Vampire Seeker (7 page)

Then there was another sound and it boomed like my heart. I looked to my right, water splashing up into my face as the bear
raced closer towards me. Harry was running down along the bank towards me, guns held high in his fists. He was firing them
over and over again, the sound of them like thunder.

“Hey! Hey!” he was shouting, as if to draw the bear’s attention from me and towards him.

“Harry!” I shouted, watching him come racing along the edge of the river, his boots sending up sprays of water.

The bear lunged at me with a giant paw. I ducked beneath the water, some of it spilling into my mouth. I wasn’t a great
swimmer – not back home anyhow – and being here didn’t seem to make much difference. I peered up through
the water and could see Harry as he sped along the bank; he appeared to be moving at a great speed – faster than I had
ever seen anyone run before. Blinking, I couldn’t be sure if watching him through the water was distorting my view –
making him appear to be moving faster than he really was – or could.

Needing air, I raised my head above the water and the bear towered over me. It swiped its meaty arms through the air, its
claws passing so close to my face that I felt a rush of air spray droplets of water across my cheeks. Then the bear was roaring
again, a thick, ropey length of saliva swinging from it jaws. It hit the water just inches from me with its paw, and the splash
was so great that I went flying back beneath the water again. A stream of bubbles escaped from my nose and mouth as I gasped
for air.

Then, peering up through the water again, desperate to locate the beast, I saw something clinging to its back. It was Harry.
Somehow he had managed to launch himself at the bear and now looked to be riding it, like a cowboy rides a wild bull in a
rodeo. The bear sliced its claws backwards as it tried to reach for Harry. But he held on tight as the bear shook its body,
trying to throw him clear.

Then as the water splashed and rippled above me, I saw Harry pinwheel his arms around in the air so fast, that they became
almost a blur. The water suddenly turned red, almost black, as blood sprayed from the bear. Chunks of fur-covered flesh splattered
all around me, and even beneath the water, the sound of the bear howling in pain was ear-splitting.

With my lungs feeling like they were going to burst and my head feeling light, I thrust my head above the surface of the water
and gulped in large mouthfuls of air. Arming the water from my eyes, I looked up to see Harry still perched on the bear’s
colossal back. Strips of flesh hung from it in ragged chunks. In one quick flash of movement, Harry drew one of his guns,
placed the barrel against the crown of the bear’s head and fired. A stream of red mess shot from the bear’s open
jaws. It buckled beneath Harry, who back-flipped off the bear and landed in the water with a splash.

Like a drunken ballerina, the bear wobbled from side to side, released a rasping groan from the back of its throat, and then
collapsed onto its side in the water. I watched as it drifted away from me and downstream. Something snaked its way around
my waist and I gasped out loud.

“There’s nothing to fear,” a voice whispered in my ear.

I glanced over my shoulder to see that it was Harry who had hold of me. With his arm coiled about me, he swam back towards
the bank. His arm felt strong, almost crushing the breath from me as he guided me backwards.

“You can let go of me,” I wheezed, conscious of the fact I was naked beneath the water.

“Keep calm,” he whispered, and I could feel his breath against my ear.

“I’m quite calm, thank you very much,” I replied. “Now please let go of me.”

“Nearly there,” he said, pulling me towards the edge of the water.

Sensing that the river was becoming shallower, I said, “I’m naked.”

“I know,” he whispered back and pulled me from the water.

He held me against him, and like mine, his body felt as cold as ice.

“You’re shivering,” he said, his grey eyes concentrating on mine.

“So are you,” I replied, looking back into his eyes, which were as grey as stone.

“I’m cold,” he whispered, his sandy coloured hair dripping water onto his face.

“So am I,” I told him, wanting to get dressed, but a small part of me enjoying being held by him.

“You don’t shiver because you’re cold,” he said, pressing one of his strong hands into the small of
my back, his little finger resting just above the groove of my buttocks.

“Why then?” I asked.

“You shiver because of fear,” he said, his lips a grim line across the lower half of his face.

“Fear of what?” I breathed, my breasts pressed flat against his hard, damp chest.

Then that grim-looking line across his face broke into something close to a smile. “Get dressed,” he ordered,
“the others are coming.” As if dismissing me, he let go and walked away. I hurriedly picked up my clothes at the
sound of the others racing towards us through the shrubs. I put on my shirt and denims. All the while, I watched Harry walk
away from me back towards the horses. There was something about him I just couldn’t figure out. He seemed so distrusting
of me last night around the fire, almost angry for some reason. He had made me look like an idiot by giving me whiskey –
that hadn’t been a mistake. But there was something else, the way he had raced along the shore, how he had suddenly
appeared on that bear’s back and the wounds he had inflicted on it. Who was Harry Turner?
What
was he? Was he a figment of my imagination? If he was, then perhaps I could get rid of how he had left me feeling –
confused, yet excited somehow.

Had I made him feel the same way
? I wondered.
Had he enjoyed holding me close to him like that
?

I pulled on my boots and fastened my gun belt, never taking my eyes off him as he walked up the bank. I knew that if he looked
back – just once – then he liked me. But he didn’t.

Harry might not have looked back, but he was right about one thing, I was scared. Because if Harry was real, along with the
others, and I really was in 1888, how was I ever going to get home again?

Spencer Drake

“What happened?” the preacher hissed, running into the clearing, guns drawn. His crystal blue eyes scanned the
shore, searching for any immediate threat.

Louise and Zoe appeared close behind him, guns clenched tightly in their fists.

“I was attacked by a bear,” I said, flicking my damp hair back from shoulders.

“What bear?” Louise snapped, her guns raised and coattails flowing out behind her.

“It’s dead now,” I said quite calmly.

“You killed it?” Zoe asked me, scanning the shore for its corpse.

“Not me,” I said with a shake of my head. “Harry killed it.”

“Where is he now?” the preacher asked.

I nodded down the shoreline towards Harry, who was now leading the horses away from the water’s edge and back towards
camp. The preacher looked back at me.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said back, not knowing if that was really true or not. Half of me just wanted to come clean, to tell
the preacher everything. Wasn’t he meant to be a man of God, after all? Shouldn’t I therefore be able to confide
in him – tell him my secrets – and receive his blessings? Maybe if I did tell them I was from the year 2012, unconscious
and traveling on a train that snaked its way beneath London, I might disrupt this whole illusion I’d created and they
would all just disappear in a puff of smoke. But what if they didn’t? I’d be in the crap again, six revolvers
aimed at my head.

So grabbing my coat from the ground, I brushed past the preacher and made my way back towards the camp. I heard them slide
their guns back into their holsters and make their way after me. Harry had arrived back before us. One of the horses he had
reined to the front of the wagon, and the others he had saddled. I watched as he mounted a white horse. It had a long black
streak running like a jagged cut down the length of its forehead and muzzle. Although its coat was white, its mane and tail
were jet-black. Somehow I knew that it was a Mustang but had never seen one with such colouring before. Could I ride, too?
As far as I was aware, I had never ridden a horse before - but then again, I had never fired a gun before, but here I was
an ace at it.

Zoe and Louise mounted the remaining two horses and the preacher climbed aboard the wagon. From the side I could see that
the back wheels were larger than those at the front. I heard Harry make a clucking sound in the back of his throat, and his
horse trotted forward. Zoe and Louise followed on theirs.

“Climb up,” the preacher said, looking down at me.

Realising that I wasn’t going to find out if I could ride a horse or not, I climbed on board the wagon and sat next
to the preacher. With one quick flick of the reins, the horse began to move forward. The wagon lurched, and gripping the handrail
at the side, I steadied myself.

Reaching for something beside him, the preacher produced my hat, and with a smile barely visible beneath his overgrown moustache,
he said, “Don’t forget your hat, cowgirl.”

I took it from him, and settling back into the wooden seat, I placed it on my head.

The journey to the town of Black Water Gap wasn’t the most comfortable of journeys that I had ever made. The ground
was uneven in places and the wagon listed from left to right, and up and down. The horse out front bobbed its head and swished
flies and other insects away with its tail. Apart from being uncomfortable and my arse going numb on the wooden seat, we passed
across some breathtakingly beautiful country. I had only seen such red coloured rocks and rugged mountains in picture books
before, or in holiday brochures advertising vacations I could never have afforded. To look at the world around me, really,
was like looking at all those scenes I had seen in old cowboy films. There really were cactus plants growing out of the ragged
ground every few feet, and everything had a dried-out, burnt look to it. Everywhere I glanced, the horizon seemed to be awash
with burnt amber colours, yellows and browns. The world looked as if at some time in the ancient past, it had been set alight
and left to slowly burn. Although the sun hung high above, that chill wind nagged at me, and I pulled my coat tighter around
me.

Harry, Louise, and Zoe rode ahead, their horses trotting next to one another. Every so often they would exchange a few words,
but I was too far away to hear what it was they were talking about. I glanced sideways at the preacher, his black hat with
the wide brim pulled low over his brow. Apart from his white dog collar, his coat and clothes were all black. Sitting so close
to him, I could see that his face was lined with some wrinkles. It was hard to guess his real age. He wasn’t unattractive,
but he had a look of danger about him. It was his eyes, they were cold and blue, and when he looked at me, it was like he
was staring straight into my soul. I thought of the noises he and Louise had made as they’d shagged in the wagon the
night before and I wondered if they were really together, or was it just a sex thing? Was a preacher man allowed to take a
woman into his bed? I didn’t think so, but perhaps things were different back in 1888?

As I sat and studied him from the corner of my eye, he looked at me and said, “What’s that tune you whistle?”

“Sorry?” I said, unaware I’d been whistling at all.

“That tune, I’ve never heard that before.”

Then blushing, I realised I’d been whistling the song
Preacher Man
by Dusty Springfield. I felt like a right idiot. “It’s just a song I heard back home, in England,” I told
him.

“What’s it called?” he said, snapping his head to the right and fixing me with his cool stare.

Feeling my cheeks burning, I lied and said, “I can’t remember now.” How could I confess that I’d been
staring at him and whistling that particular song? Not only that, the song hadn’t even been written yet and probably
wouldn’t be for another seventy years or so. I knew I couldn’t afford to make another slipup like that again or
I’d be out of time in more ways than one. As I sat and wondered for how long I could keep the pretence up of being brought
up in the old west, the preacher asked, “So, you carry guns back in England?”

“Erm…” I mumbled.

“It’s just that you’re a good shot,” he said, looking straight at me, as if checking my reaction to
his question. “I know many a gunfighter who would sell their own mothers to have the speed and skill that you have.”

“Erm…” I said again, not knowing what to say. People didn’t carry guns in England unless they were a cop
or on the wrong side of the law. Like I said, my history wasn’t great, but even back in the London of 1888, guns weren’t
openly carried by people.

“It’s just that you’ve been blessed with a God-given gift or…” he started.

“So what faith do you actually preach,
Preacher
?” I cut over him. “Are you a Catholic, Baptist, or something else, because you sure are the strangest holy man
that I’ve ever met.”

With his moustache twitching beneath his nose, and his lips pressed together in a thin, white line, I wished that I could
take back the cocky remark I’d just made. I might have well of just said to him, “Mind your own fucking business,”
and he knew it. Then, to my surprise, his grimace turned into a smile and he laughed. It was deep and throaty, more like a
rasp. He reached inside his coat, and my fingers instinctively hovered over my guns.

The preacher glanced down at my hands, and with that smile still playing on his lips, he pulled out that small wooden box
with the smokes from inside his coat. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it and shoved it towards me. With my eyes fixed
on his, I took one of the cigarettes and popped it between my lips. Taking one for himself, he put the box away and lit both
smokes. I inhaled, my eyes still on his.

“So are you really a preacher?” I asked him, as he blew smoke from beneath his moustache.