Dead of Winter (21 page)

  The sound changed, shifting to the dull thud of footsteps on wood. The creature was following their trail. Soon, she could hear hesitant steps on the wooden stairs. She turned to face the lantern James had placed there, raised her pistol, and waited for the creature to show itself.

  A shadow erupted from beyond the lantern's glow, hurtling toward James with blinding speed. James toppled backward with a cry, the monster on top of him. Cora could see the pale fingers tangled in the scholar's hair, pulling his chin up. With a howl of hunger, the vampire sank its teeth into the soft flesh of his exposed neck.

  A moment later, another howl shook the cavern as Cora's saber clove the undead flesh. She brought her sword arm around for another strike, but the vampire's clawed fingers gouged at her face. The impact knocked her backward as the saber clattered to the stone floor. Before she could recover, the vampire's weight slammed into her chest. A cold hand clamped onto her skull like a bear trap, forcing her head backward. In desperation, she dropped her pistol and wrapped her fingers around the vampire's throat, pushing against it as needle-sharp fangs snapped inches above her throat.

  The strain on her arms suddenly lifted as the vampire let out a bellow. It staggered to its feet and turned toward James, hissing in anger. As it turned, Cora could see a small wooden cross protruding from its back. The flesh around the wound smoked and sizzled as the monster crouched, preparing to launch itself at the frightened scholar.

  A brilliant flash blinded them all for a moment as the thunder of Cora's Colt filled the cavern. The sacred bullet punched through the vampire's leg, and the monster let out a screech of pain. Cora pulled back the hammer. When the vampire turned toward her, she fired again, aiming for its heart. The impact blew it backward over James's prostrate form and into the stone wall. Cora hauled herself to her feet, recovered her saber, and drove the tip into the vampire's chest. The life faded from its eyes, and the empty body tumbled to the floor of the cavern.

  Cora holstered her revolver, rolled the body over, and pulled the still-smoking cross from its flesh. She wiped both the cross and her saber on the vampire's ragged pants, then looked over her shoulder at James.

  "You still with me, George?"

  "I'm not sure," James replied. He rose on unsteady legs and braced himself against a boulder. Once on his feet, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his bleeding neck.

  She grinned and tossed him the cross. "Not bad for a greenhorn."

  The Englishman fumbled with the cross, and it clattered to the stone floor. He retrieved it and tucked it away inside his tweed jacket. "Yes, well, I figured it was safer than my trying to shoot it."

  Cora nodded. Her blade shimmered in the lamplight as she raised it high and brought it down on the vampire's neck. The head tumbled away, and she grinned again. "I'd say today was a good day."

  "Only if we leave before the rest of the brood arrives," James said, picking up a lantern. As he turned, his foot accidentally kicked the vampire's head toward Cora. He stumbled and nearly fell. Even in the dim light, Cora could see his pale face. She bent over, picked up the vampire's head by one ear, turned it toward the light for a good look at its face, and felt her own knees go weak. She slid her saber back into its scabbard, took the head in both hands, and turned it right side up. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared into the lifeless eyes of the creature she had just killed. The jagged mass of fangs protruding from its red lips turned the dead face into a nightmare mask, but she would have recognized those round cheeks and that bald patch anywhere.

  It was Boots.

  Her throat worked at swallowing for a few moments. "Hey, James," she finally said, "I don't suppose you can tell me how long this one's been a vampire?"

  "Perhaps, but not here," James said, picking up the second lantern from its place on the stairs.

  "Right," Cora said. Holding the head in one hand, she retrieved her Winchester from where James had dropped it. She kept it in her hand as she followed James up the stairs and into the mining tunnel. The Englishman set a brisk pace, slowing only for the barricade in the tunnel. He didn't turn back to her until they were in the foreman's office.

  "Now, then," he said, setting down the lanterns, "let's have a look."

  Cora set the head on the desk, and James bent over and looked into the dead face. He grimaced as he took it in one hand and rotated it from side to side. Cora waited by the door to the processing station, keeping an ear open for any sound of pursuit. Finally, the scholar nodded to himself and stood upright.

  "Well, I'm no physician," he said, "but I'd say this fellow's been dead for at least a week."

  "You sure?" Cora asked, coming to take a closer look.

  "Well, this isn't a fresh kill, by any account," James said. "Once a human has its blood drained by a vampire –
vrykolakas
or
nosferatu,
it makes no difference – the transformation into an undead will occur at the next sunset. The corpse must be shielded from sunlight during that time, or the change will not take place." He pointed to the dead man's jumble of elongated teeth. "However, this specimen exhibits an advanced degree of mandibular development, though not as advanced as some I've seen. Still, I'd say this man has been a vampire, and a well-fed one at that, for at least five days."

  "So you're telling me Boots had been dead for five days?" Cora asked. James nodded as he extinguished the lanterns and prepared to close up the mine. He picked up the bartender's head with his handkerchief and tossed it through the open door, where the morning sun reduced it to a flurry of ashes. Taking one last look around, James motioned for her to follow him.

  Cora didn't say a word as they climbed back into the coach and started for Harcourt's retreat. James contented himself with staring out the window at the passing scenery. Cora tried to enjoy it, too, but her mind kept returning to Boots. She'd stood at his bar, drank his private stock of rotgut, and played cards in his saloon. Boots, who was always so carefree and happy, a man too soft for the army. A man whose body had just tried to drink her neck dry.

  What James had said troubled her, too. Mart Duggan had mentioned speaking to Boots about that Wash Jones character only two days ago, but if the bartender had been dead for at least five days, that couldn't have happened. Either James was wrong about the time it took to turn into a vampire, or Duggan hadn't actually spoken to Boots.

  "Hey, George," Cora said. The scholar turned from the window to look at her. "You're sure about the five days thing? Boots couldn't have turned vampire any later?"

  "Well, my estimation wasn't precise," James replied, "but I would stake my life on at least three days. A freshlyturned vampire would not have exhibited such an extent of fang growth."

  "Right," Cora said, "so here's a stumper for you. What if I said the marshal in town, Mart Duggan, talked to Boots, the dead feller, two days ago?"

  James blinked a few times. "Well, I would say you were mistaken."

  "There's no way for that to happen?"

  "None," James said. He opened his mouth to continue when the coach pitched to one side, slamming his head into the wall. At the same time, a shadow swept past the window. James fell back into his seat, holding his palm to his head and cursing. Despite her worries, Cora laughed. James answered her laughter with a tight grin, then looked out the window, careful not to get too close. After a moment, he leaned back again and shook his head.

  "What is it?" Cora asked.

  "I think someone just passed us," James said.

  "Passed us?" Cora asked, sitting upright. "You mean they're heading back toward the mine?"

  "Yes," James said, then shrugged. "Perhaps Lord Harcourt has sent the foreman to retrieve something."

  They fell back into silence as the coach continued to sway and rumble along the road. When they arrived back at the retreat, Cora headed straight for the stable to collect her mare. She cinched up the saddle, led Our Lady around to the front of the retreat, and swung herself across the horse's back. As she turned back toward town, James emerged from the front door and called to her.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "I just spoke with Lord Harcourt," James said, approaching her. "He hasn't ordered anyone aside from us to the mine."

  "Any reason one of your boys would head out there on his own?"

  James shook his head. "They know of the dangers. Most of them think we should just abandon the mine altogether."

  "Maybe some fool heard about the rout and thought to swipe himself some silver while you're away."

  "Perhaps," James said. "If such is the case, he'll have a nasty surprise in store for him." He allowed himself a small smile. "I suppose the vampires are good for that much, at least."

  "At least until they eat so many bandits that they start to outnumber the townsfolk," Cora said.

  James pondered that for a moment. "Well, if we act quickly, they won't have the chance to grow their numbers. How soon can you make your preparations?"

  "Well," Cora said, watching Our Lady's ears twitch, "I ought to let the marshal know that his bartender ain't his bartender no more. After that, all I'll need to do is round up a few things from the hotel and fetch my husband."

  James consulted his pocket watch. "Can you return in an hour?" Cora nodded. "Very good. I shall see about recruiting some volunteers to accompany us."

  "Not too many, thanks," Cora said.

  "Of course not," James said. "Just enough to provide some backup."

  "Good enough." She tipped her hat to the scholar, gave Our Lady her heels, and headed south. Above her head, the sun was nearing its noonday summit. Glancing up at it, she prayed they could settle the vampires and make it back out of the mine before nightfall. She pulled her hat down over her brow and urged Our Lady forward.

 

Wash Jones thundered up to the mine in his stolen wagon, pulling back on the team's reins at the last minute. The horses reared in protest, but he didn't care. He'd nearly rammed that coach on the narrow road, and he knew when he saw it that he'd missed his chance to trap the bitch in the mine. That put him in a sour mood, and the fear that she'd found and stolen the coffin only made it worse.

  Slapping the reins over the team's back, he nudged the wagon up to the door and climbed down. He didn't bother to hobble the horses, instead checking on the burlap sheets in the back of the wagon. He'd added them as a last-minute consideration, thinking that it wouldn't do to ride into town with a coffin in plain sight. The sheets were still tucked beneath the seat. Satisfied, he made his way to the door. It was locked, but his pistol reduced the knob to a smoking hole. Once inside, he found a pair of lanterns sitting on a desk, still warm to the touch. He lit one and held it up in front of him. A door stood at the other end of the room, and he walked through it into the processing station.

  Wash found the first set of rails easily enough. He started making his way into the tunnel when he paused. Finding the coffin would be simple, but hauling it out to the wagon by himself would be damn near impossible. He walked back, following the rails, until he found a mine cart. It was empty except for a discarded pick. Grinning at his own cleverness, he set the lantern down inside and gave it a good pull. The metal wheels groaned in protest, but the cart moved. He retrieved the lantern, got behind the cart, and began pushing it down the tunnel.

  A hundred yards into the tunnel, he brought the cart to a halt. Something was in his way. Squeezing past the cart's rim, he lifted the lantern above his head and peered at the objects in the tunnel. These must have been what Boots had been talking about. Not much by way of barriers; just a few beams of wood nailed together standing upright along the tracks. Crouching down, he saw that each of the three contraptions stood on a misshapen wooden base held together by a few nails. He noticed a strong smell, like garlic, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  Wash set the lantern down and picked up the closest roadblock. It was lighter than it looked, but awkward in the small tunnel. He maneuvered it over to the mine cart and dropped it inside. After wiping his hands together, he lifted the second one and deposited it on top of the first, then crossed his arms and looked at the third. The mine cart wasn't big enough to hold it, but he couldn't just leave it after what Boots had said.

  After a few moments, he thought of a solution. He leaned the cross against the wall of the tunnel and began smashing it with the heel of his boot. The pounding echoed throughout the tunnel as the boards cracked beneath his blows. He kept it up until the entire thing had been reduced to kindling. Wash tossed a few pieces into the cart, picked up the lantern, and continued down the tunnel.

  As he walked, the gunman began wondering what on earth he was doing. He had blasted his way into a locked mine and spent the last half hour pushing a mine cart down a tunnel so he could steal a coffin and bring it back to a touched bartender. This wasn't the sort of fame and glory he wanted. To win a shooting match or even a duel against Cora Oglesby would earn him bragging rights for years to come. For the second time that day, he cursed his bad luck for letting her slip away. If he hadn't needed that stupid wagon, he could have made it in time and not be bothering with this little errand.

  The cart's wheels continued to groan along the tracks, sending echoes bouncing off into the shadows. He just had to be patient. Boots had promised to give him power beyond what he could fathom if he could bring back the coffin. Wash wasn't sure what he meant by that, but he knew he could feel something strong and sinister whenever the bartender was around. If the bartender's promise had something to do with that power, Wash would gladly take it and show the Mad Madam who was the better fighter.