . . turning on your employers . . .”

“I’m a sheriff’s deputy now. Do I have to make your earlobe go the way of your nose to teach you to watch your mouth?”

“Stop it,” Rust told her, but Lyra simply pressed the derringer even harder. Odama cried out in pain.

“Okay, go ahead and tell us who’s in charge. But you’d better make it quick. And if you go back on your word once this is all over, I’ll blow your head off on the spot.”

“That’s enough, Lyra,” the mayor told her gruffly. “He, like you and us, still has a lot to do, both in our present emergency and beyond. We’ll need a man like Mr. Odama.”

“Him! I didn’t know pissants whose only talent was for complaining were in short supply.” Pulling the derringer away, Lyra uncocked the hammer and gave her left wrist a flick. The weapon vanished.

As he mopped at his sweat, Odama glared at the warrior woman, but he couldn’t say a word.

“Getting back to the topic at hand, Mr. Mayor,” Rust said, “if what D says is true, I’d have to retract my earlier statement. We’ll have no choice but to assemble the villagers in one place while we take care of the attacking Noble and the fakes.”

“What do you intend to do if they launch an attack? Pseudo vampires can turn those they bite into more pseudo vampires. Can you protect the whole village with just twenty mercenaries?”

“Seventeen. But it’d probably be impossible even with two hundred.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Sheryl asked, hugging her father’s briefcase close.

“Go out and hit them again before they get here.”

Everyone stared at D.

“The enemy will probably be expecting that, and there’s no denying it’s reckless. I’ll go out alone.”

“Just a second, there—didn’t it take you a full day to get back here because you were injured? There’s no way you can head right back out there. And no way in hell would you be doing it alone. There are plenty of people from the village we could spare for a special strike force, but you’re critical to our cause!”

“That’s right,” Rust said, nodding. “You’re the one person we can’t afford to lose. Plus, I want your help in tracking down Gil. To be honest, I sorely regret letting you go out last time.”

“Well, of course you do,” a hoarse voice remarked.

But that comment was lost beneath a more dignified voice asking, “Do you have a detailed map of the village?”

“To search for Gil? We’d really appreciate that.”

D spread out the map the lawman immediately produced, while Rust began to explain, “As it stands, the areas we’ve already checked are—”

“If you’ve missed him, it’s the same as if they were never checked at all,” the Hunter stated flatly. “I’ll handle it personally.”

According to the map, the search was being made starting at the walls and sweeping in toward the center of the village.

Running his eyes over the houses that were checked off in red, D said, “Which of these houses belong to someone over the age of seventy, or someone younger who has a grave medical condition or an incurable disease?”

“What are you driving at?” Lyra asked skeptically.

“If you were on your deathbed and someone promised to make you better in exchange for harboring them, what would you do? What if they told you they could cure you of every sickness and stop the effects of aging?”

“I see. That’s just the sort of thing a Noble would do,” the mayor conceded with a solemn nod. “Yes, indeed.”

Everyone was staring at him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Sheryl, how old is the mayor?” Lyra inquired. The warrior wasn’t one to mince words.

“I’m sixty-eight,” the mayor replied.

Lyra gazed at his secretary.

“He’s seventy,” she said, and though he was her own father, there was no helping the stern look in her eye. The threat they faced was the Nobility, after all.

—

There were twenty-three houses meeting D’s criteria, and a total of fifty-nine occupants. After gathering them all in front of the sheriff’s office, D began to question them. The sun had already set.

Because of the danger they would be in if the enemy decided to strike, Lyra and Rust both had to leave the room. Still concerned, Lyra peeked in through the window to see D asking the elderly villagers to have a seat one at a time, gazing intently at each one’s face. The Hunter was so handsome; just peeking in at him made Lyra feel dizzy. The cheeks of the withered old men and women flushed when D peered at their faces. He then asked them two or three questions, which the elderly villagers answered with dazed expressions. Lyra knew what all the questions and answers were, since she could read lips.

D asked, “Did anyone come to see you last night and ask you to hide them?”

Each of the elderly or infirm villagers answered, “No.”

It went quickly. The questioning that began at dusk was finished in an hour and a half. And it took that long only because some of them arrived late.

There still remained eight people who were bedridden and couldn’t come.

“Why not do it tomorrow?” Lyra suggested.

“Because they won’t wait,” D replied, exiting the sheriff’s office.

Just then, one of the villagers on patrol duty came running in, his face pale. “Sheryl’s been attacked!” he announced in a shrill voice.

—

Sheryl had been taken to the village medical center.

Needing to verify some things for a reply that was due by the following day regarding trade negotiations to be held with the Capital the following month, she’d gone out after her father, who was doing an inspection of the village with Rust. The mayor and the others were supposed to be back at the sheriff’s office in another thirty minutes. According to the town hall worker who’d discovered her, Sheryl had declined the guard other workers tried to assign her and gone out alone. Still believing her to be in danger, the same worker had then followed, finding her lying flat on her back in the middle of the street not fifty yards from the town hall.

Sheryl’s face was strangely pale and had the eyes of a corpse, and the group that formed around her was speechless.

“This was no coincidence, was it?” Lyra said.

Rust, who’d rushed there a little later than everyone else, conceded, “No, probably not. It’s a ploy to throw us into a panic.”

“Mr. Mayor, just what do you intend to do?” Deputy Mayor Odama inquired triumphantly. “We can’t allow anyone who’s been bitten by a Noble to remain within our defensive perimeter—not even Sheryl. It would mean diverting essential personnel to keep watch over her, and we have no guarantee she wouldn’t attack them too.”

“I know,” the mayor answered with resolve. There wasn’t a trace of remorse to be seen in him. “Sheryl’s to be transferred to the quarantine facility to the west. I’ll leave the rest to the sheriff.”

No one voiced any objection. The correct course of action was laid out for just such cases as this. They all recognized that the deputy mayor was justified in what he said, and the mayor’s instructions were appropriate.

With a toss of his chin, Rust indicated that D should join him in the neighboring sickroom. It was vacant.

“Do you know who did it?” Rust asked D. He’d seen D place his left hand against the pair of fang marks on Sheryl’s neck. He had a hunch about what the Hunter had been doing.

“It was the work of someone bitten by a pseudo Noble. Gil, most likely.”

“Wow, you can tell that much? Did you get a location for him?”

“Don’t ask for the moon.”

Slapping his hand to his forehead, Rust said, “You’re right. We need to hunt him down as fast as we can. In the meantime—” He cut himself off without mentioning the need to escort Sheryl into quarantine.

The lawman was just about to leave when D told him, “Hold on. Where can I find the village laws in writing?”

“Pretty much anywhere—see, there’s a copy right there.”

Eyeing the thick volume bound in black leather wedged into the bookshelf, D asked, “Have you read the whole thing?”

“Well, all the parts that are still pertinent.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“For what?”

Saying nothing, D went over to the bookshelf, took the volume in question, flipped through all its pages, and then returned with it tucked under one arm. Ignoring Rust, he stepped out of the room. When he returned, he had the mayor and the others with him. Before the skeptical group he thumbed through the regulations, saying, “There’s no need to banish your secretary.”

Everyone’s eyes widened.

“How can you know that?” Odama suddenly snapped at him.

“Because Sheryl was drained of blood. And Gil was bitten by a pseudo Noble. And it’s all in your regulations, in the most basic laws, codified when the village was established and still in force today.” D pointed a finger at the page. “It’s in the oldest laws, article four, paragraph eight.”

Tapping the passage in question with his finger, the Hunter slid the thick tome down the table, and it stopped in front of Odama. Furrowing his brow with suspicion, the deputy mayor ran his eyes across the page. A look of astonishment twisted his pudgy face.

“Read it,” D told him, his low voice reverberating in the silence of the sickroom.

After some hesitation, Odama picked up the volume, scanned it once more, and began to speak. “Article four: On the handling of victims of the Nobility. Paragraph eight: When a surviving victim of a Noble’s bite perpetrates the same act on another, the banishment of the latter victim is prohibited. That’s all it says.”

The mayor broke into a smile. “We have our predecessors to thank, Odama!”

“No, not so fast, Mr. Mayor!” Odama shouted, pointing at D. “How do we know it was the victim of a pseudo Noble who got Sheryl? Who can prove to me that this man isn’t a colossal liar and a cheat—aaaah!”

D’s left hand had latched onto the wrist of the hand the deputy mayor had extended. To all appearances, he held it lightly and gently—yet the deputy mayor was unable to move a muscle.

“Come with me,” D said, leading the flabbergasted man back into Sheryl’s room. The physician on duty greeted them with an odd look. Taking the hand of the speechless deputy mayor, D pressed it to Sheryl’s wounds.

One second passed and became two.

The deputy mayor’s entire face suddenly relaxed. Looking as if he’d just been exorcised of a demon, he looked at Sheryl and D, confessing in a dazed tone, “Yes, I see. The culprit was exactly as described in that article just now. My apologies. Also, the killers who attacked the mayor at the stables were working for me.”

The physician gasped.

Shock clung to the deputy mayor’s face. Bowing his head to the mayor, who stood by the door, he stepped out as if to escape D’s grasp.

No one bothered to ask what’d happened. On the Frontier, they learned to keep quiet and accept it when a miracle occurred.

“I’ll go around and check out the rest of them,” D said, turning to leave.

“Hey!” Rust called to him. “Was that some new kind of hypnotism you just used? And another thing—were you able to memorize all those rules and regulations just by flipping through the pages?”

D said nothing.

“Oh, one thing more. How’d you happen to notice what that particular article was about? For a second there, I thought you might’ve written it.”

“I watched it being written.”

“What?” That must have been fifty years earlier. Rust was stunned, but then he remembered something. “Oh, that’s right . . . You’re a dhampir, aren’t you?”

D turned away again and started walking. He simply shut them out. It probably didn’t matter to the Hunter anyway.

“He’s a hell of a man, isn’t he?” Lyra exclaimed. “All those good looks . . . and apparently everything else about him is just as incredible.”

“You can say that again,” Rust concurred.

At this point, the mayor said, “He’s so damned handsome, I forgot to thank him.”

“Well, we have to be heading out on patrol,” Rust told him, and he and Lyra walked away. After going about a dozen paces, they turned and looked.

The mayor had both hands straight by his sides and his head bowed low with respect.