The Hunt

The old gate creaked noisily on its rusty hinges, jarring shut behind Marjorie Davenport’s slender form and startling the Siberian husky that padded softly along beside her. The young woman bent down momentarily, patted the dog’s head, gently scratched the white fur of his cheeks in a consoling gesture before resuming her stroll.

A cold night wind slapped softly at her face, tugged lightly at her hair. She pulled the collar of her jacket tightly about her to shield her from the chill and walked slowly out onto the main road toward the forest. Lazily, she worked her way over a small stone bridge that carried the road over a shallow gully, within which a brook wound in deep shadow through the woods.

For a moment, she cast a gaze upward into the night sky. The gaping disk of the full moon gazed back at her. In the distance, woodland creatures stirred; owls took to wing.

She found her eyes moving toward the outskirts of town where an intersecting side road climbed steadily for about a mile, skirting the stately manor of her beloved Michael before venturing the last mile or so north across the Canadian border. Her gaze drifted upward towards the ridge where, barely visible through mist-shrouded trees, she could just make out his imposing residence. Soon she would be with him forever. She would close the book that had once been her life, and begin a new one.

Abruptly, her mind refocused on the present as a long, shrill howl rose on the cool night air: the nocturnal call of the wolf – a sound she had not heard in the wild for many years. Beside her, the husky stood unmoving, ears at attention; his curved tail pulled close to his body, motionless. A faint growl rumbled in his throat. Without warning, the dog broke off in a run toward the edge of the clearing, wrenching the leash’s handle from the woman’s grip. The bushes closed behind him.

Marjorie called the dog’s name, shouted orders for him to return immediately.

Silence. Not a leaf stirred. Then suddenly an incredibly sharp cry tore through the night – a bawling howl of tearing pain. She took a few steps forward, called a second time, worry now creeping into her voice. The cries stopped.

She quickened her pace, opened her mouth to shout out again but suddenly froze in mid-stride. Out of the forested gloom ahead of her, a large shadowy bulk began to slowly take form. It was huge and powerfully built, broad at the shoulders, narrow at the waist; a creature molded out of living nightmare, walking upright with shoulders mantled by the head and ruff of a wolf larger than any ever begot by nature. Its black foreclaws were dyed scarlet with the husky’s gore. Its silvery, primordial eyes flicked over her, lips drawn back over red, dripping fangs.

At first Marjorie Davenport stood transfixed, moonlight making the scene seem only half real. And then, her mind was plunged into a dark pit of terror as reality abruptly took hold. She turned to run, the coppery tang of fear coating her mouth like an acrid second skin. Panic flooded through her, causing her to lose her balance and cry out in alarm as she fell to the ground.

Within seconds the beast was upon her. A savage snarl echoed through the hillside. And a wet crimson stain spread rapidly over the rough surface of the tarmac, greedily consumed by the cold, dry earth that waited along its edge.

* * * *

Disapproval etched Michael Constantine’s face as he pondered his fellow townspeople’s decision to hunt down the wolf themselves instead of leaving it to the local Sheriff’s Office and Ranger Station – or at least what the mundanes believed to be a normal “wolf.” Constantine knew otherwise, however.

He stared moodily at the table as his mind struggled to produce an alternate plan of action that could still remedy the situation at hand but keep the death toll to an acceptable minimum if not eliminate it altogether. Countless alternatives played out against the canvas of his mind, yet the answer was always the same: there was but one feasible option left him.

“Very well! If you are so firmly resolved to recklessly leap into the fray – so be it.” He paused, sifted the relevant information for sunset and moonrise in his mind. “We will meet at the northern outskirts of town in the vicinity of Creek Road tomorrow night at nine o’clock. Based upon the pattern the attacks have been following, this will undoubtedly be the best starting point.”

Ed Wallace – a local trapper – glared at the interloper. His eyes glittered fiercely as his finger stabbed belligerently at Constantine’s chest. “An’ just who the hell put you in fuckin’ charge?”

Constantine took a slow breath. “Experience,” he said in the reasonable tone of a man stating the obvious, then casually side-stepped his impasse and attempted to continue on his way. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when a muscular hand took hold of his shoulder and forcefully spun him around.

“Hey! I’m not finished wi—”

Ed Wallace’s voice halted abruptly as Constantine’s hand streaked upward, snatching the man’s wrist in a viselike grip before he could withdraw it. Wallace attempted to free his hand from the Mediterranean’s insistent grip, eyes opened wide in disbelief as it remained immobilized in midair. A wince of pain.

Constantine relinquished his grip, turning his attention back to the main body of townsfolk. “Oh, and gentlemen,” he said calmly, as though the previous altercation had never occurred. “Try to get as much sleep as possible. Tomorrow will be a long, trying night.”

Then, in a business-as-usual manner, he turned sharply and exited the parlor with quick, confident strides, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the foyer.

* * * *

The September moon rose out of the eastern sky like a medieval shield of basted bronze, huge and leering as it cast its dull orange swath across the horizon. It had been three hours since the hunting party had headed northward, approaching the Canadian border. Constantine’s pace slowed as he turned off his previous route to follow an untrodden track, eventually arriving at the edge of a low bluff above a stream. Below, a languid current sparkled in the moonlight as it runneled over a bed of stones worn smooth by the water’s passage. Constantine made his way along the rocky edge, caught sight of a few loose fieldstones.

Now was the time.

His hiking boot landed awkwardly, causing a small cascade of stones down the embankment; his foot twisted, slid along the slickness of the bluff. The hunter crumpled to the ground with a muffled thud, a feigned expression of pain etched on his face.

Slowly, he hauled himself up to a standing position, place weight back on his foot with forced delicacy. An invective ground out between his clenched teeth.

A man in a plaid jacket came up alongside him. “Is it broken, Mr. Constantine?”

Constantine slumped down the side of a tree, skillfully probed his ankle. A contrived wince of pain. “I do not believe so.”

“You probably just sprained it,” offered a man with metal-rimmed glasses as he crouched down beside him.

“Most probably. I am fairly certain it should mend without incident.”

“Think you’ll be able to go on?”

“At this juncture, I would only be a hindrance to your progress if I continued along.”

A maniacal triumph filled Ed Wallace’s eyes. “Okay, then. Let’s get going!”

Grey-Owl cleared his throat loudly. “We’ve an injured man here,” he said calmly. “Were you planning on just leaving him here out in the woods?”

Constantine shook his head. “We may be quite close to our quarry at this point. I cannot allow you to lose what may be your best opportunity on my account. I suggest you continue on without me. Mr. Wallace is more than capable of carrying on in my stead.”

Grey-Owl considered Constantine intently, his soft grey eyes evincing his concern. “Are you sure you don’t need some help?”

Constantine pondered the man’s tone of voice, wondering if the Native American suspected his true intentions. “Trust me. I will be fine on my own.”

Grey-Owl once again considered the man intently, then nodded, and reluctantly continued along the trail with the others.

Constantine’s eyes followed the group until they disappeared behind a bend, then rose to his feet. When he was certain they were far enough out of sight, he rose to his feet, unaided. For a long moment, he pondered Grey-Owl’s words, wondering if the Native American’s suspected his true intentions, or – more importantly – his true nature. For years he had dwelled in quiet dread of what some day might come to pass should anyone discern his true origins. And now, his mind wandered to the past, to pain that was centuries old yet sharp as a fresh wound…

* * * *

Originally christened Constantine Mikos two centuries ago, he was brought over at the age of forty to an internecine life of darkness and terror. Called vrukalakos in his homeland Greece, katalkanas in neighboring Crete, his kind came to be loathed and feared worldwide – vampire. Once, he had preyed upon humans for their blood. Yet the mists of time had taken their toll upon him. Beneath the darkness of his nightmarish heritage was a repentant heart which allowed him to cast off the shackles of his eldritch nature. He had ultimately become a man obsessed – obsessed with making amends for the sins of his former life.

* * * *

A chill gust of wind drew Constantine’s mind back to the present and he took a deep breath of cool, night air to refocus his thoughts on his present goal.

He had uncovered the beast’s trail early on, led the party in the opposite direction both for their own safety and to afford enough distance between himself and the group for him to accomplish his goal unhindered. And now, with his heart locked within the cage of revenge, he set out in the direction of his proposed quarry, leaving nothing but the moon and nocturnal creatures of the forest to gaze upon the now empty clearing.

Constantine darted quickly over the crest of a hill and descended the slope, following a stream under an overhang of tall trees. Always alert for indications, he stooped through the fringe and slipped along twisting paths, eventually making his way down to the southern shore of Grace Pond, melting into the shadows as he followed spoor that was virtually undetectable by human senses.

Suddenly, he heard a rustle of dry leaves, caught a flash of greyish-black out of the corner of his eye. Something snarled a few yards beyond the clearing – and then, out of the blackness, the lupine beast sprinted toward its prey.

With freakishly fast movements, Constantine dropped to a low crouch just as the creature leapt at him; then rose, lifting the beast upward and over, causing it to crash down in a thicket of saplings. Hitting the ground with a wheeze, the creature scrambled back upon its hind legs, let loose another cavernous snarl as it turned to confront its prey once again.

Dagger-like fangs sunk into Constantine’s shoulder. His mouth contorted into a silent scream of pain. A hot spray of blood welled up through the cloth of his turtleneck.

He forced his hands together, quickly interlaced his fingers, and struck upward in a two-fisted hammer blow to the werewolf’s lower jaw, freeing himself from the beast’s vicelike grip. Stunned, the beast staggered back, increasing the distance between them.

Constantine’s heartbeat quickened. His canines slowly elongated, emerging into fangs. And his eyes shifted from their usual lignite hue to a vivid, lambent yellow.

A low growl rumbled in the werewolf’s chest as the beast raced in for another attack. Lunging forward, the creature made a downward swipe at Constantine with its claws, which the vampire fended off with a two-armed scissor block. He grasped the beasts arm below the wrist and twisted while spinning to the side, completely flipping the werewolf over. Before slamming into the ground, however, the creature managed a swipe with its opposite hand, raking along Constantine’s thigh. Intense pain caused the vampire’s leg to momentarily give out, making him lose his balance and collapse with a hollow thud.

Decidedly, a change of tack was needed. Constantine quickly regained his footing and focused his attention on a low-hanging branch on a nearby pine. Twisting the bough with all his might, he sheared it from the trunk and quickly assessed its weight and balance… It would suffice.

The vampire ducked as the beast’s arm swung its talons in a sweeping arc that barely missed his head. He countered with a wide swipe of the tree branch, striking the creature hard across the jaw, then took a quick step forward and followed up by slamming the butt of his bludgeon into the beast’s nose.

Pain stabbed upward into the werewolf’s brain like shanks of lightning. The creature let out a spitting snarl of pain. Tears rolled from its silvery eyes. Constantine’s makeshift weapon swung downward into a furred shoulder. Pain exploded within the beast’s body and it crumpled to the forest floor. It clawed at the moist soil with its hind limbs, attempting to rise to its feet. But each time it made headway, the vampire would launch an assault, beating the hell-spawn back down. Eventually, the seething mass of fur and claws slumped to the ground.

Constantine dropped to his knees beside his fallen quarry and moved his hand toward the beast’s neck, checking for a pulse. Shallow breaths soughed from the werewolf’s maw.

Then, without a second thought, the vampire crouched over the supine form, bared his fangs, and sunk them into the werewolf’s throat.

* * * *

It was just before sunrise, and Constantine sat motionless in an oversized, leather easy chair, gazing out the large picture window in his bedchamber. Flames crackled in an adjacent hearth while firelight played intermittently across his brooding features. He took another pull at the nearly empty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in his hand.

Slowly the door to his room opened, revealing his butler Andrew carrying a small tray atop which rested a crystal wineglass containing warmed pig’s blood. “Sir, I thought you might be in need of some sustenance after your arduous night.”

Constantine gazed wistfully into the distance, oblivious to his butler’s announcement. “Did you know we were betrothed, Andrew? I was to bring her over – of her own choosing.”

“Yes, sir, I was aware of your intentions toward Miss Marjorie.”

Constantine downed another mouthful of wine, then let out a brief sigh. “After two centuries, I had finally found someone whom I truly wished to be with the rest of my ‘immortal’ life. And that creature took her from me – an eternity of hopes and dreams gone in an instant!”

Andrew caught sight of the first rosy tint of daybreak in his peripheral vision and quickly paced over to the window, carefully closed a set of heavy black draperies.

“Perhaps it would be best if you took some sustenance, and attempted to get some rest,” the butler interjected, once again presenting the serving tray.

Constantine glanced at the wineglass briefly before returning his gaze towards the now-blackened window. “No thank you, Andrew. I have…” He paused to find an acceptably inoffensive term. “…already eaten.”

“Ah. Then you were successful in killing the werewolf?”

“No, Andrew… Indeed, I could easily have killed him outright. But at the last moment, I chose not to.”

The butler’s eyes widened. “Master Michael… How could you allow such a creature to continue to prey upon—”

“You misunderstand, my friend. Outright death would be too swift, too merciful. For what that beast did to me, a painful, lingering death was much more appropriate.” He paused. “Indeed, I drank of him. But I did not take enough blood to kill. I decided to bring him over.”

Andrew’s mind boggled at the ungodly possibilities of such a crossbreed. “Are you daft, man?? Why in God’s name would you do such a thing!?”

“A vampire can discern the need to avoid direct sunlight. In beast form, a werewolf is not sapient. It has the mind of an animal – sentient perhaps, but not reasoning. And today, the moon sets nearly two hours after sunrise. At the onset of dawn, the werewolf will still be in wolf form. It will not know enough to seek shelter from the rays of the sun. It will die an agonizing death – a deservedly agonizing death”

Constantine paused, blinked his eyes. “Perhaps you were correct. It would be best for me to get some rest,” the vampire added resignedly as he slowly pried himself from the embrace of the chair.

“Very good, Sir. Rest well.”

With that, Andrew turned and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Constantine took one last pull at the bottle and, having sufficiently drowned his sorrows for the moment, placed it on the end table beside its already emptied sibling. Slowly, he stumbled his way to the large four-poster at the opposite end of the room and collapsed bonelessly into the mattress.

Outside, the sun began its slow climb over the horizon, languidly burning through the morning haze along the tree line. And somewhere in the distance, a cry tore through the forest; a cry somewhere between the bestial snarl of a maddened predator and the final, tortured shriek of a soul dying in agony.

And, for one fleeting moment, the vampire smiled.