"Hunters"
"Can you believe that?" Jacks pounded the bar, bouncing beer bottles, shot glasses, and the blue dwarf Stovepipe into the air. "That jerk-off has some nerve!"
"I hear ya, mate." The wolf-skin-wearing man who bumped into D earlier leaned against the bar, nodding. "Oh, by the way—the name's Fang."
"Fang?" Stovepipe asked, his tone incredulous.
"Ah, okay. Not really." The fur-garbed man ducked his head in embarrassment. "It's Spencer."
"You…don't really look like a Vampire Hunter," Jacks said. "No offense."
"None taken," Spencer said, perking up. "I'm a Werewolf Hunter, but Vampire Hunting just seems so much—I dunno, classier. I mean, holy hell! Werewolves don't send holograms of themselves out to taunt a room full of Hunters. Know what I mean, mate?"
Stovepipe and Jacks both laughed. "Yeah, man. That does put a fresh spin on it," Jacks said.
"Hah! Could you imagine?" Stovepipe cackled, nearly falling off the bar.
"So you're trying to break into Vampire Hunting?" Jacks asked Spencer while pulling Stovepipe back onto the bar by his vest.
"Well, I'm keeping my options open," Spencer answered. "I figure, head up the mountain, kill some werewolves, see what happens. Maybe I'll get a shot at the big guy, y'know?"
Stovepipe snorted, coming out of his fit of giggles. "Good luck with that, heh. Takes planning—"
"—And skill," Jacks interjected.
"Thank you, and skill," Stovepipe shot Jacks a dirty look, "to be a Vampire Hunter. Not to mention luck and a healthy dose of badass."
Stovepipe glanced around, then leaned in close and lowered his voice. "Speaking of badass, did you guys see who came in right before the announcement?" He cocked his head and shifted his eyes toward the back corner of the room, where D and Marcella sat surrounded by empty space in a room filled to capacity.
"Oh man! I bumped into that guy!" Spencer said, covering his mouth with one hand. He leaned in as well and said in a low voice, "Seriously, I thought he was gonna cut my head off. I got away from him as fast as I could." Spencer glanced back at the pair as though he felt that long, curved sword against his neck and shivered. "Who the hell is he?"
Jacks spluttered in shock. "You don't—you don't know? He's only the greatest Vampire Hunter to ever walk in the daylight, my friend."
"Uh, okay, but who is he, mate?"
Stovepipe shook his head. "They call him D—who knows what it stands for, if anything. Nobody really knows much about him, except that if you've got a tough Noble to kill, he's your guy."
This time it was Jacks' turn to glance around surreptitiously and lower his voice. "I do know something. I know my grandpa talked about seeing him once, back when he was still a Hunter. Dude's been around for a long time, but look at 'im. Doesn't look a day over twenty."
Stovepipe nodded. "That's a dhampir for ya. The looks, too. Hell, even I think he's pretty!" He glared at Jacks. "Don't start getting' ideas now."
"Hey, I agree," Jacks said. "Man's pretty—too pretty. Like a Noble, something inhuman about it."
Spencer had been quiet until this point, listening to their talk and sneaking glances at the dark-clad man. "I dunno mates. There's something…sad about him. Can't really put my finger on it, just a feelin' y'know?"
Jacks nodded. "Hell, just imagine living that long, watchin' all the people you meet getting' old, dyin'—'fore you even had a chance to get to know 'em."
"That is," Stovepipe broke in, "if they'd even give you the time of day in the first place."
"Yeah, there's the real curse of bein' a half-breed," Jacks said. "Neither side wants t'have anything to do with ya. Too much of a Noble to live with humans, too human to want to have anything to do with Nobles."
"Except kill them," Spencer added.
With that, the three of them fell into a somber silence. Each wondered deep in his heart what kept a man like D going, and each measured his own will and resolve to that impossible standard and fell short.
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Marcella stubbed out her latest cigarette on the table next to the other crumpled butt, giving the table's ashtray—full of an unidentifiable liquid and bits of trash—a nasty glare. "What did you make of His Highness' performance?" she asked, adjusting her cuffs and looking at D askance.
"That it was just that—a performance." D's gaze took in the entire room, as he made a small gesture toward the Hunters around them. "Designed to throw them off-balance."
Marcella nodded. "It seems he had some success. Those who are not simply spooked by his confidence are at least hampered by suspicion that some Hunter might just take the counteroffer." She heaved a heavy sigh and stretched her arms out in front of her body, fingers interlaced. "But, then again—we Hunters are already a surly bunch, full of competition and spite for our peers. It would take little effort to stir that pot."
D did not respond. Instead, he retrieved his saddlebags from where they rested on the floor and, with a single, smooth motion, stood and turned to leave.
"D." Marcella's husky voice cut through the tavern's din as a sharp command, even though she made no effort to raise its volume. The Hunter she addressed paused, turning his head slightly. "As I told you before—you're late. There's not a room left to rent, nor a stable or empty yard to sleep in."
"I'll manage," D said, adjusting the sword on his back. He once again started to leave.
"However," Marcella continued, ignoring him. D paused again, this time without looking at her. "Those of us who were early had our pick of rooms. I myself have a suite in this very hotel. Nothing special, just a bedroom and adjoining sitting room." Her gloved hand slipped into another pocket and produced a pair of keys that jingled flatly together as she tossed them on the table. "I had planned to sell the use of my sitting room to the highest bidder, but after looking at this lot," she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, "I decided to keep it for myself. Unless—"
At this, D finally turned back to face her, expressionless as always. "Unless?"
Marcella gave him a small smile. "Unless a certain Vampire Hunter would like a safe place to rest where he doesn't have to worry about drunken Hunters mistaking him for a Noble and turning him into a pincushion…" She trailed off, flicking an imaginary speck of dirt from her sleeve.
"What's the catch?" D asked.
Marcella raised one key, offering it to him. "How about…you just owe me a favor?"
D accepted the key, enfolding it in his long, pale fingers. "Agreed."
-------------------------
Despite the late hour, Forzia still rang with drunken revelry. Even in the hotel, on the floors beneath her room, Marcella could hear running footsteps, shouts, and crashing doors. In Marcella's suite, however, silence reigned.
D rested in the darkened sitting room, a darker shadow among shadows. Marcella was unable to tell if he was awake or if he slept. The situation had her quite amused, though. Her bedroom was plainly appointed, but did contain a desk near the room's single window. Dressed in a simple gray shift and wrapped in a blanket, Marcella scribbled the day's events into a worn journal, writing just by the lights of the city below.
—And imagine. Finally meeting the famous Hunter and now he owes me a favor? That is a rare prize, indeed. Certainly one worth coming to this farce of a hunt for.
Her pen scratched across the paper, recording her thoughts in a cramped, old-fashioned script. Above, she had drawn cartoonish caricatures of D, the sheriff, the mayor, and some of the Hunters. Each had their name listed beside their portrait.
On the outskirts of town, something—perhaps a fuel tank or a Hunter's vehicle—exploded. The resulting fireball bloomed above the low buildings and briefly filled the room with light. Marcella glanced into the next room to catch a wakeful D easing back into a more relaxed position, his hand leaving his sword. Her pen scratched across the page a bit more.
Her eyepatch rested on the desk beside her, and the dying fire's light glimmered in her sighted eye and glazed across the milky surface of the blind one. Marcella chewed the end of her pen and watched the thick smoke blot out the stars, and wondered absently if the blaze might spread. Finally deciding the entry complete, she snapped the book shut and opened her pack, burying the journal deep beneath extra clothes and sundry supplies.
Marcella journaled religiously, recording names and faces and experiences before they could slip out of her memory. She crouched over her pack and fingered the long scar cleaving her forehead as though it pained her. Not only had the blow intended to kill her destroyed her eye, when the axe split her skull it had not been kind to the brain beneath. Even with her mingled blood the wound had been slow to heal and left her with scars, not all of which were visible.
Marcella pulled another book from her pack. This one had a title: The Migratory Habits of River-born Mist Beasts. Her newest acquisition, traded from a local bookseller for a worn copy of Memoirs of a Noble's Manservant and 14 dalas. Marcella hadn't found that one particularly interesting. The plot of the book escaped her, but she could still remember the Noble's favorite parakeet was called Winifred.
"I'm sure that piece of trivia will be handy someday," she muttered. "Or not." Marcella's memory had a slight quirk: names and faces faded away like morning mist, but the more useless a piece of information was, the more likely she remembered it. Due to a voracious appetite for books of any subject, if called upon she could accurately describe the climate cycle of the North Sea for the past ten years and how it affected seafood export from the town of Florence, but the next day she wouldn't remember who it was that asked. Her hope was that someday some bit of worthless trivia would be useful, and so she was optimistic about this new book.
"But we must get an early start in the morning, my friend," Marcella murmured to the book, "so I can't get to know you tonight." She replaced it in her pack and crossed the room to her bed. Throwing back the covers, she crawled in and curled up to sleep.
