Vamparazzi (27 page)

Then he saw yet another vampire emerging from the darkness, coming from somewhere behind the one he was fighting. He noticed it was approaching from
outside
the graveyard. Max circled his foe, and the change in his position brought more vampires into view. They weren't just
in
the graveyard, emerging from the soil, he realized with dawning horror; they were also attacking now from the woods beyond the cemetery. The victims had evidently fallen there in death and not yet been found or buried.

Max heard more shouting, unfamiliar voices, words he couldn't distinguish. He looked past the vampire he was fighting, and he saw strangers dismount their horses and run into the graveyard. Three men. One headed for Hoffman, who was frantically trying to reload his carbine while two vampires approached him from opposite directions.

These brave reinforcements gave Max a moment of hope. But then he realized the foolishness of that optimism. The living in this battle were badly outnumbered by the undead. A quick, frantic glance around the cemetery revealed a shocking number of vampires. And more were emerging from the darkness even as Max returned his full attention to trying to defeat the one he was combating before another one could attack him.

There were too many of them. There were just
too many . . .

He took a deep breath and recognized that he would die in Medvegia.

Acceptance was best. Fear, panic, and vain protests against his fate would cloud his mind and make him more vulnerable to his adversaries. In this, his final battle, he wanted to fight well and take as many vampires to hell with him as he could.

He also, he realized with sick dread, did not want to
become
one of them.

Max feinted to the right. The vampire followed his lead. He whirled around, turning a complete circle to the left, and swung a true blow, connecting exactly as intended. The vampire's head flew off and rolled away. As the decapitated body fell toward him, Max took a step backward to avoid contact—and backed straight into the arms of another vampire.

Heart thundering in his chest, he struggled against the powerful arms that held him, pinning Max's own arms to his side. He felt blood dripping from his injured hand, making it slippery, making the ax handle difficult to hold onto—especially with his arms being squeezed ruthlessly against his body. The foul odor of the creature which held him was nauseating, and the way the thing snuffled hungrily at his flesh filled him with revulsion. He felt its grip tighten and its head move to sink its teeth into the back of his neck, where it would gnaw and tear, laboriously mauling his living tissue while he screamed in agony and struggled to survive ...

And then he felt the vampire grunt in surprise as it was wrenched violently backward. Its arms flailed, releasing Max. He staggered away, then turned quickly—in time to see, to his utter astonishment, one of the newly arrived strangers turn the creature's head sharply in his bare hands and
rip
it off the body.

His blood roaring in his ears, Max just stared in openmouthed shock.

After a moment, the tall, powerfully built, gray-haired man looked up and shouted something at him. Max didn't understand the language, but the urgency of the tone returned him to his senses. He lunged to the right as he whirled sharply, his ax ready for engagement. The vampire that was attacking him from behind howled in frustration and lunged for him again. Max heard a faint humming sound shoot past him, then he saw the vampire flinch as if in response to a blow. It staggered back a few steps and clutched its chest with both hands. Then it let out a horrible sound and fell down.

Max turned to see the stranger holding a crossbow still aimed at the vampire, which was when he recognized what had just happened. The stranger lowered the weapon, approached Max, and spoke tersely, still in that unfamiliar language. Max realized an instant later what he wanted; the man seized his ax as he strode past him, and he used it to behead the fallen creature.

Just beyond where the stranger was doing this, Max saw the vampire which had once been Miliza Pavle wrestle the shovel away from Bosko and strike him with it. The dazed Serb fell facedown, and the vampire raised the shovel for another blow, clearly intent on bludgeoning the back of Bosko's head with it.

“No! Fly from her!” Max shouted in Latin, pointing at the shovel, concentrating all his energy on the animative spell.

The shovel flew out of Miliza's hands and disappeared into the darkness.

The stranger saw this deed. He turned and met Max's gaze. His heavily lined face, like his gray hair, was a puzzling contrast to his speed, strength, and agility in combat.

He said to Max in Latin, “You are something out of the ordinary, aren't you?”

“So, it would seem, are you,” Max said in the same language.

They continued staring at each other in puzzled curiosity for another moment.

Then the stranger's expression changed. “Get down!”

Max dropped to the ground as the man hurled the ax over Max's head. It connected with a heavy thud behind him. Even as Max was turning to see the attacking vampire fall backward, his ax now planted firmly in its chest, the stranger was already running past him to retrieve the weapon from its target and use it to decapitate the creature.

I might not die after all,
Max realized in astonishment.

That glimmer of hope renewed his strength and infused him with the first sense of optimism he'd felt in quite some time. He caught his ax when the vampirekiller tossed it to him, and he re-entered the fray with vigor—well aware, from that point forward, that the three strangers who had arrived in the nick of time were doing the lion's share of the slaying.

The battle was over in a remarkably short period of time. And to Max's trembling relief, all five of the young soldiers who had accompanied him to Medvegia were still alive. Hoffman was babbling hysterically and seemed as if he might not be quite himself for a while, and another of the soldiers had a leg wound, but everyone had survived and would live to see the dawn.

Breathing hard with fatigue and limp with relief, Max cradled his injured hand against his chest as he watched the stranger who had saved his life give instructions in his unfamiliar language to the other two men who had arrived with him. They mounted their horses and rode off into the night.

“Where are they going?” Bosko asked, limping to Max's side.

“Are you all right?” Max was relieved to see the Serbian alive and in one piece.

“Miliza Pavle changed a great deal after death,” he said seriously. “But I am well enough. And you?”

Max looked down at his blood-drenched hand. The cut made by the ax was long and deep. “This isn't serious, but it
is
messy. I need to wrap it in something.”

Bosko made a strange gurgling noise. Max looked at him and, in the faint torchlight, saw that the Serb's gaze was wide-eyed now, fixed on his bloody hand.

“It's bleeding rather copiously, but it is just a cut,” Max said reassuringly as he extended his hand to catch the wavering light and get a better look at it.

“Magician!” The vampire-slaying stranger called in Latin, crossing the graveyard and coming toward him. “I think that you and I have much to discuss.”

“I agree,” Max called back.

Bosko started to pant anxiously. Max looked at him again and saw that the man's gaze was still riveted on his bloody hand. The Serb's face was contorting into an awful expression.

“Does the sight of blood distress you?” It was an affliction Max had encountered before. He turned away, intending to conceal the injury from Bosko's gaze.

“No!”
The man growled in his native language, stopping him with a rough tug on his shoulder. “Give
me!
”

Bosko seized Max's hand, dragged it up to his mouth, and sucked furiously on the bloody wound.

“Good God!” Max gasped, trying to pull his hand out of the man's powerful grasp—and away from that thirstily consuming mouth. “What are you
doing?
”

“Magician!”
the stranger shouted.

As Max struggled for possession of his hand, Bosko made obscene grunting noises of satisfaction, slurping and sucking messily, biting and scratching as Max tried to escape his clutches.

“Stop!” Max cried, caught off guard by the man's unexpected strength and bizarre behavior. “Release me!”

He heard rapidly thudding footsteps come up behind him, and then the stranger's harsh breathing was near his ear as a big fist shot past him and hit Bosko sharply in one exultantly closed eye. Bosko cried out in pain and staggered backward, his hand covering his eye and Max's blood staining his mouth and chin.

The stranger raised his crossbow.

“No!” Max shouted.

Bosko uttered an abortive squeal even as Max lunged for the stranger's weapon—too late.

Too late.

The crossbow bolt sticking partway out of Bosko's forehead was still quivering as the Serb fell over dead.

Max turned on the stranger in horrified fury. “What have you
done?
”

“He was a vampire,” the man said simply.

“No, he wasn't!”

“He was. And, based on the way he attacked you, he was not in control of himself. He would soon have become a killer, if he was not one already.”

“You're mad!” He felt he could scarcely breathe as he looked again at the deceased Serb—a man whom he had rather liked.

“Do you imagine he was
tending
your bloody wound?” Max looked down at his hand in an appalled daze. “He . . . he . . . I . . .” What had Bosko been
doing?

“He was drinking your blood. Sating his hunger.”

Revolted, enraged, and grieving over the murder of a good man, Max clung to the only rational thought he could find in his whirling confusion. “He was
not
undead ! He was as alive as you and I are!”

“Yes, he was,” the stranger agreed. “And he was also a vampire.”

Max stared at him, dumbfounded.

“A
made
vampire,” the man added. “That much is certain.”

“A made . . .”

“Did you notice him exhibiting any symptoms?”

“What?”

“Heightened senses, for example? Did his hearing, vision, or sense of smell seem abnormally acute?”

“He . . .” Max drew in a sharp breath. “His hearing.” His throat felt raw as he said, “He had unusually good hearing.”

“And he let you notice.” There was a touch of condescension in the stranger's voice. “That is typical of the made. Especially the newly made. They are unaccustomed to the superior senses of the vampire, and it often shows.”

“The
made?
What on earth are you saying?”

“He was not born a vampire.”

“Who is
ever
born a vampire?” Max demanded in frustrated bewilderment.

“He
became
one. Perhaps quite recently.” The man looked around at the vampire corpses that littered the graveyard. “Certainly there seems to be no shortage of opportunity in this village, if one is so inclined.”

“Opportunity?”

“Do you happen to know if he killed a vampire?”

Max blinked. “Er, yes. He did. How did you know?”

“That is presumably when he drank vampire blood. And thus became made as one.”

“He became a vampire by drinking the blood of . . .” Max looked around at the odorous, decaying bodies of the undead which they had just fought and slain. His restless stomach roiled in revulsion. “Dear God! How
could
he?”

“He was presumably seeking heightened strength, keener senses, and improved well-being. One who yearns for these gifts overcomes his disgust if only the undead are available. He did what was necessary to fulfill his desire.”

“Necessary?”
For a moment, as he imagined what Bosko must have done to become a vampire, Max thought he would vomit.

“He very likely did not anticipate the blood hunger he would experience. And when it came upon him tonight . . .”

Max's grief and anger returned. “You should not have
killed
him!”

“The made can be very dangerous. You obviously have no idea
how
dangerous. If they lack self-control, as he did, they must be executed.” The tall, gray-haired stranger added, “This is precisely why my people rarely allow a vampire to be made.”

“Your peo . . .” Max took a few breaths, trying to steady himself and martial his madly careening thoughts. “Who
are
your people? Who are
you?
Where did you come from?”

“My name is Jurgis Radvila. I have come from Vilnius.”

“In Lithuania?
That
Vilnius?” Max blurted, still bewildered.

“Yes,” said Radvila. “The journey was long. And I now realize that we should have come sooner.”

“We . . .” Max's gaze returned to Bosko's corpse as he asked, “Where did your companions go?”

“They are patrolling.”

“It's dark.”

“We can see better by night than you can.”

Images of the recent battle flooded Max's mind. “You possess some form of mystical power,” he said slowly.

“So do you, magician.”

“My name is Maximillian Zadok.” He glanced at Radvila's crossbow. “Why are your crossbows more effective against the undead than our firearms?”

“The bolts we use are made from a special alloy. An ancient formula known only to us.”