DarkWalker (9 page)

Jack Harlow had seen hunters in action twice. The first time, in the backroom of a club near
Atlanta
, a vampire attacked his prey, sunk his teeth into the man’s neck—not the sexual game the victim seemed to expect. This vampire was messy, spilling as much blood as he drank. The hunter came from the other end of the hall, stake in one hand, sword in the other. He buried the stake into the vampire’s back before he knew the hunter existed.
Shoved it in deep.
Blood spurt out. The victim dropped to floor, exhausted and hurt but not dead. The hunter took the vampire’s head with one clean slice.
Then the victim’s.
Jack had retreated deeper into the shadows, unseen as the hunter dragged the bodies, one at a time, through the back door and into the alley, and then set fire to both. The vampire flashed. He burned so quickly, it seemed like he’d been made of paper with pre-burnt insides, and even the ash dissipated in the air. The victim—whom the hunter expected would become a vampire—burned more slowly, less cleanly and completely. Still, the hunter was satisfied.

The second time, it was a team of two women, one acting as bait. She strolled along the dark pier, fully aware of the eyes upon her. Three vampires descended on her. These were the misshapen, pale-faced, hairless creatures a la
Nosferatu
. Mindless, too. While she defended herself (and
well
) with a long, wooden spike, her partner shot the creatures with a crossbow. The bolts lodged deep into their backs. The “bait” slit their throats with a machete.

It was never pretty, the business of hunting. Jack stared at the hunter who had found him and wondered if he suspected Jack was a vampire. No, the stake would’ve already found its mark.

“Don’t trust him,” the ghost’s voice said in Jack’s ear. “He’s warm, too, but he’s cold. So very cold.”

“So,” the hunter finally said. “What was that thing?”

Jack hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer. He went with the truth. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I have,” the hunter said. “But not exactly like it. This was different.”

“Very.”

The vagrant in the path had come closer. Jack had not seen him approach.

Three or four layers of clothes, despite the relative warmth. Holes in his shoes. Switchblade in the unmoving hand,
unextended
. A mad, vacant stare in his eyes.

“And what about that?” the hunter asked, nodding toward the vagrant. “Not what it appears?”

Slowly, Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

2.

Nick Hunter watched the homeless man carefully. The man walked slowly, leaning slightly to the left. His face was sandpaper, unshaven for days, but not an uncontrolled beard, his eyes wild and unfocused. The switchblade hung uneasily between gloved fingers. His clothes were tattered and layered, making him appear twice as large as he probably was.

He didn’t seem to notice Nick at all.

His eyes, focused on the man Nick had found, the destination of the wind—of everything—the man who seemed almost calm. Only
almost
, because something was askew.

These were not vampires, neither of them. The wind’s destination, in fact, appeared entirely human. The vagrant, however, was something else. The unwashed odor, the dirt and grime, the vacant looks—they hid something.

“What are you?” Nick asked. He didn’t take his eyes off the vagrant, but wasn’t speaking to him.

“Me? Just Jack. That’s all I am.”

“Just Jack, eh?”

The vagrant lunged forward, suddenly agile and fast, the blade springing out. He swung it upwards, like pitching a softball, and grabbed for Jack’s shoulder with the other hand.

Jack jumped back and to the side, putting the bum between him and Nick, the lake immediately behind him.

“You,” the bum said, pointing at Jack with the blade. “You!”

“Me,
what
?” Jack asked.

The bum shook his head—as if trying to shake a cat loose—and jabbed the knife in the air again. “
You!
”

Nick aimed his gun at the back of the bum’s head. “I think that’s enough,” he said. Jack, whoever and whatever he was, had answers he wanted.

The bum didn’t acknowledge Nick. “You,” he whispered.

“He’s accusing you,” Nick said. In a fraction of a moment, he could adjust his aim and put the bullet between Jack’s eyes.

“I’ve done nothing.”

The bum raised the knife to swing down. One step. Two.

Nick shot him. The bullet cleanly struck the back of the head. Out the other side and into the lake somewhere. The bum’s forward motion continued. He swung the knife down at Jack.

Jack fell sideways, the weight of the bum throwing him but the knife missing its mark. The bum laughed and raised the knife again.

Nick stepped forward and, from behind, pressed his own blade against the bum’s throat. Purplish blood welled up at the neck; more oozed from the gunshot wound. “I don’t know what you are,” Nick said, “but I’m willing to bet you need your head, so you’d better give me one damned good reason not to cut it off.”

Jack pulled himself off the ground as the bum rose slowly to his feet, letting Nick keep his long knife right where it was. Dropped the switchblade and held both hands, open, palms up, to the sides.

So close, however, Nick got a good whiff of the bum. Whiskey. Cigarettes. Mold. Rotten eggs. Shit. Death. The bum was dead . . . had been when Nick shot him.

“He can’t answer you,” Jack said. “I . . . I don’t think his type have much by way of intelligence.”

“Meat,” it said, spinning suddenly and grabbing for Nick’s head. Nick forced his knife through the thing’s throat and, with a good side kick to the dead man’s ribs, sent it and its head into the lake.

“I didn’t recognize it,” Jack said. “I mean, I don’t always. I knew it was something. But when it got close enough, when I smelled it . . .”

“Rank,” Nick said.

“But normally,” Jack said, “they ignore me.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. There was only one proper response to such a comment. “What?”

“You’re a hunter,” Jack said. “You hunt . . . vampires, I imagine.” Nick said nothing, but tightened the grip on both his weapons. “I can’t hunt. I tried. Thought I could do something, but I can’t. I can only watch.”

“You’re telling me this . . . why?” Nick asked.

“Because tonight, I hit one of them,” Jack said. “The thing at the apartment. And now this.” He glanced over the edge of the lake, and then picked up his laptop computer. “Zombie, I think. Well, a variation.”

He opened up his computer and turned it on. “Give me a moment, I’ll check. I know I’ve seen his type before.”

“You’ll check?” Curious, Nick stepped around to see the computer screen.

Jack called up a database, hit a few keys, scrolled down a few screens. Finally, he stopped, pointed at the screen, and said, “There. Last September. Three of them. Errant Zombies. They didn’t know they were dead, they thought they were . . . tramps, apparently. One had dried blood on the side of his head. They didn’t say much, didn’t do much, just sat in an alley. It was 60 degrees that night, cloudy, no rain. One caught a rat running too close, bit its head off and tossed the body aside. But most of the rats gave them plenty of room. Even the roaches ignored them.” He scrolled down the screen to keep reading, summarizing what he found. “A teenager turned down that alley. Drunk. Stupid. A bad ass, too, wanting to start trouble.” He paused a moment. “After bashing his head in, they scooped the brains from his head and feasted until they were done.” Done, he looked at Nick, his eyebrows furrowed. “Didn’t acknowledge me in the least.”

“You . . .
watched
this?” Nick asked. His stomach churned. “And recorded it?”

“That’s what I do, apparently,” Jack said. “You’re a hunter. I’m a watcher. It’s not by choice.”

Nick stepped back, disturbed, bewildered, unsure of what to make of this. He could kill Jack here, now. He’d heard of voyeurism, but . . . this was sick.

Jack shut the computer down. “That thing earlier, that I stopped at the apartment,” Jack said. “Did you kill it?”

“Didn’t find it again,” Nick said. “What was it?”

“I have no idea.”

3.

Jack stared a moment at the hunter. He’d said a lot, maybe more than he’d ever said at one time. A hunter was one of the few people who might listen to Jack and not suspect he’d escaped an asylum. Still, Jack didn’t know what would happen next. Wouldn’t take much effort for the hunter to put that knife through Jack’s throat and kick his headless body into the lake.

“I’m Jack Harlow,” he finally said, though he didn’t step forward or offer a hand.

“Nick Hunter,” the other said. “You have a file on hunters in there?”

“Some,” Jack said. “Not you.”

“You’ll add me after this, though, won’t you?”

Jack shrugged. “That’s what I do. Like the ghost said, it’s my role.”

“Ghost?”

“There’s more to the dark than vampires,” Jack said. He motioned toward the lake, where the errant zombie’s body floated like any other dead man on the water.

“You watch,” Nick said, wiping his blade clean on the grass. “You never get involved, is that right?”

“Basically,” Jack said.

“Then why tonight?” Nick asked. “I saw you bash that thing’s head pretty good before it ran off. Didn’t look much like watching to me.”

Jack didn’t have an answer. He knew perfectly well why he’d protected Lisa.

“
I know
,” the blind ghost whispered—for Jack’s ears only.

Nick sheathed his knife. He kept it inside his jacket, out of sight but easily within range. He’d already hidden his gun away. “I think I get it,” Nick said. “I mean, I understand. I’d have done the same thing. Maybe. What’s her name?”

“Lisa.”

“Pretty name,” Nick said. “Good luck.” He turned to go, stopped, and said, “Doesn’t explain you, though.”

“Doesn’t explain what?” Jack asked.

“Look around,” Nick said. “You tell me.”

In the trees, Jack saw eyes, yellow and green: owls, three of them, perched precariously on the farthest, thinnest limbs; a cat beneath one of the trees; another on the paved path. Shadows swam within themselves. A snake, wound around a branch of the tree, lifted its head to meet Jack’s gaze.

“You’re being watched,” Nick said.

“It’s never been like this.”

“And I don’t feel very comfortable in your spotlight,” Nick said.

Jack suddenly wanted to stop him. What if the night beasts attacked? What if the zombie had only been the first? What if, what if, what if?

The hunter walked into those shadows, deeper and deeper until the darkness swallowed him.

4.

Jack Harlow had seen many things in his life, but he’d always felt invisible. On the sidelines. Safe. The hunter had said a word:
spotlight
. It was exactly right. The world focused on Jack now. Why? How? For how long?

All Jack wanted was to get back to Lisa, make sure she was okay, kill that damned . . .
imp
, that’s what it was.

Names often—but not always—came to him. He didn’t make up errant zombie, or lycanthrope, or revenant. After seeing something, he knew what to call it. Sometimes, he knew things by reputation. Ghosts, vampires, and witches all had stories and legends and myths. Sometimes, Jack knew instinctively which stories had an inkling of truth—like he’d done this before, but so long ago he couldn’t always be certain.

Imp. That was all he knew. Popular culture had no silver bullets or holy water to deal with such creatures. They were unique to Jack’s experience.

One of the owls launched into the air. It flew low over Jack’s head before veering away from the lake.

He walked slowly. Carefully. He made sure every step was light, soft, in the grass, so his feet didn’t tap the asphalt. He watched every shadow. Some shadows lived—or approximated living. They watched and listened, just as Jack did. He carried his laptop loosely in one hand.

Something had changed, something fundamental. Was it the imp? The Asian vampire chick? The ghost in the club? Or was it the ghost that followed him, even now, clinging to his warmth because she could not see “the light”?

“Are you still there?” he asked.

No immediate answer.

“I know you can’t see me, but I’m still warm, aren’t I?”

“You are,” she said.

“You sound young.”

“I was.”

“You can’t stay with me.”

“There is no place else,” she pleaded.

“There are hundreds of places. Thousands. Millions. But you must leave me.”

“Why?” She choked on the word, ready to cry.

“What do you hear around me?”

“Whispering,” she said, lowering her voice. “Voices. Footsteps. Questions. I hear no words, just the tone.”

“They’ve been with me since you came,” he said.