The Hunters

CHAPTER 1 - PRESENT DAY

It is perfectly still, in this perfect village, but there is the promise of a storm to come. Clouds are gathering, and the air is thick and heavy. Static thrums in the blood, making nerves tense and jittery. The oldest part of the brain, the part that remembers a time when humans cowered in darkness, sends prickles of warning down through the spine.

In the woods it is truly dark and oppressive. The tall beech trees seem to welcome the coming storm and they moan and creak in anticipation. This late in the year there is very little undergrowth, only bracken and a few scrubby bushes which rustle at unexpected intervals. Off to the right, at the edge of a wide deer path, a hind stands frozen by the depths of her fear. Her eyes are fastened upon a fragile lean-to propped against a fallen tree. Although the interior is impenetrably dark, there is a sudden movement, sensed rather than seen, as if something has just woken up. There is an atmospheric change in the air, and in obedience to the instinct which is jangling through every nerve, the panicked hind leaps across the path and disappears.

The first flash of lightning shatters the darkness, revealing a silent circle of men. Their expressions range from fierce pleasure to fearful anticipation. And in the centre of the circle a woman crouches.

She is more than half drunk, but sobering quickly as she takes in the woods, and the men, and the muddy earth. She turns slowly, looking for an escape route. She is dressed in a skirt and high-heeled boots, impractical for running. The rain begins to fall.

He appears as a blaze of dark energy stalking through the woods, parting the cold rain as he comes, and her mind freezes, unable to comprehend what he is. Perfectly dry, he stops in the centre of the circle and regards her coldly. One look at his face tells her all she needs to know, and a whimper escapes her lips. More swiftly that her eye can follow, he clutches her hair and lifts her to his eye level. She cries out in pain, and he smiles. It is like no other smile she has ever seen.

'Run,' he suggests. He releases her with the slightest flick of his wrist and she falls, sprawling in the mud. His followers shriek and holler derisively. The same instinct that motivated the deer impels her to run and she scrambles to her feet, slipping and stumbling on the wet earth in her impractical boots while the rain mixes with the tears of pain and terror on her cheeks.

The men howl as she goes, and move restively in anticipation. He holds up his hand. If they were counting, they would know that he allows her seven minutes’ start. And then they are off.

Like hounds they yelp as they take up the chase. He lets them run ahead, frowning as the night swallows them. He looks bored. He takes a moment to listen to the music of the storm. There is something… His perfect brow creases, as if he detects some discord in the harmonics. Then there is a blur in the rain, and he is gone.

Ahead, the woman is trying to run. This deep in the woods there is total darkness. Not even a glimmer of light, except where the silver birches have retained some ghostly phosphorescence. The path is slippery and treacherous with tree roots and fallen leaves, and her boots have no traction on the slimy earth. Above her head, the wind rushes fearfully through the branches, and the thunder rolls. And behind, there is the baying of the pack, getting closer with every passing second. Rain plasters her hair to her face, obstructing her vision. Fear shortens her breath to rasping gasps. When she falls, she claws at the earth to right herself, ignoring the burn of thorns and broken nails. And above all, there is the unreality of the chase. The nightmare of the pack closing in.

She feels the clearing to her left as a gap in the solid darkness, a lightening of the air. Abruptly she turns into it and throws herself to the ground, desperately trying to silence her ragged breaths. And for a moment the pack races past, and there is a glimmer of hope. But the leader is close behind, and it is as if he can smell her, through the mud and the rain and the broken bracken. He halts. He turns. And in a moment they are all around her, and she is lost.

He looms over her, where she crouches in the mess of undergrowth. The pack is silent now, waiting with drooling anticipation. The moon momentarily appears through a break in the clouds. She looks up at him. For a moment she forgets her fear. For he is beautiful. In the moonlight his skin is pale and perfect as alabaster. His features are chiselled and symmetrical, and his eyes… They burn into hers with an intensity that starts a fire within her, burning away all her fear, and slowly she rises to her feet. Then the clouds cover the moon, and the darkness closes in.

She feels his body up against hers. Her knees weaken and she would have fallen but for his grip on her arms. The only spark of light is in the depths of his eyes, and these draw her like nothing else on earth. She raises her face to his, and opens her lips for his kiss.

Blood seeps from their joined lips and runs down her face, dripping on to her throat. His kiss deepens and she responds, forcing her lacerated lips against his. He draws back, twining his fingers in her hair, and looks deep into her eyes. Suddenly there is pain, and just as she begins to understand, he pulls her head to the side and thrusts mercilessly into her throat.

After the first deep draught, he throws her to the ground. The pack moves restively, drooling and fidgeting. He takes a moment. His eyes flicker from face to face, then back to the woman on her knees in the mud. Among the pack are some like him – these stare wildly, maddened by the blood – and some who wish to be. His choice is eventually the human man who used to be married to the woman.

Without a word, the leader gestures towards her. The chosen one hesitates for only a second before he grovels beside her at the feet of the master. For a second her eyes meet her ex-husband's. In her eyes he reads fear and betrayal, but he no longer cares. He takes one of the last breaths he will ever need, pulling in the scent of the damp forest, mud and decay, and blood… the dark red blood trickling from her throat. He exhales and forces his mouth against the gash, sucking her life. She might gasp out a plea… but she is nothing to him now. The master laughs. He pulls the man to his feet, mouth smeared with gore. He looks deep into his eyes, and what he sees there confirms his choice.

The others begin to chant, over and over. 'Chosen! Chosen!'

The master inclines his head. In an instant he has pierced the vein of his chosen one and swallowed his blood. Then he draws back. He lifts his own wrist to his mouth and quickly slashes. A drop of black blood hovers on the edge of the cut. The chosen one gulps another sodden breath and wipes the woman's blood from his face, relishing the last moment of his mortal life. Rain slicks his hair and soaks into his clothes. The wind chills his damp skin. He kneels to accept the first ceremonial drops. And then, unable to control himself, he drinks deeply.

The pack howls and dances in exultation. And then, as the chosen one writhes in the agony of his transformation, the pack falls upon the woman and rips her apart.

The vampires squabble over the bloody chunks of her flesh, sucking them dry and clawing at their brothers for more. They crack her bones and rake out the marrow, allowed for a few frantic moments to unleash their true natures. The humans run into the woods, out of reach of the blood-maddened vampires, and disappear.

The rain turns to sleet and there is snow to come.

CHAPTER 2 - PRESENT DAY

Only a mile from the village, another pack is hunting. Driven by the storm they have chanced upon the trail of their prey, and welcome the unexpected opportunity to hunt. This pack is driven not by blood, but by the desire for revenge and they ride the wind like a flight of arrows, intent on destruction. Their leader is a tall, slender woman with close-cropped red hair and fierce dark eyes. A long scar disfigures her otherwise perfect left check, and her rage burns off the raindrops as soon as they touch her. She has four followers, all as swift as she, and they all feel the pull of their prey.

But they have to be cautious. They communicate without words, and there is a brief mental struggle between the desire to interfere with the chase and save the woman, and the knowledge that they are outnumbered, and in any case have different orders. They wait, motionless in the darkness while the woman dies.

They feel her death as a tiny pulse, a diminution in their hearts, and they bow their heads in momentary sorrow. But now they can move. At once the redhead motions them to split up and they fly silently through the woods, each intent upon her role. When they reach the clearing, all that remains of the woman are bloody bones and scraps of flesh on the ground. But there are voices… Quickly the hunters hide among the trees and watch. Two members of the male pack have returned to clean up their mess, and they are slow, satiated and confident that they have nothing to fear in this wood…

A cruel smile lights up the face of the red-haired hunter. Her team are ranged around the clearing, and she motions them to wait, and follow. The men pick up the remains of the victim and carry her off through the trees. Silently the women follow them, to the edge of the gorge where the river runs deep and fast after the storm. The men toss the bloody scraps into the water, where they will be carried down into the estuary for the sea creatures to feed on. One of them makes a lewd comment. And that is the last straw for the watchers. A dark-haired woman jerks forward, but the leader holds her back. They have a plan… A delicate blonde materialises from the trees and stands silently, looking anxious and afraid. Her wet hair clings to her face, and her thin dress is plastered to her body, outlining her perfect shape. The men exchange a smirk and blatantly stare. After all, what have they to fear? One licks his lips, exposing for a moment the razor-sharp fangs so adept at tearing flesh. His share of the dead woman’s blood, though sufficient, had been less than filling –and here was another, beautiful, woman alone in the dark woods. He takes a step towards her. The fact that he has never seen her in the village escapes him in the all-consuming desire for her blood.

'Are you lost? We can help,' he offers, and his companion smiles wickedly. He holds out his hand to her, and she takes a step forward, lips parting in a soft, hesitant smile. Desire flames in both men, and as soon as she is within touching distance, the one who spoke grabs her arm and pulls her against him. She pretends to resist, and this heightens his desire. His lips draw back from his teeth, and he searches her eyes for the fear he needs to see before he bites. Her grey eyes regard him coldly and confidently, and for a second his resolve wavers. But the need for her blood and her death overwhelm him. He snarls, contorting his face into something monstrous, and… the last thing he is aware of is her cold, victorious smile, and the crack of breaking bones behind him.

Suddenly his blood fountains over the blonde. She shrieks in delight and squirms under the flow. It runs over her head, streaking her hair with crimson. She raises her cupped hands to catch it and greedily sucks it from her fingers. The sister hunter who ripped his veins grins at her through the gore on her face. One of the others embraces the blonde, eagerly licking the blood from her arms and neck, like a starving cat. The others fall on the bodies and drain them almost dry.

CHAPTER 3 -PRESENT DAY

The storm is fading. It is just before dawn and the heralds of the sun streak the iron-grey clouds with fiery reds and golds, gilding the wet leaves and transforming the dark forest into a place of enchantment. The sleet has washed away all traces of the chase; all that is left is a churned up patch of mud and fallen leaves and the paw prints of native predators drawn by the smell of blood.

The village sleeps uneasily but late, so there is no-one to mark the arrival of the stranger. Blown in by the dying winds, she appears like a vision at the edge of the village. Delicate of build, she makes her way cautiously around the fallen branches and piles of leaves on the road which threaten to catch at her ankles and pull her down. The pale light burnishes the dark hair that reaches to her knees, and the storm-tossed leaves that try to tangle in it are repelled and flutter harmlessly to the ground.

The first house in the village stands alone, a few hundred yards from its nearest neighbour. Here she pauses and flexes her mind, reaching out for a familiar pattern of thought.

As if summoned, a small, dreamy-eyed woman appears at the gate.

'Welcome, Mistress.' She kneels, but immediately she is raised to her feet.

'Please, Anna, there must be no distinction.' The reprimand is softly spoken, but her voice has a core of steel.

'Then, welcome Theodora,' Anna amends, and both women smile. 'Please enter my house.'

The formal invitation is necessary, but even then Theodora feels the slight chill of rejection from the house. She gently strokes the doorframe, soothing and reassuring. The spirits of the house capitulate, and she enters unchallenged.

Inside, the house is warm and welcoming. Anna’s taste is eclectic; individual pieces salvaged from previous homes chime pleasantly with her modern furniture and make a harmonious whole. This is her talent, to make a home for her mistress. Theodora sighs, letting the peaceful house replenish some of the energy she has expended in the storm. She sits.

Anna sits opposite, and regards her mistress. Theodora is as lovely as ever, perfectly straight black hair almost brushing the floor as she sits, fathomless dark eyes huge in her perfect face, complimenting her scarlet lips. But if it were possible, Anna would almost say there were traces of fatigue around her eyes, and her smile was strained.

'You need to rest,' Anna observes calmly. Her eyes are light green, and her dark brown hair is streaked with burgundy and pink. In this village she is exotic and should she walk down the street she would stop traffic. But up until now she has been discreet and careful.

Theodora closes her eyes and leans back in the chair. She lets her mind wander, reaching out to all the small creatures in her immediate vicinity. Tiny, busy minds invade hers, all of them anxious, all telling the same story. She pulls back and opens her eyes.

'Let’s walk.'

Immediately Anna rises and fetches her coat. Theodora watches the familiar figure dispassionately. In so far as she can love, she loves Anna, and trusts her implicitly. She follows the smaller woman out of the door, and it closes gently behind them.

They walk towards the village on a narrow footpath bordered with overgrown hawthorn. The road is empty, and the first row of houses is silent and still. Anna’s footsteps are loud on the road, but Theodora makes barely a sound. Behind the houses are the brooding woods, laden with dark green ivy and apparently impenetrable. Just beyond is a path into the woods. Opposite and across the road there is a wide, muddy swath cut through the trees.

Theodora has been walking with eyes lowered to the ground, as if lost in thought. Now, at the edge of the path, she raises her head and motions Anna to let her lead. Obediently Anna stands back, and Theodora crosses the road and enters the wood.

'Look,' she whispers, pointing to the churned up earth. At the edge of the path all the undergrowth is crushed and broken and tramped into the mud. 'At least ten came through here in a hurry, I think. Come.'

There is a chilly mist in the woods, as if the breath from the trees is held near the ground. This path is wide enough for three or four people to walk abreast and the ground is covered with coppery beach leaves gleaming uncannily bright in the pale morning. Theodora leads the way. Every now and then she stops and crouches for a moment. Once, where the path forked, she closed her eyes and whispered something, too softly for Anna to hear. After a moment Theodora chose the narrower fork, and from then on, Anna was aware of small rustlings behind them as they moved on.

Finally, they come to the clearing where the woman died. Theodora stands motionless in the middle of the clearing and the whole forest falls silent around her. The sun begins to filter through the mist, and it seems to Anna that all of the small souls surrounding them are holding their breath. Theodora’s hair floats gently around her body, merging with the mist like a dark halo, and her grey eyes blaze. At once the mist dissipates from the clearing. The damp leaves shine vividly in contrast. Anna hears the forest creatures scuttle rapidly back to the safety of the misty edge, and she herself takes a step back as Theodora begins to speak. The words are for the dead woman, a charm to protect her soul, and as Anna feels the power begin to build in the clearing she closes her eyes, giving what power she possesses to support the prayer. But suddenly Theodora stutters, and the words cease to flow from her red lips. Startled, Anna opens her eyes and takes a step forward. Theodora is staring blindly into space, her lips curled into a snarl. Although she has spent many years with Theodora, Anna still feels a shiver down her spine, and has to force herself to stand still. Theodora’s face is twisted into a parody of her beauty, vicious and bestial, and full of loathing. She clenches her fists together so hard that her nails draw blood and she snarls… a low and unearthly sound full of menace. Anna blinks, and Theodora is gone. Confused, Anna slowly spins around, remembering to look up into the trees as well as peering into the undergrowth, but there is no sign of her mistress. The forest is eerily silent, but full of watching eyes and for the first time in as long as she can remember, fear clutches at her stomach.

And then, in another blink, Theodora is back. The breeze from her passing catches up a moment after she stops moving and whips through the trees, messing up Anna's hair. Anna pushes her hair out of her eyes and smiles with relief.

'Theodora, what is it?' she ventures.

Theodora holds out a scrap of cloth. 'Look!'

Anna takes the scrap and examines it closely. After years in Theodora’s service she recognises blood when she sees it, even on such a small piece of rain-soaked cloth.

'Was it hers?'

'The victim? No. Nor is it one of the pack.' She pauses, lost for a moment in the middle distance. But her voice carries a heavy meaning.

'Theodora, who?' Anna breaks into her reverie. 'Is it…?'

Theodora looks at her with eyes whose brilliance is veiled with an emotion she rarely shows. 'It’s him. We’ve found him.'

CHAPTER 4 - PRESENT DAY

They return home in silence. The village is waking now, so Theodora insists they make their way through the woods and hedgerows rather than walk openly along the street. The sun is rising quickly and so she must stay in the shadows, but her excitement is palpable and Anna can feel it rolling off her in waves.

They reach the cottage just as the sun flares over the roof, all lingering reminders of the storm burned off by the bright morning. Theodora ducks inside and sinks into a comfortable chair. Anna follows more slowly, taking time to lock and bolt the door behind them.

She follows her mistress into the sitting room and stands before her. 'Theodora, the sun is up and you must rest. And perhaps you are hungry after your journey?'

The question is formal, and although she is prepared for any answer she still feels the hint of trepidation that always fills the gap before Theodora answers, when her eyes flash red for a split second as Anna waits for her decision.

But Theodora shakes her head. 'I’m not hungry. I fed in the night. But how can I rest? He’s here, Anna! He could be in any of these houses. I could find him today…'

Her irritated nerves drive her to her feet and she paces up and down the small room, sometimes so quickly that she is a dark blur, sometimes slowing so much as a new thought strikes her that she hardly seems to move at all.

Anna allows this for a few minutes, but then she insists, 'You have to rest. You will be useless against him if you are not at full strength.'

Theodora throws herself into the chair again. 'You are correct, as usual.'

'And we don’t know how many he has turned. We are only two.'

'For now. The others will come tonight, once the sun sets.'

'Theodora, we’re not ready.'

'Then we can recruit.' Her eyes burn brightly at the thought and Anna is reminded that the beast is never far below the surface of her beautiful mistress.

'Here?' she asks, incredulously.

'Why not here? No doubt he is taking their men and their lives. The women must hate him.'

'If they know what’s happening. From what I’ve gathered, they’re just afraid.'

'Then we shall have to convince them.' Theodora’s voice is unpleasantly bloodthirsty and Anna recoils a little. Theodora sees this, and smiles.

'Don’t worry, precious Anna, I won’t force anyone against their will. But some choose this.'

'I never have,' Anna responds, tilting her chin in mild defiance.

'Yet.' But Theodora smiles, and Anna realises she is being teased.

'Anyway,' Theodora continues, 'Lena would hate the competition.'

Anna stifles a giggle. Theodora’s red-haired and volatile deputy is fiercely possessive of her place in the tribe.

Theodora smiles sadly. 'It’s only because of the way she was treated before we found her.'

'Before you rescued her, you mean.'

Theodora’s smile fades. For a moment she remembers the water-logged dungeon where she last found her friend, but then she forces away the thought and changes the subject.

'Do you recognise the village, Anna?'

'Of course.' Anna's voice is soft. There are many memories awaiting her in this place.

'I wonder if Lena will. The abbey is ruined now, of course. And the landscape has changed so much.'

'The inn is still here,' Anna says wistfully.

Theodora smiles gently. 'Some things go on forever, it seems.'

'Do you think Lena will remember? Can we trust her to contain her anger