The Water Management district here held an open house for the Pitt Springs recreation area, which has been closed for a year and a half now so that 'improvements coiuld be made to Mother nature's work. I give them a 'C'  minus.

This was the spring before the shutdown....

...and this is how it looks now, the retaining wall has been removed and native vegetation
has been planted to hold the banks in place.

 The trails have been replaced with walkways, as if that will keep me from taking off
 into the woods like a scofflaw.

Back at work, I tried to take pictures of a very un-cooperative porpoise

And on the way to work, I spotted this crop of Ringless Honey Mushrooms.
Very few shrooms have a flavor worth mentioning, but these guys are flat-out delicious!
They have a nutty taste, and a slightly chewy texture; an excellent side dish, or sauteed with any meat.

This old man in the hall, is he asleep?

Outside Mother’s room, against the wall,

Black feet and head book-ending a white sheet?

What does he see up on the ceiling?

Is his soul now before God, kneeling?

Is eyes-open just the way he sleeps,

or is this sleep of his for keeps?

What is he doing on that gurney,

outside the room where mom is learning

that she needs to curb her yearning

for meats that are too red?

Where is his nurse, his doctor,

should he be left unattended?

I’m just a kid, is he alive or is he dead?

Did I see him try to blink his eyes?

Did his chest just fall, or did it rise?

Did a pulse just bulge under eggplant-colored skin?

Or is a boy of ten seeing how his life will end?

No one passes as we stare, me at him, and him at the air.

If I touched him, would his moving, or his not, give me the biggest scare?

It matters not, I didn’t dare, I wished that I'd been braver

And to this day I wonder, was he asleep or a cadaver?

My neighbor knocked on my door at 2:30am this morning. Can you believe
that…. 2:30am?! Lucky for him I was still up playing my drums.
===============
I sat on the train this morning opposite a stunning Thai girl. I kept
thinking to myself, please don't get an erection, please don't get an
erection...but she did.
=============
Did you hear about the fat alcoholic transvestite? All he wanted to do was
eat, drink and be Mary.
==============
Man calls 911 and says "I think my wife is dead" The operator says how do
you know? He says "The sex is the same but the ironing is building up!
============
I was in bed with a blind girl last night and she said that I had the
biggest willy she had ever laid her hands on. I said "You're pulling my leg"
=============
I saw a poor old lady fall over today on the ice!! At least I presume she
was poor - she only had $5 in her purse.
===============
My girlfriend thinks that I'm a stalker. Well, she's not exactly my
girlfriend yet.

What's the difference between Iron Man and Iron Woman? One's a superhero and
the other is an instruction.
================

An old lady is being examined by the Doctor. He asks “Have you ever been
bedridden?”
She says, “Yes I have, and I've been table ended and backskuttled a few
times too!”
================

Went for my routine check up today and everything seemed to be going fine
until he stuck his index finger up my bum! Do you think I should change
dentists?
================

A wife says to her husband you're always pushing me around and talking
behind my back.
He says “What do you expect? You're in a wheel chair.”
=================

Doctors have just identified a food that can cause grief and suffering years
after it's been eaten. It's called a wedding cake.
=================

I was in the pub with my wife last night and I said “I love you.”
She said, “Is that you or the beer talking?”
I replied, “It's me talking to the beer.”
==================

The wife has been missing a week now. Police said to prepare for the worst.
So I have been to the charity shop to get all her clothes back.
===================

 

IMPROPER FOOTWEAR FOR THE WOODCHOPPER'S BALL
                                or, a lesson I should not have needed

I was done chopping firewood for the day, and I swung the axe hard,
bringing it down on trunk of the 70-year old pine. The blade bounced
off the hard wood and followed a path that brought it in contact with
my right foot. A nasty bruise and a 1-inch cut is all I got out of what
could have been much, much worse.
 

 

As clunky and unstylish as steel-toed boots may be, don't count on having my luck, I'm not going to.

 

The first three pictures are for the benefit of a friend with an interest in bridge design..

 
The Huey Long Bridge, which crosses the Mississippi River just north of New
 Orleans, is being widened. No longer will there be just two narrow lanes for
traffic in either direction... 

 

...there will be 3 lanes, 11-ft. wide, plus an 8-ft. wide, pedestrian and bike lane
on each side.

 

Widening the bridge supports, built in the 1930's, was the first order of business

 
In Florida, we build a new bridge, and use the old bridge fer fishin'...

 
...or for early-morning picture-taking

Meanwhile, back at the ramp...
 
A storm is brewing over Meaher State park in Alabama

Edible boletes in N. Florida 

Wildflowers after a hard rain
 

 

 
The wild persimmons are ripe now. MMmmmmm, good!

"Sweet Revenge", said Satan as he offered me the brightly-colored bag full of lost souls. "Stewed in their own bitter bile, imbued with hatred over perceived slights, and smothered with a desire to get even, no matter the cost. Of course, they complain about the cost as they are being dumped in the bag."

He pointed to a row of candy boxes with plastic-covered cut-outs so one could see the contents, which in this case were terrified faces, many familiar to readers.  "Bitter Ends, Hitler in the bunker, Saddam on the gallows, Al Capone crazed by veneral disease, a pit-bull fighter killed by his own dogs. Hard Feelings, wife abusers, interrogators who use torture, pederast priests and others who abused children's trust. A hard exterior that cracks under pressure, revealing a weak, jelly-like center."

His laughter echoed through the mountains of Pakistan, where we had both come to oversee the transfer of a particularly evil soul unto the Devil's realm. Satan was there to welcome the odious fellow, I was there to ensure that the new arrival wasn't coddled by his new landlord, given a supervisory job in an air conditioned office, taking body shots off Lucretia Borgia, that sort of thing. It wasn't happening on my watch, and it is ALWAYS my watch.

The miserable little soul for whom we had convened was being shown the results of his evil actions, forced to feel the sadness and loss of the survivors, and the pain of each victim. My angels would be dropping him off soon.

Satan was miffed at the delay. "I thought you were perfect, that you knew everything." He made a point of looking at his watch, an old-fashioned variety with a face and hands. The current face was that of  Nazi scientist Mengele, the hands once belonged to Jeffrey Dahmer. Each sweep of the hour and minute across the Doctor's visage left another trail of blood and rent flesh. "It's a Slimex, takes the sickening to keep it ticking." he cackled.

"I am, and I do." I replied, "But my posse isn't. I could do it all, but then the angels would feel useless, the cherubs would hassle the incoming out of sheer boredom, St. Peter would just get in the way."

"I get that, and by its nature, the pool of middle-management candidates I get to choose from is far less stellar then yours. Excuse me, I must attend to a paying customer." Satan had assumed the guise of a merchant in a bazaar in Abbottabad. The figure to which he pointed was a Taliban fighter, shopping for cell-phones, which can be used to trigger IED's. He and the Proprieter exchanged greetings and wished the blessings of Allah upon one another.

Allah is only one of my many nicknames, but I did not care for it being sullied by someone who had killed women and children in villages not sufficiently anti-infidel. As he left Satan's kiosk, I dialed his new phone, and when he answered, I ignited the plastique in his backpack.

Satan blew the dust and debris off his display table. "Still got that wrathful Old Testament thing going on, I see. At least you waited until he paid."

"It was his time."

"Right, Time to spontaneously explode. You are all-powerful, but you haven't written it all out. The broad strokes, maybe, but not every action." Then he added, "I can read you like a book."

"Like the book you quote, the one you pervert to your own ends?"

Just then, through the smoke and debris, came the angels charged with collecting and transferring the damned soul, who did not stand so tall, now that the weight of the misery he had caused was strapped to his naked shoulders. A gaping hole opened in the ground in front of the stand, out of which poured yellow and gray smokes, black puffs of oily mist, and shimmering fumes. A trio of black dogs leapt out of the noxous maw, and with their powerful jaws seized the figure by various sensitive points of the body. My angels rose into the air as Osama Bin Laden plummeted into the depths of Hell.

Satan leaned over the hole, one hand cupped to his ear, and listened to the screams as the hole disappeared. "That's gonna sound right tasty on my new Koss headphones."

"So we're done here," I said, fashioning a chair out of a passing cloud.

"Stick around, have a glass of Delicious Irony with me, pureed and filtered...."

"I have been in your presence long enough that your smell lingers in my garment."

My vessel completed, I sat down and started off in direction of the still-pristine Himalayas. His voice faded as the distance between us grew.

"Well I guess I can eat both of these Hot Grudge Sundays by myself, done it before...." 

*I've committed this particular sacrilege before, here, and here

What do you lose when an old friend dies? Your memories of him don't die, they may in fact become more vivid, as if grief works like a restorer of old paintings, carefully brushing and washing each ridge, each whorl, each dash of color, to reveal subtleties and nuances of depth and light, qualities that had been obscured for years, even decades, adding so much to the potrait. Death puts the signature on the canvas. No more adding to the scene, all you can do look at what you have.

Maybe a better metaphor is a tapestry, woven of strands from many sources, but shared by two. The changing dynamic of a relationship can only be hinted at in a painting, a tapestry can bring it to life, by illuminating the pivotal moments, and introducing new elements, athough the old remain, as long as the weaving continues. the survivor is tasked with tying the loose threads together.

Memories of close friends are actually more like tattoos. The images are that personal, the memories so tangible, they are almost a part of you. Some memories were painful in the making, some hurt worse for where the skin was pierced.

What do you lose? That comfortable feeling when you see his car in the driveway, the easy practiced banter, the rituals of preparing beverages, choosing seats and subjects, and the knowledge that what ever is said will stay between each other's ears. The security that comes from a friend who will come to your aid at 3 a.m., armed with enough knowledge to be of assistance. Those magic moments when you both say the same thing simultaneously. And those memories? They are compounded, not doubled, when you are reminiscing with the fellow maker of those memories. Together, you bring out more detail for the painter, more thread for the weaver, more ink to get under your skin.

So many questions will never get answered now, so many incomplete memories will stay that way, or be polluted by cross-images that friends would help filter out. Or they might add errata, in which case you step up and say it wasn't so.

Part of you goes, therefore, when a good friend dies. His memories of you are gone forever.

Dido used to post on xanga; his job gave him many opportunities to photograph the odd loads he carried as a semi-truck driver. He was a good writer, and his letters to the local paper were models of the form. He had a DJ's voice and biceps that were the envy of our whole gang. Dido loved to drive, so semis and he were a natural fit. I would define his politics as 'compassionate libertarianism', as he varied from the platform in his support of unions and national health care.

He could assess a situation accurately, but generally he was assessing a subject that was not under discussion, or did nothing to clarify the point in contention. As an example, the subject of my record collection came up one day. I had then around 1400 albums, I have 1600 now, as I still prefer the sound of an LP to that of other mediums. Dido kiddingly accused me of having as a goal acquiring a copy of every album by every group. "It's like when you drive, you have to be at the head of the line, you can't just ride in the middle. Always have to be first, always have to have the most records."
Well, I mostly collected LP's that weren't big sellers, ones that did not get plays on the radio as much, so I had no interest in any record that garnedred airplay, But he was dead-on in his throwaway assessment of my driving style, and I set about changing it. That was Dido, his best advice was generally unintentional..

I forget how we came to be roommates; it was sometime after we worked together at Burger Chef, a defunct chain that was basically a BK rip-off. We both tried our hands at several occupations in those days, Dido's oddest job was doing a parrot show. He was a natural ham, and the birds worked well with him, so it was a fit for Dido, as I will always remember him.. But I think that was when he went to trucking school on his Dad's dime. See? This is when I will miss him most in the future, when a memory is a little cloudy, and only his input could possibly clear it up.

I have no trouble remembering one night when he sang 'House at Pooh Corner' to his baby daughter, and Holley sang along remembering maybe one word out five.

The night in 1973 that he and Walter were arrested for shooting bottle rockets, we had no idea until they came back home two hours later. Walter's mom has bailed them out; cell-phones were a dream back then, and we had no house phone most of the time. That charge somehow mutated into 'shooting at an officer', and dogged Dido the last few years.

Twice girls that Dido was interested in went out with me instead, and I married his double-ex-wife, after their second split-up. I never found out from him how he felt about those two leaving him for me, but I heard that I hurt his pride. I would have liked to have finally apologized for that, I was young, and there were plenty of other gals around, but I didn't know them. When Cathy and I fell in love, he took it hard, and probably considered it a continuation of my woman-stealing, although it was never like that. Things were difficult for a few years, but we were as close as ever by the beginning of this summer, closer, maybe.

I don't know how to end this piece, I am still dealing with it all. The funeral won't be until at least Saturday, we will drive down the day before, I will say goodbye to my friend, and then back to our slightly dimmer lives.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE (in the order in which they doth appear)

Chanting Order of Gregorian Monks

Bugs of the Warren in the Eastern Heath, a bunny

Daffy of Duckworth Moor

Elmer of  Township Fudd, a hunter of some renown

 

ACT ONE, Scene 1

{A clearing in a forest bordering  a lake. Emerging from the forest comes the monks, ....}

Chanting monks:
Is est is , nox noctis de nox noctis,
is est is nos mos ledo sublimitas.
Haud magis resumpsi , vel curatio a secui ,
 nos teneo sulum secui per pectus pectoris*....

   {who stop at the edge of the clearing}

Chanting Monks: [tenors] This is the place

                           [altos] a place as good as any..

                         [tenors] to stop for the night

                           [all]     and rest our weary bones

{curtain}

Act One, scene 2

{camp has been set up. The monk assigned to cooking duties dumps a pail of roots and leaves into a giant cookpot, from under which a curl of smoke rises. A hare of some size and sassy demeanor suddenly dashes into view. He stops and takes in the lake, the monks, and turns to the audience}

Bugs:  Yoiks! 'tis no longer mayhap, but a certaintude, that upon my encountering the forked trail north of Alberkoiky-on-Ribble,
            I opted not for the correct path. Hey youse! {addressing the monks} Will yonder road taketh me to the fabled and many-storied
            Festival of Carrots?

Chanting Monks [together]: Verily, yea, verily

                                [tenors]:And stay ye for dinner, a stew poorly stocked

                                  [altos]: Yet wholesome

                           [tenors]: And indulge us to hear a tale or twain of this distant land you call

                                 [all]:Alberkoikee

{There comes from the woods the sound of a gunshot. The monks flee into the woods. Bugs looks around, shrugs his shoulders, and jumps into the monks' cookpot. From the direction of the shot comes a frazzled and desperate Daffy}

Daffy:{dashing this way and that} Woot! woot-wootdoot-wootwootwoot! Sport is it? Sport to use this weapon of new design upon hapless creatures such as myself, who already suffered a great disadvantage at the hands of the spear, and in turn that nefarious invention men called the longbow, a trend predicating upon the future a continuation, aye, even an increase in velocity, of the widening of the disparity between our natural defenses and the efficiency with which men utilize and manipulate the physical mechanisms to.....{at this juncture, Bugs reaches out of the cookpot, and pulls the verbose duck back into the broth with him}

Bugs: Gads! Thou wouldst draw the hunter not only to thineself, but further, would your petulant soliloquy bring death upon us both.
          [The bushes part, stage right, a musket barrel appears]
          Yoiks! [Bugs disappears below the brim of the pot. The camera draws back, revealing the fire that has slowly grown in size.]

Elmer: Vewily, that duck is sure to be sore wounded unto death. And fate must agwee with my consensus, for hath she not pwovided me with a cookpot, fire waging beneath it? {Looking around, scanning for game}My pwey is vewy, vewy cwose.

{Bugs and Daffy jump out of the cookpot at the same time, rubbing their behinds}

Elmer:{Has his gun's barrel pressed to Daffy' forehead}: Got you now! Wisheth ye to pway to thine heathen deities,
             knowing full well that the same courtesy would ye be wemiss in offewing to me in weturn?

Daffy: Kind sir, the cold steel pressed to my vulnerable and precious pate serves ye well as a translator of thine intentions, a divination which your words do not convey due to the strangeness of thine accent. I implore you sir, to seek the mercy which I am certain dwells in your heart, and consider as well that my frame is draped with a lamentable amount of gristle-based flesh, lacking in quality and quantity, thus ill worth your time or the cost of arming your projectile-spewing implement of death.  However, good sir{Daffy points to Bugs, who is slowly stepping towards the woods.}, I am told that the flesh of the hare, such as this fine specimen, is quite exquisite in taste and texture 

Elmer: Nice twy, but the King hath decweed this to be a season for the taking of fowl, and it will be fowl that I take

Daffy: Bear with me, O brave hunter! This land on which we trod is the property of the Earl of Warner,
         who, in his wisdom, hath decreed a bounty per the left ear of each ravaging hare that can be
         trapped, pierced, shot, or run down by dogs.

{Elmer's gun wavers uncertainly betwixt the hare and the duck}

Bugs: Soft! Doc, Remberest  that thou hast crossed into the Earl's land, and when you once again find thineself
           trodding the King's road, your spoils should match that set by His rulings.

Daffy: Nay! Where the game was taken determines the validity of same!

Bugs:The King's rules forever take precedence. 'Tis duck season.

Daffy: Rabbit season!

Bugs: Duck season, say I, a loyal subject of the King

Elmer: As am I! {to the audience as the animals continue to debate their fate} The wabbit's wetort bears mewit, for I must twavel acwoss the Wegent's wealm.
           {Elmer brings the musket barrel up to Daffy's head, who is so deep into debate that he fails to acknowledge when the blast of gunpowder and metal blows his beak around to the back of his head. Daffy does not pull his beak back into place, with a grimace on his blackened smoky face, because Daffy is dead, people. This isn't a cartoon, dead is dead.}

Elmer: Perhaps now, noble duck, thine wings flapping will bear the fruit of flight, which task never did they succeed in life, encumbered as his spirit was by a wingspan more suited to gyrations and gesticulations than endeavors of an avionic nature. Now, he flies free of burden and fear, leaving me this small yield of flesh, a poor showing for my trouble....

Bugs: {aside; to the audience}Though harm lacks a clear trail to my present circumstance, I feel a behoovement to once again resume my journey whilst the hunter doth wax melancholy over his kill
          {Bugs turns to leave, and finds his path blocked by the Gregorian Monks

Chanting monks:[tenors] I pray we might, brave hunter sir, interject our understanding of the legalities

                                 [all] of the present situation

                        [lead alto]: It is my considered opinion, that the consumption of both hare and fowl may be allowed.

                                 [all]: But only if they are consumed here

                        [lead alto]: On the Earl's land

Bugs: Yoiks! I care not for the tenor of this conversation, nor for the alto. Hey! lemme go, willya!

Elmer:{reloads his gun as he talks} Thou hast swayed me to your manner of thinking, high-pitched monk.
           {Elmer walks into the circle of monks, gun raised}

Bugs: No! Please! I'm too young to die, too handsome! Look, I can dance...BLAM!

[From out of the huddle of monks flies bloody bits, a limp fur. There is a splash as the carcass is thrown into the stewpot}

Chanting monks:        [all] The victuals will feed us all

                             [Tenors] Our disavowal of wordly goods precludes the profiting,
                                           other than in surcease from hunger, 

                                [all] from the fact of this creatures demise.

                      [Lead alto] Therefore keep the ear

                                [all] And all profits derived from same.

                         [tenors] Have you any more questions, hunter,

                                      of a legal or spiritual nature?

                      [baritone] Before the break of fast?

Elmer: No, I weckon, That's All, Folks!

{curtain}

 

 

*It's more fun if you look it up yourself

Zero Is What They're Worth

(dedicated to the Westboro Baptist Church, the morons who disrupt the funerals of our Nation's Fallen)

America is turning queer
We don't want that happening 'round here
There's a dead soldier under that flag
Before he's buried his family will know God hates fags

and I say
Hey Fred Phelps, where are you bound?
You're not hearing God, you're just unsound

Those parallels being drawn
Between us and the Manson's are totally wrong
We're just speaking our minds
So what if our choice of forum is a little unkind?

you better
Stop, Fred Phelps, because everyone
will deny having seen who shot the gun

Dumb people speaking their minds
The jerks believe that God is on their side
They upset the grieving with their signs
Showing too much interest in other people's behinds

For God's sake, Phelps, you and your kin
Have been duped by ol' Satan

We have God on our side
It's his might versus your Gay Pride
We hope you're trampled in your parades
Or have have sex on the floats, and then die of AIDS

It's time you
stopped, Fred Phelps, call your dogs off
It's not your concern how they get their rocks off

 

*Apologies to S. Stills

 Driftwood on the beach near Port St. Joe

Egrets, looking towards New Orleans.

I hope they saved whoever is left in the car

Rest area off i-10, hwy 81 junction

 

 James is an old, old friend, who is in town for our 40-year high-school reunion. We have had a great time recalling old pals and events.
I am usually better photographer, however I
1) Wanted to spoof my awkward teen pic-taking
2) I was shooting from the hip, inorder to surprise him
3) The S.O.B. Still has a full head of hair!

I wanted to change Pepe's name to Fang, any guesses why? 

 

As the sun sinks slowly in the east, we contemplate the new worry, Global Reversal

 
When George invited me to ride out to the beach with him, I could think of no
better way to spend a Saturday; celebrating a local tradition....

 

No, not swimming in the Gulf, although it did look tempting.....
 

 
People-watching, though popular, was not our goal

Neither was marveling at the sugar-whiteness of the sand, as seen here.... 

 
When George told me just what was going on behind Schooners, I stopped
 whispering to dolphins.......

......and rushed to our rendezvous point
 

 
Rendezvous point A

 
Nice places, huh? 1200-2000/month in the off-season, they better be nice!

George and I actually came for the sand sculpture contest.......
 
.....but this one in progress, being constructed by the judges for TOMORROW's contest, was the
 only sculpture being made. The contestants will have two hours in which to build theirs

A professional sand-castle-builder's tool-kit. Which is harder to believe? That so many
 tools are needed for professonal sand-castle building, or that there actually Are professional
sand-castle builders?

 

No, your Dad isn't proud, your Mom isn't proud. Your kids will only think your job is 'neat' until they are seventeen. Besides, you cheat; there's Elmer's Glue mixed with the water in your spray bottle.

 
One of many condos on Panama City Beach, this one is looming over George.
Stop looming, you silly condo!

From Bristol and from Brittany,
From Thailand and Japan
Azerbaijan and Albany, Canada and Sudan
From ninety lands the families come
To a place that's not the same
They're coming to New York City
To find their loved one's name

Some only have to walk,
or maybe ride a train
Others touch their crosses before they'll board the plane
Some visit Ground Zero alone, some travel with a friend
They come to New York City
So they can touch the name

The names will always be there, although the vistors will change
For many the name that's listed there is the sum of their remains

Heads bowed before the wall, a grieving family stands
Aware of passers' wary glances.
For they come from a Muslim land
Mother reaches out her hand, touches Father's name
He died responding, per his calling,
Some will never understand

Sad lady finds her husband
Chiseled into stone
Traces 'Benjamin' with her finger
And asks him to come home

Dad tries hard to find the words
when his daughter asks him why
On the day that death rained from the sky
Mommy forgot to say goodbye 

Everyone looks so different, but their stories end the same
All they have are memories now, on a wall of many names

{My latest mini-opus, I've posted 3 chapters, the rest is written, just let me get  some sleep}

 

He ran.

What moonlight made it through the interlocking crowns of the treetops came to rest in a crooked patchwork of light on the forest floor. He did his best to avoid the light, but his labored breathing left a succession of slowly dissipating balls of vapor, a trail that, for one who can track by the scent of fear, one for whom the forest gloom was as bright as a summer field, was unnecessary. He never looked behind him, It was there. No chance that It would pursue another of the pack, thus sparing him until another night. The others had been taken, one by one, over the course of a few weeks. It was hungry, he was alone, and he ran.

He made his way uphill, jumping boulders, rounding huge trunks. He thought briefly of the high mountains where he had spent his puppyhood. There, they had been hungry, but never afraid. Hunger was like another sibling to him, he had known it all his life. Fear was a stranger, an unwelcome one at that, and so he ran. His feet hurt, his lungs ached from the incessant influx of cold air as he ran.

A shadow separated and fell from the branches above, uniting with its mooncast counterpart in front of the exhausted carnivore. It's breath left no visible cloud. The tall shadow approached the wolf, who backed up, snarling. No more running, time to fight or die. He gathered his legs under him, a low growl escaped his lips as he leaped, powerful jaws opened wide.

The wolf never saw what had gripped his throat, but he felt his neck snap, saw the red eyes drop below his field of vision, heard the tearing sound, so familiar, the sound of flesh being ripped from a carcass. Suddenly tired, all he wanted was to lay against his mother's belly, a teat in his mouth, his brother and sister snuggled up against either side of him, keeping him warm, keeping him safe....

-----------------------------------

Seeker ran to Vali, then back up the hillside deeper in the woods. Twice the sheepdog repeated the circuit, marking his companion's progress. When he didn't return a third time, Vali knew he was close to whatever had the dog so excited. Even at noon, little light penetrated the forest canopy. This late in the afternoon, the shadows swallowed the light as it filtered downward. Vali unshouldered his rifle as he walked. In Romania, bad things happened in dark places.

Seeker was standing over the carcass, his tail down. He whined as Vali approached. With the barrel of his rifle he poked the carcass of the wolf, who lay as if sleeping. "What is it, Seeker? " But he felt it, too. On a dare from his little brother, he had once run through the cemetery outside of Lodescu, where they were visiting an aunt and uncle, at midnight. The tingles that crawled up his spine then was akin to what he felt now, looking at a vampire's kill.

He spoke aloud, Seeker watched him with an air of comprehension. "See the wound in the throat, boy? He did not lay down and die here, he was placed in that position." Vali gestured toward a divot ripped out out the forest duff a few yards away. "He leapt at his attacker from here," Vali talked as he stepped in the direction indicated by the disturbed leaves. Seeker followed, sniffed the disturbed soil.

Vali saw no tracks, no crushed leaves. Seeker put his nose to a dark spot on the ground. Vali stooped to look at it; it was blood, only a few hours old. Tracks led downhill from the kill site. This was the carcass of the the wolf who had been feeding on their lamb downhill, when he became prey himself. He fled uphill, where he met his killer, and then his fate.

Seeker barked and looked downhill. He was right, it was getting darker. "Let's go, friend. Lucian should have a pot of boiling potatoes and shallots, and no meat, unless we do our part." Before starting downhill, Vali took his knife and cut off the wolf's right ear. What passed for a regional government these days was promising a bounty.

As they cleared the forest, Seeker froze, his nose pointed to their left. Vali saw it immediately, a hare, getting a last few nibbles of dandelion before returning to the warren for the night. Vali sighted on the hare and adjusted his aim for the distance, about a hundred and fifty feet, and for the light breeze blowing up the valley. He fired, the brown hare fell over and Seeker ran to retrieve it. When the dog returned, Vali saw that he had hit the hare in the head, all the meat would be fit for the pot. Vali fit the upward-curved stock of his Afghan rifle, a spoil of war called a jezail, under his shoulder, and took the kill that Seeker offered him. He stuffed it in his belt, and together they walked across the wide valley to the farmhouse on the other side of Minascu Creek. The fallen log made a good bridge. The creek was not deep. In the summer, Seeker would splash his way across the stream ahead of Vali. But it was still cold, and he knew that they would not let him in the house until he had dried off.

The wind was blowing from the direction of the house, Vali could smell the potatoes and herbs. Seeker smelled more than potatoes, and he growled a warning to his human. Vali shushed him with a pat on the head, and reloaded the jezail as they neared their home.

Lucian was standing outside, a few feet from their open front door. He faced five hooded men on horseback who were spread apart in a line the length of their one-room wood-and-stone cottage. Lucian looked calm, relaxed. In his belt was their father's pistol, the two-barrel, his favorite. The horseman closest to the approaching hunters looked their way. It was Skender, which meant that the big man astride the middle horse was Iorghu Khorzha, the vampire hunter. Vali joined his brother in front of the house. Seeker took his place between them. Greetings of a cool nature were exchanged.

"We heard the shot, Vali." Iorghu rasped. Turkish tobacco would kill him before any vampire would. To Lucian, he continued, "When your brother rode with us, he kept us well-stocked with game. Once we heard a shot, Ferka would start a fire." Iorghu stopped to cough up something bloody. "He never disappointed us by coming back empty-handed."

"I wish I had more than a single hare, Iorghu. I regret that I have not enough for our Father's friend and his retinue."

"Never could be plain-spoken, you two." Iorghu coughed, then spat before continuing. "Lucian was just telling us that vampires must be, what was that word again?"

"Omni-hemovores." Lucian said evenly. " It means that..."

"Yes," Iorghu cut him off. "Vampires can live on the blood of any warm-blooded animal." Skender turned in his saddle, and looked down the path that had brought Vali and Seeker from the forest. Seeker did, too.

"Howsomever, retinue," Iorghu declared with a sneer, "They prefer human blood, not the blood of a bear, like the one Skender found at the edge of the wood, the remains of a goat in its belly. Been dead for a while, but it was undoubtedly a vampire kill. As was the lynx Skender found in your trash pile, along with the remains of several egg-laying hens that were his meals, is my guess."

On hearing his name, Skender returned his gaze to the brothers. The hair on Seeker's back stiffened. The smaller man smiled, his teeth were gapped and yellow

"Your animal does not like me." Skender remarked in a sibilant whisper. Vali knew that it was all he could muster. Skender had famously bested a vampire in hand-to-hand combat, a feat which had made him a legend, but cost him a fair piece of his larynx. The talk was that the bite had made him part-vampire, or that he had taken on the spirit of the godless creature. Vali took no stock in that tale, Skender had always been a fierce man in any kind of fight.

"Does anybody?" Vali wanted to say. Instead he pointed to Skender's saddle bag, "Maybe he smells your souvenirs." There were proofs required for the payment of bounty on vampires, as with any other predator. Fangs were good, if the creature's death came about by means of fire. Whole heads were better.

Lucian patted the dog's back and said nothing.

Now that it was almost fully dark, Lucian went about lighting the oil lamps on either side of the front door. Flickering lights and shifting shadows played across the hunters' faces, making Skender's mirthless grin even more unnnerving.

Iorghu retook control of the conversation. "No, vampires definitely prefer human blood, like that of the night watchman at the mill outside Petisoara."

Vali had not heard about that attack. Petisoara was several leagues downstream, where the valley broadened. But Iorghu was not through.

"And what vampire would not want a taste of little Mina Ibanescu, niece of my man Emilian here." He gestured toward the dour man, the only one of the party with a right to be morose, on the black horse to his right. To Emilian's right was Iorghu's son, Iosif, his match in strength and size, but not in intellect. To Iosif's right was the smokehouse, a supply of wood beside it, chopped and ready for the coming spring slaughter.

Dragos crouched on the smokehouse roof, next to the chimney, where the other horsemen blocked Skender's view. Skender's famous kill was against a newly-sponsored vampire, a whelp with yet-undeveloped strength and skills. Dragos knew he could best the lizard-man, and the drinking of his blood would be a delight. But the man's senses were uncanny; He had almost spotted him twice before Dragos made it to the smokehouse. He wanted to stay and listen. So far, the brothers had not given any indication that they knew he had taken up residence on their land. But the Vampire-hunter had said Petisoara, and Dragos knew what that meant, and what he had to do. He slipped off the roof making less noise than the family of mice huddled in the shingles surrounding the chimney, their whiskers vibrating rapidly.

 

"Iorghu, are you accusing us of harboring a vampire? Father hunted the red-eyes with you, remember. My brother did as well." There was anger in Lucian's voice. Vali sighed, and began to clean the hare, throwing bits to Seeker, who closed his eyes in delight each time he bit into another fresh morsel.

"No, not harbor," Iorghu sounded as if he had water in his lungs. "More that you tolerate its presence, because it has become the guardian of your livestock."

"We lost a lamb yesterday, to a wolf. I found the body this afternoon." Vali noted.

"And there are the hens and the goat that you know about, Iorghu." Lucian reminded the large, slump-shouldered man.

"Were that the extent of our losses, I would thank the saints." This from Ferka, from his position between Skender and Iorghu. "Since the drought began in the north two years ago, predators have swarmed into our valleys, our farms and towns and villages like refugees. Our family has lost ten sheep and two milk cows to bears, and that is in winter, when the beasts are normally asleep, and the flock stays close to home at night."

Emilian spoke up. "Thirteen sheep, two goats, and most of our hens. ...and our beautiful Mina..."

"I was looking forward to courting Mina, when she became of age." Iosif said to to Emilian. Behind his back, Iosif made a crude gesture for sexual congress as he spoke. Nobody laughed. Iorghu looked at the brothers, shook his head.

Lucian ignored Iosif's contribution to the discussion. Of Iorghu, he asked, "And thus our miniscule losses must be none other than the result of a symbiotic relationship with a demon of the night?"

Iorghu studied Lucian for a breath, then turned to his brother. "I thought you were the one your father sent to the University."

"I sent my books home from Bucharest as I finished each class." Vali threw the skin into a pail of water to soften overnight, laid the gutted hare on a table used for butchering when the weather was benign. "He taught himself, without the benefit of professors. He is smarter than I."

"No small feat," Iorghu remarked. "And an even better shot, I have heard."

As if in response to Iorghu, there was a soft fluttering from above. Lucian looked skyward. He brought his pistol up, high above the horsemen's heads. The steeds whinnied and stamped at the two unexpected shots, but they did not bolt. Two dark objects fell from the sky. Skender snatched one as it dropped between him and Ferka. He held it up before him. It was a bat, a musket-ball sized hole in its chest. Seeker trotted over to the stone fence where the other had fallen, brought it back, and laid the bat at Lucian's feet.

Iorghu laughed. "By the light of a quarter moon, no less! Still, not enough meat for the pot to warrant an invite to dinner, and we must be on our way. Two new men are waiting to join our party in Petisoara, mercenaries, fresh from the Hapsburg's latest campaigns. We have a very active vampire, and a town willing to pay handsomely, the faster to be rid of it. We can discuss this matter further once I have satisfied the terms of this contract." Without another word, he turned his horse and spurred the black Belgian to a fast trot, the others followed him. Skender threw the bat in front of Seeker, who ignored it, preferring to track the smaller man as he rode by the smokehouse, studying it minutely. The brothers watched the procession as they rode by the Nicolae family mausoleum. Vali thought briefly of his wife in there, two years now. How beautiful she had looked, even as the pneumonia weakened her beyond saving. Tomorrow, he would pick some fresh spring flowers to place on her casket.

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Dragos stopped when he heard the shots; he knew the sound of the two-barrel well. Hearing no answering rounds, he resumed his run westward to Petisoara. Years ago, he had made a mistake. Now it was time to correct that error.

chapter two starts here

The hare was consumed, and a glass of hard cider imbibed before Lucian went about lighting the reading lamps with a burning stick from the dying fire. Vali re-entered the house with an armful of firewood. He placed it on the hearth and began stacking a few pieces on top of the glowing ashes. Beside him, Seeker stirred from his nap, wagged his tail once, and started a new nap.

"Before you start reading from Socrates, brother, I think we need to talk."

"From what do you plan to read tonight, Vali?"

"Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy. This translation is the best thus far."

"Really? Who was the translator?"

Vali ignored the question. "We play a dangerous game here, brother. You know the law."

Lucian nodded. "And that is why we must keep quiet. Iorghu would take our land were we to admit that we had not acted once we knew."

Vali remembered well the day they learned of Its presence. One morning last spring. Lucian came back inside, without the water bucket, holding a book, a strange look on his face.

"Dawn is a poor light by which to read, brother," he teased.

Lucian was bit pale. "No, I didn't take this with me, It was atop the firewood."

That's odd. I did not put it there..."

"That isn't the oddest thing, Vali." Lucian showed Vali the cover. It was their copy of Bocaccio's Decameron, in the original Italian. They had both read from it last night, translating it as they read, an exercise Lucian had suggested. Lucian opened the book to the story about Guillaume de Rousillon, who killed his wife's lover, the story from which they had read. The story had remained unfinished, the brothers having gotten into a playful wrestling match over Vali's woeful Italian. Seeker jumped in, grabbing the sleeve of whichever brother winning at the moment. Vali had marked the page with a broomstraw; it was now at the end of the story, after Rousillon cooks his rival's heart and feeds it to his adulterous wife. He distinctly remembered placing the book on the desk between their beds.

"There's something else. Outside."

Vali followed his brother to the woodpile, beside which was a furry pile. As he closed the distance, the pile became an animal, a wolverine in fact, laid out as if sleeping. From his tenure with Iorghu, Vali had learned this was characteristic of vampire kills. No one, probably not even the red-eyes, knew why they did it. Vali guessed that whatever small portion of humanity left after a change was responsible.

A wolverine had been taking a hen or a lamb almost every night. It had even attacked a calf, which Lucian put down because of its injuries. Now here it lay, one predator laid low by another. Vali told Lucian what he suspected. Lucian agreed.

"It listens to us, that is obvious."

"It's been in our house."

"It could have killed us any time, even Seeker slept through the intrusion, Vali."

"There have been no human deaths attributed to vampires in our valley in ten years, maybe more." Lucian was thinking about the price of meat, which was falling. They needed as many of their herd to sell to the butcher as they had left in order to pay off their father's debts.

"Remember, Vali," Lucian went on, "why Father stopped hunting with Iorghu."

Vali did remember. Their Father had told them how vampires had fought with their forces in the wars that drove the Ottoman Turks from their land. Unofficially, of course, and not as comrades-in-arms.

"The creatures would soften the Turkish defenses, take out forward guard posts, affairs of that sort" their Father said. "We rarely saw the red-eyes, just their work. Dead Turks, bloodless faces frozen in shock. Because of them, the war ended quickly , and the number of war casualties we did Not receive were more than the total number of the victims of vampirism throughout the centuries, I would wager the farm on that, boys." Father took another deep drag off the hookah, one of his spoils of war, and continued.

"I could not continue to hunt them after the war ended. There was no joy in hunting down and killing what could be a patriot. Iorghu? He saw the things I did, fought the same war. But killing vampires is in his blood as much as taking our blood is in theirs. He would not quit, and he had found new, battle-hardened men to hunt with him. He was killing more than ever, my sons, and getting rich off the bounties."

"Yet, still they kill citizens, do they not?" Vali asked of his Father.

"Since that war, their victims have mainly been the dregs of society. Women of the night, Gypsies. Thieves, killed in the act of thieving, their drained bodies left lying by the jewelry box they had intended to steal. Old drunks, the mumblers and droolers."

Vali shook his head at the memory; one did not dishonor one's father, but he had learned in Bucharest that every man was unique and deserving of life. So, after his own warring adventurism was over, Vali had taken up the stake, and rode with Iorghu and Skender until he watched a vampire burn for the first time. The creature had been cornered in an old farmhouse outside of Iasi, which Skender had then set afire. The screams still echoed in his head. When Vali quit Iorghu's employ the next day, he refused his share of the bounty. "Have the Nicolaes lost their stones?" Iosif's insults followed his trail out of the camp, southward along the banks of the Bistrita.

Iosif's taunts were as wrong as they were rude. He could kill a vampire, but it would be quick; he would take no pleasure in the creature's suffering.

Now Lucian, his blood, his partner, his best friend, wanted an implicit bargain with a red-eye. Vali sighed, he would not drive the thing from their land.

"It's been in our house, our home, Lucian. I will not have that. Make that plain: leave books for It outside, the corn crib is dry."

Thereafter, conversation about their working tenant was limited to discovery of his kills, and the increased credit on the ledgers of their suppliers and merchants.

But if their benefactor had rediscovered a taste for human blood; it had to die. One thing he had learned on his hunt with Skender and Iorghu, vampires are territorial, and mainly range between their human birthplace and the locale of their change. Vali wondered what had caused theirs to migrate here in the first place.

"We will keep reading to It, keep It close, until I can figure out how to trap It. That is how it must be, Lucian."

"As you say, brother" Lucian assented. But Vali thought he had won too easy. He would do this on his own, one could not half-heartedly hunt a vampire.

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Dragos reached Petisoara as the church bells pealed the nine o'clock hour. The streets were deserted. After two deaths, the townspeople had taken to withdrawing into their homes by sundown. The air stank of garlic; garlic was everywhere, cooked garlic, crushed garlic cloves on the doorsteps, garlic wreaths on the doors and garlic plants on each shuttered window. Dragos marveled at how persistent myths could be. Although they saw much better in the dark, sunlight did not hurt them either. As with any light, sunshine merely exposed to a greater extent their differences from humans; red eyes, elongated forms, skin white as bone. And the fangs, no vampire could talk to a human without exposing itself for what It had decided to become. The only practical reason for talking to a human, indeed the only one sanctioned by the vampire community at large, was when one decided to create a changeling. Every vampire sponsored another, and only one other, or the brotherhood would come together long enough to kill the offender and his changelings. It was here, in Petisoara, where Dragos' wasted opportunity resided.

"Istok, hear me! We must talk!" Dragos spoke in the old language, his voice carried across the town square, and was picked up and repeated by each crow in its nest, each rat and rodent in its lair. Within minutes, Istok's lean form glided up into the tree next to Dragos.

"Sponsor! To what do I owe this visit?

"You know why, Istok, do not waste time in pleasantries, or in lying. You broke my rules."

"Take no humans from in this valley, yes. Well, that was twenty years ago, I am tired of stray dog, boar, bear, and wolf." His tone was insolent, challenging.

"You tired quickly of learned discussions, too. The only reason I sought you out and offered you the change was your intellectual curiousity."

"Dragos, Dragos, are you still angry with me? I only learned to accept my nature, my new nature."

"Could you not stick to drunks and whores? A night watchman, of all things, and the girl..."

Ah, the girl, Dragos," Istok interrupted. "Did you know she rode her white horse at night? Down to the lake she would ride. There she would take her clothes off and remount, and off they would go, until the horse tired." Istok's eyes closed, seeing her as she would lead the stallion down to the lake for a drink, her hair as wet as her steed's lathered hide.

"Dragos, she was so beautiful! Long blonde tresses that shamed the sun's very center, flawless skin, blue eyes, the pulse of the blood coursing through the blue veins of her breasts. Dragos, I, you, no one of us could refuse such a gift forever. Her blood tasted of..."

Dragos had heard enough, he was getting excited, wanting a human now, the months of suppressed desire welled up in his chest.

"Do not say any more, changeling."

"I am not your changeling anymore, I am fully developed now, there is none of Istok's body left. I am ready to be a sponsor."

Dragos grabbed Istok by the arm, and flung him across the square. He followed as Istok stood up.

"Dragos, listen to me..." A kick sent him flying into the side of the church. Istok slid down to a sitting position, then he kicked off the side of the building towards his sponsor. Dragos simply wasn't there when Istok swung his fist. A hard blow to the back of his head numbed him for a few seconds, during which time Dragos seized him from behind, pinning his arms at his side. Istok felt twin points of pain in his neck.

"I should kill you now, Istok, make up for my error." Dragos whispered into his ear. Blood began to stream from the wounds.

"Please, Dragos, I will leave, find another town." Dragos tasted the blood that flowed between his lips, It was cow's blood. He pushed Istok against the wall.

"Then go, dullard! Had I tasted the blood of a human, especially that of the girl, instead of that of a calf, know that I would have drained you of your life!" He slapped Istok so hard the younger vampire fell to one knee. Dragos pulled him up by his collar and gave him a shove that sent him reeling across the street. Somewhere a dog barked. "To think," Dragos continued as he pushed Istok down the main thoroughfare, towards the edge of town, "I sponsored you because of your intellectual curiousity."

"You Killed my intellectual curiousity, Dragos. You gave me the love of the hunt instead, and I thank you. I miss books, teachers, learning, not even a little."

Dragos stopped. They were passing an alley between two shops. There were forms crouched in the darkness, one looked up at Dragos, then at Istok. The changeling was drawing the life from an old woman. Another form joined them, Dragos saw the red, questioning eyes. The one biting into the unconscious woman's wrist beckoned to Istok with a free hand.

"You Damned fool! How many did you make?" Istok was nowhere to be seen, the street was empty of life, human or otherwise.

Dragos sighed. Istok could wait. First, his mess must be cleaned up, mistakes rectified. The two young vampires, both women in their child-rearing years, still plump with their human fat, turned to run. They did not get far. Birds flew from the trees for a mile around when the screams started. By the time any townsfolk dared open their doors the next morning, the sun was high over the hills.

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CHAPTER 3

 

Lucian slipped into his clothes as quietly as possible; the shoes could wait until he was outside. He glanced at his brother's bed, Vali was still, he was turned toward the wall, away from the door. Shoes in hand, Lucian tiptoed to the door, the hinges of which he had greased after the reading. The forethought had paid off, the door opened without a sound.

Seeker was awake, watching him, twitching with anticipation. Lucian could not take the chance that a pleading whimper might rouse his brother. He beckoned with his hand, and Seeker, seemingly aware of the necessity, silently joined Lucian outside. Lucian closed the door, and the two walked into the fog that had risen from lower in the valley, from the direction of Petisoara.

They reached the apple orchard, their Father's pride and joy, in moments. Lucian stopped, Seeker did as well. He watched Lucian for clues as to their purpose here. Lucian composed himself, touched his Mother's cross, and cleared his throat. "It is time we talked." Lucian was surprised that his voice sounded as strong as it did.

"You are very brave."

Lucian could not tell from which direction the voice came. "Come closer."

"Braver still. As you wish."

The form took shape in front of the man and snarling dog as if fashioned of mist. Seeker obeyed Lucian's command to be quiet. He sniffed the air; this was the killer of killers.

Lucian took a step forward when the vampire stopped. Did a smile race across the creature's lips?

"I am Dragos."

"Lucian."

"I know, and Seeker I know as well."

"My brother wants to kill you."

"Because of Petisoara." It was not a question.

Lucian replied, " Yes, Because of Petisoara."

"And you?"

"I want to know why you started killing again?"

The question amused Dragos. "I have not stopped killing in 150 years. Last spring, I stopped killing humans, however."

"When you took up with us. Explain that, Dragos."

"The men that were here the other night. They killed my sponsor." Seeing the question in his eyes. Dragos added "The one who changed me. Iorghu was after me. Twice, they flushed me when I tried to sleep. In my panic, I led them straight to Marku."

Dragos paused, this was what he had hoped for, interaction, discourse. But the events in Petisoara had awakened his lust for human blood, and Lucian was young, blond, handsome and strong. He could hear the blood coursing through Lucian's veins, see the vessel in his neck pulsate with beat of Lucian's heart.

Lucian sensed something was not right. He wished that there had been a way to sneak a pistol out of the house. The red-eye's nostrils flared.

"What then?"

Dragos subsumed his desires with an almost physical effort. "Marku hid me in a crypt, under a body. We don't sleep exclusively in coffins, that is a fairy tale, but they are good hiding places, as rare is the man who will look inside one ."

"I am sure Skender and Iorghu know that trick."

"Those two have desecrated many graves in their search for the unholy," Dragos said drily. "but they did not know they had two vampires trapped. After burning Marku, they left for Focsani to collect the bounty. Skender had pulled Marku's jaws, fangs intact, from the fire to use as proof.

Lucian put it together faster than he could get the words out. "That was the killing in which Vali participated! You followed him home."

"Not right away. I followed the others first."

"Why? That seems reckless."

"Not as much as one might think. Keep in mind that they were not looking for me anymore. It never occurred to any of them that a vampire might stalk the stalkers. I doubt if Iorghu yet suspects that it was a red-eye, and not a thieving Gypsy, who stole Marku's jaws out of his tent."

Lucien laughed at this, Dragos joined in, but it had been such a long time, he sounded like an elk in full rut, which made them both laugh harder. Seeker relaxed. When the brothers laughed like this, or when company did, it was never a bad thing. He wagged his tail.

It felt good to laugh, Dragos had wondered if he still knew how. All too soon, the laughter died, replaced with an awkward silence, which Dragos finally broke.

"I studied the killers, learned the tracks each horse made, saw which of the band were aware of their surroundings. When they hunted, I saw whose weapon was accurate, the range of each."

"I am surprised that you did not kill them." Lucian offered.

"They were very disciplined, at least one was always awake when they camped. Usually, it was Skender."

"I hear that he is good with a knife."

Dragos held up two fingers. "He is good with two knives, one in each hand. The longer one is always in his left. Always." He and Emilian are the only ones good with a rifle, Iorghu likes to trap us."

How does he do that?"

Skender will find a nest, we all keep several. They wait until it is occupied, and flush us in the daytime, when we cannot see too well. Many have died after being caught in a net woven of silk cords, which is very strong."

"And expensive," Lucian added.

"Hunting us is highly lucrative. Your brother turned down a small fortune for Marku."

"You heard that from them?"

"And I heard them laugh at his learning and his philosophical questions, that you were probably just like him, too much thinking."

The fog swirled, sometimes apple trees were revealed in the moonlight, other times, they were alone in the universe. But Dragos was near enough that he was always visible to Lucian, who studied the vampire closely as they talked. Dragos was indeed tall, stretched-looking, as if he had survived a night in Procrustes' bed. The pupils of his eyes were brown, the rest of the eye was blood-red. Nostrils and ears were half-again as large as normal, and his skin shone in the moonlight. No, they could not mingle with the rest of us, except maybe when the extreme cold required a person to be completely covered.

"Vampires seldom form relationships; although some cities harbor covens. When they do talk, it is about killing and who's died. We are not immortal, the eldest is 600 years old, and that age is hardly ever attained."

Dragos leaned down to look Lucian in the eye. "I am responsible for those deaths in Petisoara, But I did not kill them."

Lucian merely nodded, Dragos continued. "I sponsored a student, he was inquisitive, bright, the way I had been once, he spoke several languages. I chose carefully, as we can sponsor only one other, unless that one dies. I lured Istok with the promise of centuries of learning, years upon years of knowledge, and the time to ingest and ponder it all."

"So what happened?"

"At first, it was as wanted it to be, we hunted together, argued and discussed through a thousand nights. We slept together, no, our reproductive glands atrophy, there are no desires of that nature in us. But he got bored with discourse, he only wanted to read, then he only wanted to kill. His curiousity died along with his human tissue. We parted politely enough, and I stressed the need to restrict the human killings to the weak and the wicked, and not to hunt humans in our valley, which he did not." Dragos sniffed the air. "Until now. He killed those two, and he did...other things."

"Can you stop him?"

"I will. He is on the run, from me as well as from Iorghu, one of us will find him. I must go now. Your brother is sneaking up on us, to your right."

Lucian looked right, the fog was at its thickest in this hour before dawn, nothing to see. Seeker had sat down, and was licking his paw. He looked up, Dragos was not visible, but he heard his fading voice. 'Until tonight, friend."

The jezail was pulled from Vali's hand from behind, but when Vali turned around nothing was there. He completed the turn, and the red-eye was standing there, examining the gun.

"The prefect whose life you saved, he knew the value of this gun?"

Vali blinked, he had expected to be shot, maybe bit, not queried. "He pulled it from a pile of war booty. He had no idea of its power and accuracy."

He watched as Dragos caressed the stock, ran his fingers along the barrel. Then he extended it in Vali's direction. Vali hesitated, then took the weapon, whereupon Dragos turned and walked away, fading into the mist.

Vali lifted the gun quickly to his shoulder, it felt off balance. He sighted down the barrel at Dragos' retreating back, then he saw what the red-eye had done while It held the rifle.

Lucian heard the curse, and Seeker bounded over to guide Vali to his brother.

Vali spoke first. " I knew you were up to something, little brother, when it became so suddenly necessary to grease those hinges."

"You saw him?" Lucian asked.

"Yes, we talked."

"I am glad you did not shoot him."

Vali showed him the barrel of the rifle. The branch from an apple tree was firmly wedged into the barrel. On the end of the branch was an early blossom.

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Chapter four starts here

CHAPTER FOUR

Even though lightning had blasted the crown, killing the tree, the ruined poplar's trunk rose above the surrounding forest, commanding an unparalleled view of the brother's farmland and the valley beyond. Dragos stretched and yawned as he studied the landscape from his nest in the hollow he had carved out of the soft wood. The sun had settled behind the hills across the valley, yet Dragos could still see everything as plain as if it was high noon. He watched as an eagle rose from the heather clutching a vole. He saw the sheep slowly making their way to the Nicolae's barn and the fresh bale of hay Vali had spread in their pen. Lucian was chopping wood, Seeker lay in the cool dirt a few feet away. Further down in the valley, a swan drank from an eddy where the Minascu widened before dropping into a ravine. The swan flew off when he was startled by a figure scampering up the rocks.

Dragos could hear the horses, a plume of dust rising skyward behind them, a few miles behind Istok, whose direction of flight surprised the older vampire not at all. With a sigh that bordered on a growl, Dragos stood up in the opening of his lair, and stepped out onto the remains of a large branch. He spread his cape, the wind filled and lifted the garment; a second later, Dragos was riding an air current, sailing over the roof of the cottage; later tonight they had planned to read 'The Furies', by Aeschylus. That no longer seemed a likely end to the day. Minutes later, Dragos pulled his cape tighter, and descended softly onto the pebbly ground above the ravine, where Istok stood, staring wildly around him.

"Sponsor!" Istok fell to his knees as he clutched at Dragos' cape. "They are coming for me. I knew not where else to go."

"So you brought them to me." Dragos was not angry, had he not done the same thing to Marku? Still, he hoped for a better outcome. "Keep running, Istok."

"I cannot! I have not eaten in the three days that I have been hounded, chased like an animal. I have been shot twice now." Istok pointed to his leg, and then his shoulder.

Dragos knew what that meant. A vampire's wounds heal quickly, but the process saps their energy. Istok would collapse before he made another ten miles.

"The mausoleum, Istok. Can you make it that far?" Istok nodded. "Undetected?" Another nod.

"Good, I have a nest there, in the only coffin not part of a pair. Get under the body. Stay there, Istok. It is stone, they cannot burn you out."

"Yes, yes, thank you, sponsor. I will be good from now on. We will read, and learn, I promise."

Go, Istok. do as I say."

He watched Istok turn and disappear into the brush. Moments later, he saw Skender lope by on the road higher up the hillside. His fellows were several miles behind, but they would catch up before Skender reached the farm. Dragos was sure the brothers would not have a good night, and it was his fault.

His dismal reverie was interrupted when he realized that he could not hear Skender's horse any more. He crept up the hill until he spotted the killer at the fork in the road. Skender's horse ate some foliage from a bush as his rider studied the hillside. He spurred his steed suddenly and the two sped off, but not down the road to the brothers' home. Instead, horse and rider took the road that led past the farmhouse and into the woods below his nest in the dead poplar. Dragos spread his cape wide; a puff of wind lifted hm once again skyward, and he drifted slowly in the directin of the Nicolae farm.

The door to the mausoleum bolted on the outside from the outside. Istok would be unable to re-seal it from inside. It cannot be helped, he thought. Even so, he felt safer; amidst the smell of the dead was Dragos' comforting scent. There was a vase of fresh flowers on the casket Dragos had described. Had he been at his strongest, Istok could have lifted the marble slab that served as a cover, and held the flowers in the other. He was exhausted, close to passing out, and he let the vase crash to the stone floor. It's contents spread out along with the shards of thick smoke-colored glass as he climbed in, pulling the body of Ileana Nicolae on top of him, spreading her funeral dress so as to cover him. It took the remainder of his strength to slide the slab back into place. He fell into a fitful sleep, one that was broken by the sound of indistinct, but unmistakenly human voices.

As he turned off the main road onto the Nicolae property, Iorghu spurred his horse to a full gallop. Behind him,the rest of the party did the same. Resting under Ileana Nicolae's corpse, Istok heard the rumble as the party passed his hiding place.

Iorghu looked to his right as they passed the mausoleum. The unlatched door caught his eye as he sped past.

The wind died as the sky lost the last of the sun's light. Dragos alit beside the Nicolae's barn with an all-too-human curse. From above, he could have taken Skender before he unsheathed his infamous knives. As he drifted groundward, Dragos had seen Iorghu's party approach the brother's wagon path. He needed no heightened senses to hear the horses gait change from trot to gallop, but a vampire's heightened hearing did help Dragos to hear Iorghu's consumption-impaired voice.

Iorghu swung off the saddle with the grace of a man far younger and lighter. Vali walked up to the leader of the vampire hunters as he directed Ferka to tend to the horses.

"Odd, seeing you without Skender, Iorghu."

"I sent Skender to perform a couple of tasks. He will be along." Iorghu shook off his outer coat, made from the hide of a brown bear, and tossed it next to the door of the cottage. "I would be having some of your father's cider, shall we go in and talk?" It was phrased as a question, but Vali knew it wasn't. At Iorghu's gesture, he went inside first, and Iorghu followed after speaking to Emilian. Petru, one of the mercenaries, Vali knew from the fighting in Turkey. He and Ferka had their pistols out. Neither acknowledged his gaze.

Iorghu drained the mug before answering Vali. "Your father taught you well. This is as good as any batch of cider he ever made." He set the empty mug on the oak table. "It is about all I can drink these days, that doesn't find my stomach to be an inhospitable place." The door opened, Lucian came through the door, Seeker right behind him. Lucian laid the axe by the fireplace and accepted the cup of cider his brother offered him.

"Lucian, sit." As Lucian complied, Iorghu continued talking, "I was just telling your brother how we are chasing the vampire that killed little Mina. That he is weak and soon to be captured is evident by my willingness to take the time to halt the chase and confer with my friend's children."

"But you aren't conferring, and we aren't children." Iorghu's eyes widened ever so slightly at the antagonistic tone in the whelp's voice.

"Yet you play a child's game, Lucian. You and your brother."

Vali stood up suddenly, ignoring the second mercenary's approach. "Have you something to say, Iorghu? Then by all means let us hear it."

The door opened. Skender walked in, carrying a small bag made of heavy cloth. "Am I intruding?" he asked in a tone that indicated he did not expect an answer, nor care much about the substance of any that might be given..

Ah, Skender, I know you will refuse any offer of spirits, so why don't you tell our brothers here, our former comrade, where you have been?"

Skender said nothing; he dumped the contents of the bag on the table. Aside from another, smaller bag, out came tumbling a tinkling of coins, Several bear claws, a knife of Turkish make, a wolfhide, and several epaulets from an Ottoman officer's uniform.

"It has a nest in the poplar, as you said." Skender hissed.

"The tree is on your land, is it not?" When no answer was given, Iorghu spoke for them.

"Well, how can one keep track of every tree in a forest, and how many have Skender's daring?" He drained his cup, handed it to Vali, with an indication to refill it. Vali set the cup down.

Iorghu shrugged and turned to his second in command. "This bag, Skender, what have we here?

As Skender opened the bag, Iorghu spoke to the Nicolae's. "I sent my son and Emilian to look in your family crypt." Lucian and Vali jumped out of their chairs, Vali spoke first. "You had no right! My Ileanna is in there!" The sword wielded by the second mercenary stung his throat, but did not cut him. Yielding to the blade's pressure, Vali resumed his seat.

"Vali, please, stay seated. Lucian, you as well." Iorghu looked at the red-eye's souvenirs. He beckoned to Skender to open the smaller bag. It rattled as Skender untied the knot holding the flaps together. A fire-blackened jawbone, fangs prominently displayed, slipped out of the bag and onto the table. Lucian knew immediately what he was looking at and, judging by the reddening angry face across the table from him, Iorghu knew as well.

The heavy wooden door creaked as Iosif pulled it open, after first placing his torch in the holder provided. Emilian stepped in ahead of the bigger man, waving his torch in front of him. As he pulled his sword, Iosif did the same, and closed the door behind him.

"Why did you do that?"Emilian demanded.

"It's cold."

"You do not trap yourself in a room with a red-eye, Iosif."

"There is no red-eye here,"

Emilian kicked the broken vase on the floor of the crypt, then pointed to the flower that was still on the casket's lid. "It is here, in there, the monster that killed our Mina. And we are going to kill it, Iosif."

But Skender or Father always does the kill." Iosif protested.

"Are you afraid, Iosif? Afraid of a wounded, weak vampire?"

Iosif eyes flashed in the torchlight. "I am afraid of nothing!"

"Then quickly, pick up the lid to this coffin, and I will dispatch the creature."

Iosif did as he was told; the instant the crack was wide enough, Emilian furiously stabbed at the figure laying inside. When he stopped, the body was still, Emilian's sword buried in it's left side. The violence of the attack seemed to have pushed the body over and away from the side of the attack; funeral blankets were askew and bunched up along the length of the corpse. The woman's head was turned slightly towards the opening, her lips pulled back, yellow teeth caught the light of Emilian's torch.

Emilian put his hand on the lid and braced himself as he pulled at the sword, which clung stubbornly to its new home. He leaned into the casket, ready to yank hard on his weapon. At that moment, two long arms rose up from either side of Ileanna's body and snatched Iosif's hands from their grip on the lid, pulling him in as the heavy granite slab fell atop both men. Emilian's sword hand broke when the fallng lid crushed it against the edge of the coffin.

Emilian's cry of pain was muffled, as the lid had him pressed firmly against the breast of the coffin's legitimate resident, his lips a whisker from hers. From behind him came a sickening crack, then an equally unsettling sucking sound. Emilian knew he was next, the hunted become prey.

Istok felt Iosif's strength flow into his body as he fed. The struggles and protests of the other killer of his kind pleased him. After draining the big man, Istok amused himself by first caressing Emilian's head, which changed the tenor of his lamentation, then pushing his head so that Emilian's lips were against that of the corpse. He laughed at Emilian's useless struggle for a moment, then his hunger returned.

He had heard the men's conversation. Istok savagely twisted Emilian's head around. "So you miss your Mina, killer?" Emilian's answer was cut short when Istok's fangs ripped into his throat.

Minutes later, the bodies slowly disappeared, pulled into the increasingly crowded casket. The torch flickered and died where it lay on the floor.