THE KILLING GAME

CHAPTER 4

—

I

—

Twilight had begun to swaddle the woods at a fork in the gently snaking road.

Gently, the girl switched off an electric light patterned after an old-fashioned candelabra. Blue darkness flooded the interior. The day that was hers alone was ending, and the world that was both of theirs was beginning.

The girl liked the sound of the lid opening on the black coffin that lay in one corner of the vehicle. Before long, his hand appeared and pushed the lid away. He stood up and stretched once, as was his habit. And then, pulling a small chair over, he seated himself in front of the girl.

Thank you. That’s what he said. In appreciation of the fact she’d switched off the lights. He would never think of telling her she should’ve kept them on. Thank you. That was all.

The couple’s romance had begun in the woods in spring. The traveler’s carriage had struck the girl when she dashed out suddenly in pursuit of a bird, and the lone occupant had tended her wounds—hardly a unique story, but because the principal characters were a human and a Noble, it could only end in misery.

Sometimes, however, there were exceptions. The girl knew she was dealing with a Noble. And the Noble knew he was dealing with a human. Yet there was neither fear nor scorn between them. They simply fascinated each other.

Their walk through the woods was sweet. For once in her life, the girl didn’t fear the darkness. He’d been good enough to teach her. He’d shown her that the night, too, teemed with life.

The girl heard the flowing of a river. She saw the moonbeam fish leaping against the lunar disc. She smelled the perfume of night-blooming jasmine. She heard the poetry the wind recited, and a chorus of tiny, unseen frogs. The night was full of light, too—and he was unfailingly by her side.

He felt as she did. A heretic among the Nobility, he was one who didn’t consider humanity inferior. A baron who loved the day as well, but awaited his kind’s demise without ever having seen the light of the sun. Finally, he’d seen a goal, an end to his aimless wandering. The girl had given him that.

His travels had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Fleeing from villagers and Hunters hell-bent on killing Nobles, he’d crossed a brutally cold glacier. He’d raced through mountain trails whipped by howling, mad winds. All of which would’ve been fine if his journey had been for some purpose. Though on the road to extinction, his own destruction still lay a long way off.

And then he’d met the girl. A young lady flitting about a forest filled with living things, soaking up the light of midday. What did rank matter? So what if they were different species? They both knew who was important to them. That was all there was to it.

This chance meeting of day and night began with a gentle gaze and the bashful, tender joining of hands. The girl had just turned seventeen. He understood the hopes and fears in her heart. That being the case, couldn’t a Noble and a human possibly stay together? No, not in this world.

It was then he’d broached the subject. Would you go away with me?

The girl nodded. I’ll go anywhere. As long as I’m with you.

And then the two exchanged their first kiss. Devoid of lust for blood or the fear of being fed upon, it was a feverish kiss, but also a demure one.

Tragedy struck the following night. He burst into her home, unable to watch the beating the girl’s father gave her when he learned his daughter was going to run away. For the first time, this Noble, propelled by hatred, sucked a human’s blood. However, he failed to notice the father had a rare sort of constitution that reacted strangely to vampire attacks.

Whether a bitten human became a bloodthirsty creature like the Nobility or was left a mere mummy depended on the intent of the Noble that drained his or her blood. Though exceedingly rare, there were also some cases where what happened to the victim ran counter to the wishes of the vampire. A drained individual might be left as a human incredibly low on blood, refusing to change. And an emaciated man left to die of blood loss could come back as a vampire.

Everyone the girl’s father fed on had become the same sort of fiend with a single bite. Those he attacked sought new victims, and, in the course of a single night, the whole village was transformed into pseudo-Nobility. But the girl had been rendered unconscious by the intense beating she’d received. She had seen none of this.

When she awoke, her love’s gaze greeted her. And that’s how their journey began. Their journey to the Claybourne States.

—

Iaccomplished what I wanted to in the village, but it seems they couldn’t dispose of him,” the Noble muttered as he reviewed the events of the day from recordings made by the electronic eyes. “Most likely this other man with the strange powers has also learned our destination. Given the speed of this carriage, it’s entirely conceivable they’ll be lying in wait for us. We shall have to take the initiative.”

As the girl turned her questioning eyes on him, he informed her they’d be at their destination before long. He left the vehicle. The pair of escorts riding alongside the carriage bowed to him. One was on horseback, and the other—a woman—was in a small, single-passenger buggy.

“Greetings,” the first guard said. “I’m Mashira.”

“And I am Caroline. I’ve looked forward to your appearance, Sire.”

“We seem to be one short,” Mayerling noted, his tone and bearing in keeping with his Noble rank.

Mashira nodded. “Yes. He’s lying in wait for the enemy in the woods up ahead.”

“For the enemy?” the Nobleman asked. “Alone?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“There’s no need to fear,” Caroline said in a mysterious tone. Though Mayerling knew nothing of it, the shoulder left bare by her indigo dress no longer showed even a trace of a wound. Her gaze clinging to him as she climbed over to the coachman’s perch of the carriage, she looked up at her employer and said, “He won’t do anything. He’s simply gone to get a peek at the other Hunters you mentioned to the Elder.”

“The other Hunters?” Mayerling’s beautiful countenance became a grimace, and he stated, “I’m well aware of the abilities of any other Vampire Hunters besides him. No, strike that—is the young man who ran amuck in your village one of them, too?”

“Most likely,” Mashira replied.

Caroline added, “That woman in the car you mentioned is one as well, sire. And there may well be others. So to Bengé goes the honor of the first encounter . . . ”

Mayerling was silent. From his recordings, he’d learned about the girl who’d attacked them while they were resting at the Shelter and her battle with the automated defenses. He was quite sure she’d been gravely wounded back at the Shelter, but if she was still alive then she’d prove a troublesome adversary. Even more so if she were in league with that young man from the village square . . .

“Well,” the Nobleman said to the pair, “while he may be one of your fellow Barbarois, I know only his reputation, not what powers he possesses. No matter how great his abilities, it’ll be no mean feat to dispose of all the enemies on my tail. Especially all alone . . . ”

His two bodyguards looked at each other. Mayerling may not have realized they were smiling.

“Well, we’ll be arriving in the village of Barnabas shortly,” said Caroline. “Once he’s returned there, perhaps you’d care to ask him about it yourself. But this alone I can tell you. If someone’s already encountered him—or worse yet, is pursuing him—without a doubt they shall die before this night is through.” Her words were backed with such confidence that even Mayerling, Noble that he was, was perplexed for a moment. “But all that aside, will you not do us the honor of introducing the guest you have inside? Come what may, it could prove somewhat troublesome if we don’t know what she looks like.”

“Absolutely,” Mashira said, nodding his agreement.

After a bit of consideration, Mayerling bent over and rapped lightly on the door. “Kindly show yourself,” he said.

While it was unclear how she’d heard him inside over the roar of the speeding carriage, the blue windowpane opened and a gorgeous countenance emerged. Her face was tinged with trepidation from the darkness.

“Oh, my,” Mashira blurted out, and his words were not altogether empty flattery.

“Such a beauty,” Caroline added, but her burning gaze was concentrated on the person in the driver’s seat.

“Thank you, my love,” Mayerling said, and the window closed.

At that moment, in a tiny voice even his Noble senses couldn’t detect, someone tittered, mumbling, “Nice and pretty, just how I like ’em. Think I’ll make her mine . . . ” It was clearly the voice of a fourth person, someone who could not be accounted for.

—

The clear weather of that afternoon had broken, and leaden clouds pervaded the night sky.

A figure garbed in black sped down the street the carriage and its escorts had taken a scant hour earlier. There was no moon, but the black-garbed figure was so beautiful he virtually gave off a light of his own. With the speed with which he galloped, he could gobble up that one hour lead in less than twenty minutes if all went smoothly. Just as he was hitting the heart of the forest, however, he stopped sharply.

Though there were clouds, the darkness wasn’t complete. In D’s eyes, it was just like midday. About thirty feet ahead of where D halted his horse, a gigantic tree branch hung over the road, and one part of it in particular protruded sharply. Beneath that protrusion hung a long, thin shadow. D alone saw it for what it truly was. One of the trio of escorts—Bengé.

According to what Mashira had told Mayerling a short while earlier, their compatriot had come here to meet D. And, given the work each had undertaken, an encounter with the Hunter would mean a battle to the death. Bengé had already seen D in action, from the skirmish in the village of the Barbarois and the way D protected Leila in the clearing, and he must’ve been aware of how powerful D really was. The fact that Bengé appeared to confront D despite all that he knew indicated that he had the utmost confidence in his fighting abilities.

“Hello there,” Bengé called out, his slim hand raised in a cheerful greeting, but his eyes weren’t laughing. “I regret to inform you that you can’t pass this way. Oh, but this is the only road to take. Then it looks like one of us will just have to wait by the side of the road—as a corpse!”

Bengé probably figured his conceited tone would draw some sort of reaction. But he let out a shout of fright as he caught sight of D flying off his horse and up over his head with lightning speed.

Indeed, talk was futile. D’s sword, which never returned to its sheath without first tasting the blood of its foes, split Bengé’s skull in two before he could flee. The reason D promptly spun himself around upon landing back on the ground was because of the lack of resistance his blade had conveyed. There was no sign of the clearly bisected Bengé, only a sheet of black cloth that fell about the Hunter’s feet. Cloth that Bengé had been wearing.

A weird, stifled laugh struck the nape of D’s neck. “You surprise me, you fearsome man. Were I anyone else, you’d have sliced me in two.”

D didn’t move. Even with his ultra-keen senses, he couldn’t tell where Bengé was. As the saying went, Bengé’s voice came out of thin air.

“Well, then,” Bengé said, “I guess it’s my turn now.”

D’s right hand moved ever so slightly. Two flashes of light gleamed, and sparks flew from the base of D’s neck with the most beautiful sound. Bengé had stabbed down at D with a dagger after he suddenly materialized behind the Hunter, and the sparks resulted from that dagger being parried by the sword that flew back with just a simple movement of the Hunter’s hand.

The tip of D’s sword swept horizontally as he spun about, but there was no sign of Bengé. D kicked off the ground. Leaping five yards, as soon as he touched down he leapt again. Unable to detect anyone, he touched back down from his second leap. And then he heard it.

“Heh heh heh . . . It’s no use, no use at all,” Bengé’s voice laughed. “As long as the other you is here, I’ll be here, too.”

In the forest ahead of him, a shadow rose silently. D’s left hand raced into action, becoming white lightning blazing through the air. But the wooden needle he’d launched only nailed a length of thin black cloth to a nearby tree trunk. Beyond the tree, another shadow arose.

Is that an invitation? the Hunter thought. Fine. D sprinted into the woods. An invitation to follow him from the road to the woods—just what did Bengé have in mind?

The hot, humid atmosphere pressed him mercilessly from all sides. A sharp sound ripped through the wind. The silvery streaks that flew in rapid succession from either side of D were batted aside, one and all, by his blade.

“Oh, my. Not bad at all.” Bengé’s voice had a ring of admiration that wasn’t in the least bit exaggerated.

“You said as long as I was here, you’d be here, didn’t you?” D said without concern. There was no gloating over how he’d just thwarted the vicious attacks. “I see now. I know what your power is—”

“What?!” Bengé shouted. His daggers flew, as if to cover his shock and indignation. One came from straight ahead, the other from a thicket far to the rear of D—and they were nearly simultaneous. Did the Hunter face multiple opponents?

Deflecting the attacks with ease, D bent down. The instant a flash of white whizzed over his head, he swung his left hand back behind him. He could feel the rough wooden needle it held bite into flesh.

There was a cry of pain.

Taking an easy step forward, D then did something strange. As he turned back to whatever he’d just stabbed, he jabbed another needle into the ground at his feet at the same time. “What’s wrong?” he said. “Until that needle gets pulled out, you can’t get into my shadow, can you?”

It sounded like someone was grinding their teeth, and then something fell to the ground. A wooden needle stained with blood. It’d been tossed up from a patch of ground where there was nothing at all. Thrown out of the shadow of a tree barely cast on the ground by twilight.

As long as you’re here, I’m here, he told D. If you concentrate, you can see me. You don’t see me because you think you can’t—that was the secret he’d imparted to Leila.

Bengé lurked in the shadows. But that wasn’t all. His skill was such that even D couldn’t detect his presence when he’d slipped into the Hunter’s shadow. What’s more, the way his attacks came from utterly impossible angles suggested he required no time at all to migrate from one patch of shade to the next. The slight delay between attacks was actually just the time it’d take to aim and throw a dagger. Once he’d slipped into his foe’s shadow, he became an invincible assassin. So long as that foe wasn’t D.

“Stanched the bleeding, have you? Too bad the fog is moving in,” said D. Before he’d finished speaking, a dense white flow rolled in from the depths of the woods and boiled up at his feet. The twilit region lost its light.

Without light, no shadows can form.

D alone saw it. He saw the figure on the ground some ten feet ahead, clinging to the earth like a veritable sheet of black cloth. Their duel was as good as decided.

But at that instant the shadow tossed up a tiny ball of light. A blinding brilliance filled the milky white world, and the trees threw shadows across the ground.

“This time you have me beat. But we’ll meet again,” Bengé shouted, his pained parting words ringing from deep in the forest.

D slipped out of the woods and got on his horse. Within a few hours, he’d be within range of his target.

—

II

—

Hmph. Bengé isn’t as great as he makes himself out to be. Looks like he got whipped,” Mashira spat after he’d taken his ear from the ground and raised his head.

“As I expected, it was too much for him to handle, was it not?” It was Mayerling who said this. He, Mashira, and Caroline had camped out for the night in the middle of the forest, deciding that it would best to await Bengé’s return.

Drifting around them was the savory aroma of birds cooking over the camp fire, skewered on sticks. Mashira reached out for one and offered it to Mayerling. “Would you care for some?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself. The Nobility have no need for meat, right?” The Barbarois bodyguard said this as if he’d known that all along, but that was a lie. Somewhere in his tone there was malice. Mashira tore into the golden brown flesh, stuffing his cheeks. His yellowed teeth continued shredding the meat with a vulgar sound.

Not giving her compatriot so much as a glance, Caroline gazed at Mayerling’s profile. Perhaps she’d eaten something already, for she ignored Mashira’s roasting fowl. Not exactly the eyes of one in love, hers were feverish and clouded with passion.

“If he failed, the enemy will be after us. They’ll catch us if we stay around here waiting. We’d best set off at once.” Perhaps angered by Mashira’s rude behavior, Mayerling’s tone was enough to chill the blood. He turned abruptly from the fire.

“Please put your mind at ease,” Caroline told him. “Our enemy won’t be here any time soon. Not if he’s pursuing a different carriage.”

“A different carriage?” Mayerling asked as he turned to face them again.

“Correct,” she replied. “A shadow carriage, if you will. It’s one of Bengé’s skills. Once someone begins chasing it, they’ll never catch it a million years.”

“I’m sorry to say I have no faith in the skills of one already bested in battle,” said the Noble. “It occurs to me now that perhaps retaining the three of you was a mistake.”

“What are you trying to say?” Caroline asked in an agitated manner. “I’ll thank you kindly not to judge the abilities of the two of us unsatisfactory merely because the likes of Bengé proved a failure. Oh, that Bengé is an idiot. We would’ve been better served to let that damned Hunter go on pursuing us.” Beneath her vermilion lips, her white teeth ground together.

“You’ll see our true power, and I don’t just mean someday. Perhaps as early as tomorrow. I believe there’s another pack of bloodhounds on your heels.”

“Yes, Mashira’s right,” said Caroline. “Tomorrow, I shall join forces with Bengé and slay every last one of those dogs, mark my words.”

“I leave it to you then,” Mayerling told her. “But tonight, we move out. Our destination is close at hand. We should be there the evening after next. A good time for our departure. I’m going on ahead. You two follow behind. By day I shall be sleeping in the forest.”

Before long, the shrill sound of the wagon faded away, and the pair who had bowed as they’d seen the carriage off raised their heads.

Smiling faintly, Mashira said, “What right does a Noble doomed to extinction have to order around the famed Mashira, when my skill is known throughout the village of the Barbarois?”

“That can’t be helped. He’s our employer. We simply have to do our job.” As Caroline spoke, she watched the departing carriage with a feverish gaze.

With a more lascivious smile, Mashira asked her, “Are you in love? With him?”

“Whatever do you mean by—”

“You don’t have to hide it. He’s the real thing. You’re a fake. It’s not like I can’t see why that would attract you.”

“Hold your tongue!” Caroline bared her teeth. Were those sharp canines she had peeking out between her lips? No—she couldn’t be one of those.

“So, we’ve established that then. I have a proposal.” Mashira smiled without a trace of fear, putting his best face on for the beautiful woman watching him with flame-like eyes.

“What would that be?”

“We’ve disobeyed the Elder,” said Mashira. “Might we not be better off if we now discarded the standards those in the village live by?” For an instant it looked like she might turn on him for this unexpected overture, but then an excited expression arose on Caroline’s face. “Oh, so I see the same thing had occurred to you,” he continued. “If we stick to the rules of the village, then he’s our employer, as you said. We mustn’t disobey him, or turn on him. Lusting after him would be absolutely unthinkable. However, if we were to ignore the rules . . . ”

Mashira’s gaze was probing her face as he spoke, and at his words Caroline’s eyes glittered piercingly. They were the eyes of an apostate who’d set her heart on discord.

“I thought you’d see it my way,” the Barbarois man continued. “The only reason he won’t so much as look at a gorgeous woman like you is because he’s got a girl he loves, and who loves him, too. To tell the truth, I fancy the girl. I want to make her mine. Under the circumstances, wouldn’t you say our interests coincide?”

She said nothing.

“During the day, he’ll be sleeping. Maybe the girl will, too. If I were to take her and run off while he slept, he’d have no one left to rely on by day but you. Why, she’s no more than a slip of a human girl. Could one of the Nobility seriously give his heart to that? He’s already beginning to have a change of heart. Do you really think he’d go looking for her? Even supposing he does, once I’ve shown him proof I’ve had her myself, I guarantee you he’d be over their so-called eternal love,” Mashira snickered.

“You have a point there.” The flames painted grotesque shadows on Caroline’s pale countenance. “But if I am to take him, body and soul, every last one of the lowly Hunters pursuing him must be slain. Even if the baron was mine, I could never sleep at ease if even one remained. If I agree to cooperate with what you propose, we shall have to leave both our charges alone and do our duty until we can take care of all the others. How does that strike you?”

“Fine by me,” Mashira said with a nod.

“What of Bengé? Does he live?” asked Caroline.

“Well, I can’t really say. He was certainly alive up till the point he used his shadow skills . . . You plan on letting him in on this?”

“That should go without saying! Once day breaks, I’ll go off on a preemptive strike against the scum chasing us, and I’ll try to locate our Bengé at the same time.”

—

And where was D while these two ne’er-do-wells were plotting treachery against their charge? He was galloping down the road, through the fog, on a straight line from the spot where he’d encountered Bengé. In the haze to either side he could see shadowy images of the forest.

From up ahead, the wind carried something back. The creaking of a carriage. The range was about a mile and a quarter. On a night that could only be described as silent, could D’s ears catch sounds from such a great distance?

His horse’s hoofs beat the earth with increased impetus. The fog became a wall blocking him, then eddied away. Before long, a black carriage became visible ahead. There was no sign of the escorts.

D made a break forward. Even if the escorts had been there, he would have ridden forward without fear. On the far side of the carriage roof he could see only the driver’s head. He was lashing away with a whip. D’s right hand went to the sword on his back.

The distance continued to diminish. Perhaps the Hunter’s approach had been noticed, for the whip danced wildly now. The gap between them widened slightly, and then rapidly grew. This would’ve been out of the question at the vehicle’s usual speed. It seemed impossible that the most renowned steed, even with a legendary rider, would be able to keep on their tail now.

The carriage changed direction. Leaving in its wake a tortured squeal like its bolts were ready to pop free, it went into the woods to the right. It already had a lead of half a mile. And still the gap continued to grow.

D’s heels pounded the flanks of his horse. Gradually, the dhampir’s eyes began to give off a phosphorescent glow. He shredded the fog, and the gap shrank.

D came up alongside the carriage. Easily standing atop his saddle, he leapt for the carriage roof. It was as if all movement had been reduced to slow motion as D landed feet first on the roof of the vehicle. Crouching down, he advanced on the driver’s seat. Ripples of suspicion crossed his face. The driver made no attempt to look his way, but worked the whip mechanically through the air. D’s hand seized the supple lash. Even after it’d been taken away, the driver tried to crack the whip.

D set his right hand on the driver’s hair. The instant he tugged back, the Hunter was tossed into the air by a violent shock. Incredibly, the hair in his hand, the carriage, and the horses all became a sheet of black cloth that fell to the ground, and D alone, completely ensnared by the inertia of their forward momentum, was thrown through the air.

Just as he was about to slam against the earth, the hem of his coat spread like a gigantic pair of wings, and D turned an easy somersault before landing feet first on the ground.

He gazed at the black cloth he held in his right hand. It cascaded across the ground, stretching another six feet. If spread out, there was enough to cover the floor of a small room. It must’ve taken a piece at least that large in order to make a carriage and driver, plus a half-dozen horses.

Discarding the cloth, D turned his face to the sky. He’d heard a voice from nowhere in particular cursing. Bengé’s voice. D gazed at the sky in silence. In the east, beyond a range of mountain, a faint and watery light was beginning to shine. Surely the phantom carriage had been leading him in the wrong direction to buy Mayerling some time to escape. In terms of distance, it’d bought them perhaps an extra three-quarters of a mile. Racing at full speed, it’d take D less than two minutes to make that up.

Not bothering to search for the source of the disembodied voice, D straddled his horse without a word and galloped off. He was headed west, to where the sun sinks.

—

For the last ten or twenty minutes, the man had sat on a chair in the center of the dilapidated shop, his eyes shut tight. Dressed in black, the man was as thin as a half-starved crane. The sweat coating not only his brow but his whole body was not due solely to the stream of blood spilling from his flank—it also seemed connected to an extended period of concentrated mental effort.

When a faint blueness streamed into the dust-and-grit-covered shop, which was apparently a saloon, the man’s whole body quaked, and his eyes bulged open. A scream of “Damn!” spilled from his mouth. Letting the tension drain from his body, the man slumped back in the chair in disappointment.

“Seems I underestimated him—the damn freak. Can’t believe he caught up to my shadow carriage,” he muttered. “Well, since I’ve blown it, I’d better let Mashira and the others know as soon as possible . . . ” Wearily getting to his feet, Bengé trod across the dusty floor and left the shop.

On either side of a street only the wind ever crossed, ruined houses stood in rows. The hotel, the drugstore, the cobbler, the saloon he’d just come out of—every single shop had broken window panes with gaping black maws, and the signs above the doors swung idly. It was a ghost town.

Here in this town, less than a mile and a quarter from where he’d fought D, Bengé had done his very best to see to his wounds and to manipulate his shadow carriage. Coming to the center of the street, Bengé took a long, thin tube from the breast of his black robe, pulled the ring at one end, and thrust it up over his head. An orange ball of light shot from it, rising with a long tail behind it, and presently it could be seen no more. Shortly thereafter, a dazzling ring of light blazed in the heavens, maintaining that brilliance for a few seconds before it faded away.

“I sure hope they notice that and come for me,” he muttered anxiously. When he started toward the horse tethered in front of the saloon, he heard the sound of hoofbeats and a car engine coming from one end of the long, central street.

Without even time to hide his horse, Bengé leapt across the street into the shadow of what looked to be a cyborg horse repair center. He had to wait but a few seconds for the body of a bus he’d seen before to appear from the other end of the street. The drivers must’ve installed some sort of non-reflective glass in it, because he couldn’t see through the windshield.

The wheels ground to a halt right in front of the saloon, the door opened, and a pair of men stepped out. It was the guys he’d toyed with on the road through the mountains a day earlier. Hunters after Mayerling.

A killing-lust welled up, filling Bengé’s entire being. The shadows of the buildings fell across the street. Between them and the men’s shadows lay open ground. “Come on. Closer. Come to Bengé,” he muttered to himself. If even part of one of their shadows touched that of the building where he concealed himself, he could slip into theirs in an instant. He’d become Death, invisible and inescapable.

The giant who called to mind a rock drew closer, with bow and arrows in hand. For an instant his shadow touched that from the tip of the roof of a building. Bengé’s form faded away. The younger Hunter set his eyes on the other side of the street, and, when the giant changed direction and the shadow spun to his rear, the shade-like figure in black that silently rose behind the bigger man had the base of its neck covered with what looked like fine silvery feathers.

Faster than the giant’s arrows in their indiscriminate flight, a swish of white knifed through the Barbarois’ body as it first reeled back with an anguished cry, then went quickly into a face-first drop. Sending black blood out in all directions, Bengé’s body split in half just above the waist. The two parts of his body quickly thudded to the ground.

“Is this the guy, Leila?” Borgoff called in the direction of the bus as he checked out the back of the enemy’s head and its glistening feathers—needles from the sliver gun.

The driver’s window slid open, and Leila’s face and the leveled sliver gun appeared. “Yep. I got my payback.”

Anticipating that they’d run across the foe who’d attacked her earlier, she had the window open a crack from the very beginning and had kept her brothers covered. And, while Bengé had by no means forgotten about Leila, his scorn for a girl he’d abused once already and his overwhelming confidence in his own abilities had dug his grave.

“No doubt about it—this is one of the threesome Grove mentioned. What the high hell was he doing out here?” Kyle said, spitting on the corpse.

“Dammit, how am I supposed to get any sleep now,” Borgoff muttered. “Well, we’ve killed one of them, at any rate. Where I see he’s got a horse tied up there and all, I’d say he’s the only one here. But just to be sure, check out the area. Once we know it’s clear, we’ll take a little break, then head out again.”

“Hold on, Borgoff. Can we afford to take it easy? We gotta gain all the ground we can while the sun shines,” Leila called out from the window, but Borgoff swept her words away with one hand.

“See, he’s got two drivers now that daylight don’t bother. Besides, we’ve heard that it’s the Claybourne States he’s headed for. Well, if that’s the case, I know a couple of routes we can take to head them off, so there’s no need to get all flustered. To the contrary, I wouldn’t mind letting D go on ahead to see if that Noble and him can’t kill each other. I say it’s a lucky thing we hit this town looking to bed down under a roof for a change.”

Naturally, the oldest brother didn’t catch the shade of emotion that rushed into Leila’s face at the mention of D’s name.

“Still, bro,” Kyle began, as he used a finger to wipe the gore from his crescent blade, “you know, a long time ago, that the Claybourne States used to be a space port. There ain’t nothing there but rows and rows of trashed rockets. What the hell could they—No, you don’t think they could be planning to go to another planet, do you? Maybe for their honeymoon?!”

Even as she heard Kyle explode in laughter, Leila shut the window.

—

The road was constantly bombarded by the chirping of little birds from the woods to either side.

In the spring sunlight, D raced on. Compared to when he’d chased the shadow carriage, his speed had decreased somewhat, but that was unavoidable. D’s rein handling forced the cyborg horse to gallop at speeds far exceeding its abilities. The knee joints, metabolizers, and other parts already exhibited signs of severe stress. There was some question as to whether the horse would last another twelve hours, even if D eased back to his usual pace.

He had no choice but to wait for a nearby village or motorized mobile shop, but that was a faint hope.

The time was eight Morning. Could he catch up to Mayerling’s carriage now that it could run by day as well? The prospects looked bleak. Still, he had to go on. It is the destiny of the huntsman to chase his prey.

How would his opponent react? Surely the Noble was aware that D and the Marcus clan were in pursuit. There was no way the Noble would just keep running. He’d definitely strike back at them. But when, and how?

Aside from the obvious psychological edge, those giving chase weren’t necessarily always at an advantage when both parties were on the move. If the pursuers ran into an ambush, the tables could be turned. And there was nothing fiercer than cornered prey baring its fangs in its own defense.

The features of the young Noble skimmed across D’s heart. The Noble wasn’t lying when he said he wouldn’t do anything to the human. D could almost picture the face of the girl in the carriage, and the look she’d have in her eyes.

The scenery before him suddenly changed. Gone was the constant greenery, replaced by a rough desert plain. In various places, the land was fused into a glassy state, and eye-catching machines and vehicles of titanic proportions jutted from the ground. There were heaps of pitiful, mechanical corpses left on the field, each and every one red and crumbling with rust. They seemed to stretch on to the ends of the earth, and the disturbing, ghastly air they had about them didn’t seem in the least bit like that of anything mechanical. When night came, would the bitter voices of single-minded machines echo pathetically across the plain?

This was one of the ancient battlefields where, long ago, machines that’d evolved into sentience fought each other out of hatred. Even now, a number of them still hadn’t ceased functioning, their bodies squirming around on a pale and feeble current, wandering night after night in search of their enemies.

The ambush could come any time now. That was the feeling D had. As day broke, he’d seen the flash of what seemed to be a Hunter’s signal flare in the dawn sky to the rear. Undoubtedly it was the signal from Bengé, reporting his mission had failed and that D was still in pursuit. Of course, the remaining pair of guards would see it and take the necessary countermeasures. The question was, would some of the party keep moving? Both of the Barbarois probably wouldn’t come after him, but one of them might attack.

Then there was the other group to consider. No doubt the Marcus clan had noticed the flare, too. They had much more detailed knowledge of this area. There was every reason to worry about them taking some little-known shortcut to head off the carriage. And, in the world of day, swimming with the song of life, even D couldn’t possibly hear their footfalls. Would they let him go on ahead? Or would he fall prey to one of their ambushes?

D’s face clouded ever so slightly. Perhaps he’d been thinking about the youngest, the little sister. About the girl with the big, round eyes who said she couldn’t live any other way but as a Hunter. If she let her hair down instead of pulling it back she’d probably look a good two years younger. With a touch of rouge to her cheeks and some lipstick, she could pass for a regular girl from any old town. She wouldn’t have to cry out for her mother, tortured by fever.

D’s countenance lost its shade of humanity. Far ahead of him, he’d sighted a toppled column of mammoth proportions. Running in a straight line across the fifteen-foot-wide road was a gigantic, rusted forearm.

—

Just before D had intruded on the ancient battlefield, there’d been a woman by the side of the road in what was just about the center of this vast expanse of land. She was combing her hair in the morning breeze. The dress she wore was bluer than the bluest sky, and the voice spilling from her lips in song was as beautiful as any jewel. If only she didn’t have those spiteful red lips. However, a black shadow fell clearly across the cylindrical generator against which the woman was leaning. The demons of the night weren’t supposed to have shadows.

It was unclear how long she’d been there, but the woman seemed to be absorbed in toying with the golden thread that was her hair. Suddenly, she looked up. Her gaze went in the direction from which D’s hoofbeats echoed.

“Ah, someone’s coming,” the woman—Caroline—laughed, but her rose-like beauty soon grew tense. “Those hoofbeats don’t sound like any human’s horse. It’s D. Now there’s a man to be feared . . . ”

Even now, the image of D’s swordplay in the village of the Barbarois was burned into Caroline’s retinas. But, an instant later, her blue eyes blazed with a lust for blood and battle. A smile warped her ruby lips.

“It seems it was worthwhile waiting here to get some rest and lay an ambush. I will make this your grave . . . ”

And, with that muttered declaration of war, Caroline scanned the surrounding machinery, nodded once, then approached one of the devices. Rust coated its surface, and a number of jumbled pipes ran out of it. Caroline laid her hands on one of those closest and nestled it lovingly to her cheek, but, before long, her expression grew terribly lurid. Her mouth opened. Inside, her mouth was the same bloody red as her lips. Two of her canines were exposed, and, when they came in contact with the rusty pipe, the tips sank effortlessly into the metal.

Slowly, twin streams slid down Caroline’s luscious throat, leaving a damp trail as they coursed to her ample bosom. The beauty’s throat pulsated, and she drank as if ravenous. Over and over, gulp after gulp.

Before long, Caroline pulled back, and the fluid leaking from the holes mysteriously stopped. The Barbarois woman stepped away from the machine like a petal drifting off in the breeze. Showered with sunlight, her red tongue played along her lips. “Ah, that’s what I like,” she purred. “Now listen well to what I have to say.”

The machine moved. Painfully slow. Its five fingers clawed at the sand. Each digit at least a yard long. Measuring thirty feet overall, the device she’d chosen was a robotic forearm that’d been broken off at the elbow.

—

Dhalted his steed. The arm was sixty feet away. It was like an exquisite piece of sculpture; even the shapes of the muscles and the lines of blood vessels remained discernible through the rust.

While the great machine battles had primarily been contests of combat ability, a sort of conflict between bizarre aesthetic sensibilities had also existed. In response to the geometrical orderliness of their rivals—epitomized by designs that were conglomerations of planes and spheres simplified to the extreme—some uncouth machines had taken the imitation of the human form to a level of beauty and perfection surpassing even the classic artistry of antiquity. Whether or not true “artists” existed among the machines, they not only accurately reproduced human hair on their androids, but every last pore as well.

Unofficial historical accounts kept by the Nobility reserved a special place for the earth-shaking contest between Apollo, with a thirty-foot sword in hand, and Hercules, armed with three hundred feet of spear. The surpassing destructive power unleashed in their clash changed the shape of mountains, wiped away valleys, and stopped the course of rivers. Had the limb now blocking D’s path belonged to one of those famed combatants, or was it a remnant of some nameless Goliath?

A figure in blue frolicked on top of the wrist. The morning breeze rustled her golden hair and bore the aroma of her sweet perfume. Only D could detect something else. The foul stench of blood that drifted with it. “I am Caroline of the Barbarois,” she said. “And I can let you go no further.”

In D’s pupils, which reflected only a void, the woman’s image laughed coldly. Her body swayed wildly. The arm beneath her feet jolted as it changed direction, pointing toward D. Power coursed into the fingers, and they dug into the soil. Once they were embedded, the arm used them as a fulcrum and started to slide forward like an inchworm. It moved roughly, but with surprising speed.

D was motionless. Perhaps the surreal phenomenon of this rusted arm coming to life had robbed him of his nerve.

When the arm had come within fifteen feet of him, spread its fingers wide, and slammed against the earth, D charged on his horse. The colossal arm hung in midair. It’d sprung into the air from the force of the fingers striking the ground. D might’ve discerned the time and location of impact from its position, because, as the titanic arm’s ten-foot-wide palm made the earth tremble, he slipped out from under it by a hair’s breadth.

The fingers slammed shut, tearing up soil. Turning toward D, it lifted just its wrist until it was perpendicular to the ground. The fingers were still clenched. When it flopped forward, it opened them at last. A brown mass flew straight for D and his horse, more than sixty feet away. That distance rapidly diminished.

Perhaps feeling the air pressure to their rear, D tugged the reins to the right. As his horse went a few lengths in that direction, the mass dropped at its feet. It was the soil itself, the same soil that’d been gouged out by the fingers—a fitting projectile for a colossal arm.

Catching the shock wave on its flank, the horse lurched to one side. D danced through the air. Like a veritable mystic bird he flew, landing in a spot some five yards away. His horse regained its balance and dashed back to him.

The colossal arm set its sights on D. It came after him with terrific speed, making the earth tremble. A black fingertip passed right before D’s eyes as the Hunter leapt backward. His stone-cold face remained impassive as a cloud of sand struck it.

“What’s the matter, Hunter?” Caroline laughed charmingly from atop the arm. “Can’t do a thing, can you? You see, this arm has joined the ranks of the undead.”

Hard as it was to believe, the arm did have a power plant in the wrist, and it ran on gasoline. And Caroline had sucked some of the remaining fuel from the pipe. This “vampire” had taken what was akin to the “blood” of the colossal arm. Those bitten by the accursed demons became demons themselves. But it hardly seemed possible that the same abominable rule would extend to a mechanical arm.

The colossal forearm was now one of the living dead, a corpse that moved in accordance to Caroline’s will. It didn’t seem possible that even D could repel these attacks forever, when one followed another with such blistering speed.

In accordance with instructions from Caroline, the arm had chased D right over to the horizontal wreckage of a gigantic torso. Though the body was toppled, the side was still easily thirty feet high, a distance even D couldn’t possibly jump.

“Are you finished, Hunter?” Caroline asked, tittering uncontrollably. “The sword upon your back—is it a mere affectation?”

With his rear blocked off, D appeared unable to do anything, and the wrist rose up over his head. A black brilliance surged up from the ground, slipped between the fingers crushing down now like an avalanche, and settled on top of the mechanical arm.

“What?!” Caroline exclaimed. D’s coat flashed elegantly right in front of her as her eyes widened in amazement.

“Now we’re even,” the Hunter said softly.

Thinking to say something in return, Caroline took a few steps back—toward the elbow—as if she’d been pushed back by some unsettling emanations invisible to the eye. The colossal arm stopped dead in its usual inchworm pose. Beads of sweat rose on Caroline’s brow. The beads immediately grew larger, coursing down her paraffin skin. The sunlight made the wet streaks glitter like quicksilver.

Both of D’s arms hung naturally by his sides.

Various ideas whirled through Caroline’s head. There wasn’t enough room to flee. And the first time they’d met, Caroline had realized this youth wasn’t the sort who’d spare her because she was a woman.

D took a step forward.

“W . . . wait,” Caroline said desperately, humiliated by the way her voice quavered. “Even if you slay me, Mashira still remains. Wouldn’t you like to know about his powers?” Cornered now, it was the best plan her brain could conceive. For a warrior, learning the abilities of the next opponent they’d meet in combat was more important than anything else. This offer would sway him without fail.

D advanced another step.

“Wait, just wait.” Caroline waved her hands and leapt back a few yards. So, this youth gave no consideration to knowledge that might give him the advantage in battle? I’m going to die, aren’t I? Caroline thought. Here, on this man’s sword . . . Caroline gazed absentmindedly at the youth in black raiment approaching her. A strange feeling welled up in her breast. I want to be slain. I want to feel this gorgeous man stab into my bosom. The ecstasy of death enveloped Caroline in its rapture.

D’s movements ceased. Letting out a low moan, the figure in black fell to one knee.

Not knowing quite what’d happened, Caroline instinctively went into action, seeking life instead of death. The colossal arm flipped over, leaving the two of them to drop through thin air. Still, D managed a spectacular landing before one of his knees buckled again. The colossal arm fell toward him. There wasn’t enough time to get out of the way.

D’s right hand blurred. It looked like it smoldered. There was a flash of silver that intersected the fingers crushing down on him like an avalanche of digits. With a tremendous crash, the foot-and-a-half-thick middle finger fell behind D, and everything else from the wrist forward twisted back. Black streams of machine oil poured down from the wound-like rent in the metal.

At the same time, Caroline landed on the opposite side of the road. She pressed down on the fingers of her right hand and grew pale. There was a thin vermilion line around the base of them.

D leapt. His cyborg horse was under him.

“I’m not letting you get away, Hunter,” Caroline cried out. With streams of black oil trailing from it, the trembling hand went into a deadly pounce.

D was moving at a gallop. Could he escape?

The colossal arm went after the horse and rider. Flames suddenly blossomed from the mechanical wrist, traveling all the way to the elbow. Melting in the heat of a nuclear missile—which could reach a hundred thousand degrees—the abhorred demon arm collapsed to the ground as little more than a burning log of steel.

The smoke trails of five missiles hung in the air. From back down the same road that’d brought D, there reverberated the sounds of a nimble engine. The low-profile vehicle with huge puncture-proof tires was, needless to say, the battle car. And Leila was at the wheel.

After killing that master of the shadows, Bengé, Leila had wrangled herself a scouting mission by saying she couldn’t help wondering what their foes were up to. When she left, she said she’d be right back, but an hour had passed, then three. She’d gone searching for D.

Her brothers said the freaks were probably lying in wait for him. They laughed about how sweet it’d be if they all killed each other. And the more Leila thought about how likely they were to be right, the larger the face of that gorgeous young man so full of the void loomed in her heart. That’s just because he saved my life twice, she thought. But Leila had never been given to thoughts about repaying debts before. If she collapsed from hunger and someone gave her food, she’d have had no compunctions about pulling a knife on her savior to steal the rest from him. That’s simply how Leila—and all of the Marcus clan—did things. The very concept of returning a favor was alien to them. But as Leila held the yoke of the battle car and ripped through the morning air, her heart held the closest thing to it.

The instant she entered the ancient battlefield and saw the colossal arm chasing D, it was a movement of her heart rather than her conscious will that made her press the firing button and launch those miniature nuclear rockets. She didn’t know that the colossal arm, writhing in pain from the loss of a finger, couldn’t have caught up to D at the speed he galloped.

Stopping alongside the arm, which had ceased moving and spouted lotus-red flames, she scanned the area with her sharp gaze. She was searching for Caroline. But the freak was nowhere to be found. With a disappointed cluck of her tongue, Leila stepped on the gas.

—

Having ridden hard for about two miles, D veered off the road and into the forest. A horrendous torpor was sweeping over him. It was the sunlight syndrome, a condition unique to dhampirs. Inheriting half or more of a vampire’s characteristics as they did, dhampirs could move about by day without concern, but that was not without its drawbacks. While they remained oblivious, a tenacious form of fatigue was building in their half-immortal flesh from the merciless rays of the sun. For dhampirs working as Hunters, the most dreaded aspect of this affliction was that the symptoms manifested without warning in the form of a sudden feeling of exhaustion and ever-increasing lassitude. It was painfully clear what would happen if someone were to suffer an attack of this while locked in deadly battle.

D’s narrow escape couldn’t really be called a retreat or a defeat. In fact, it was only thanks to D’s superhuman strength that he was able to get himself in the saddle. But, when he got off his horse deep in the forest, D’s gait was somewhat troubled.

The ground here was shrouded by multicolored flora and teeming with insect life. D knelt down and started to scoop at the dirt with a knife he pulled from his combat belt. Earth and moss flew with his intense movements. In less than three minutes, he had hollowed out a depression large enough for a person to lie in. With just the lightest shake of his head, D quietly entered the hole. Once he’d used his hands to pull the dirt around him onto his body, he laid back.

The reason vampires in legends of antiquity carried coffins filled with soil from their homeland was not merely because the grave they should’ve occupied offered them the most serene sleep. Actually, their kind had discovered in ancient times that Mother Earth would draw out the fatigue that accumulated in their bodies and instill them with new immortalizing energy. And D was following their example.

“Heh, this is a fine mess,” D’s left hand snorted. “Hell, even I can’t tell you when the sunlight syndrome will strike. The fact that you’re tougher than the average customer only makes matters worse. What’s it been, five years or so?”

The voice from his hand must’ve been talking about how long it’d been since the last attack. Usually, those dhampirs who’d inherited the greater part of their disposition from the vampires went an interval of about six months between outbreaks of the symptoms. Using the date and time of the last one as a rough base, they’d hide themselves for a month before and after the next expected attack, avoiding all combat during that time. These precautions weren’t solely out of fear of reprisals from the prey they chased, but also to avoid attacks from their business competitors. There were always plenty of scheming cowards looking for a larger share of the Hunting business, and they’d keep elaborate records of the dates their rivals had attacks, then try to learn their whereabouts before the next one was due so they could do away with them. Needless to say, in D’s case, he’d have to guard against a fierce onslaught by Caroline and her cohorts.

“Well, looks like we’re on vacation for a while. Good luck,” the voice said. But by the time these carefree comments rose from his left hand, D’s eyes were already closed.