Byron

Byron found a set of tracks leaving the Mount Forlorn area. He saw nothing resembling the boot tracks by the witches’ cart, only the usual mix of bare feet and rough sandals one would expect from a party of Blues.

He sniffed the ground and caught a trace of non-Blueskin blood. It’s her.

A memory flashed of Rory holding a pot of coffee and its steamy liquid swooshed into a brown mug. Rory’s lips tugged into a put-on smile and she asked, “Anything else, I can get for you, Rick?”

He said, “I-I’ve got, um, a tuna, tuna for your cat.”

Her eyes widened, and she giggled. “Charming’s not my cat. He’s his own boy.”

“Okay, well, I’ve got tuna for him.”

She bent down and rested the pot of coffee on the wooden tabletop of his booth. Her eyes shot in either direction, and she said, “Could you take it out back for him, please? I would myself, but I’m the only waitress on duty right now and if I leave my post again, I’m so screwed.”

Through Rick, Byron watched as the man drank in her pale blue eyes and felt the man’s heart flop. A pleasing mix of coffee and jasmine wafted into his nostrils. She could’ve told him to jump off a cliff and Rick would likely do it. So, he said, “No problem. I’ll get the tuna to Charming. It’d be my pleasure.”

Rory grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Thank you, thank you,” she said before whirling around and disappearing into the kitchen.

Without her looking at him, Rick gazed down at the back of his spoon and adjusted a few stray hairs. He shook his head, and muttered, “No, not tonight.” Then the memory faded. And Byron stared at the cold ground. He’d killed the man, otherwise he wouldn’t have seen the memory.

“Who are you?” he asked out loud. But the ghost didn’t answer. That was the thing about the spirits that haunted him. They revealed themselves when they chose and never when called.

Any of his senses might trigger their fragmented memories. Byron would walk by a park bench and a guy he’d dried out would appear, throwing bread to the ducks. He’d smell buttery popcorn and a woman who worked at the theater would frown back at him in her red uniform lined with gold.

Sometimes he’d known them. At the smell of fresh clipped grass, he often saw his lawn-obsessed neighbor smiling back at him. “Hey there, fellow. Try some weed killer over there. Seen you got a few dandelions sprouting. Don’t want to let those get out of control and invade my yard, do ya?” Once the ground became tainted, Byron only saw him pining over the occasional wreckage of a lawn mower. The neighbor would shake his head and say, “No way to maintain a machine.”

And some ghosts kept to themselves, like this Rick character—until he saw Rory, anyway.

After the world ended, the triggers decreased, and it grew easier.

He wondered how things might be with Billie. If Vic had drunk the guy dry so many times, it seemed like Billie’s ghost might be a little more prolific. At some point, the unkillable warlock might even exert control. Billie was gentle enough that it seemed unlikely. Still. Who knew with this stuff? Some vampires lost their minds from their ghosts. Back in the day, he’d watched a brood go through an asylum and, well, nobody talked about Haven anymore. But Galena always pointed to that as an example of why he should watch who he ate.

Byron’s thoughts turned to the Blueskins. Many didn’t consider them human anymore. If you asked most people, you’d think they were speaking about goblins—in some ways, the resemblance was hard to deny. They raided out of nowhere and burned refugee camps down. To top it all off, their traditions, dialect—everything—was so different.

Galena had talked about extending the same protection to the Blues as the residents of Alma. “Why not?” she’d asked. “People are people.”

Vic had been the most outspoken in the debate that followed. He’d said, “Well now, Galena. We protect the folks from Alma on account of the fact they have something we want. Blueskins don’t. Can’t drink from them without burning up inside. Ain’t no use.”

“If they get the pure water, they would be, uh, useful too?”

“I don’t know about anybody else, but I don’t want to take my chances. We get infected by the taint and t’ain’t no good.”

Galena would shake her head and walk off then. When Byron would ask her why she didn’t take out Vic. She’d sigh, “Not for me. Someday maybe you.”

“Then I’ll take care of him now.”

And she’d tell him no. “You’ll know when the time is right.”

While Byron still knew the time wasn’t right, he expected the end for Vic would be soon. And then what for the Blueskins? Would he protect them as Galena wanted? They were both more unruly and more organized than ever. From the few times he’d surveyed their camp at Paradise, he knew their numbers to be far greater than those at Alma. Didn’t seem like it would take much more than a strong general for the Blues to become a latter-day empire.

His own hands had ended more than one of the tribe’s life. He’d only done so for defensive reasons—or so he told himself. Problem was, when a vampire attacked, there were no kid gloves. In the heat of battle, he was all instinct; all monster. Same way he’d been when he attacked Rory that fateful night centuries ago.

Galena would say, “You can’t blame poison snake for killing. We are vampire. We do what we must. This is why we can’t play with our food.”

* * *

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

At a wide stream, Byron lost the trail for a while. He looked around and saw a distant ridge. With how long and flat it was on top, it had to be the home of the Highland Blues who were a little more refined than their Lowland cousins.

I hate being this close to Blueskin territory. A little raiding party was one thing, but an entire army was too much for Byron to overcome. Could he leave her to take care of herself—assuming she still lived? He’d heard the rumors of how the tribe treated women, and one might call it a fate worse than death.

He continued his search, but it wasn’t looking good. Seemed all the tracks he could find were old. Almost at the point of giving up, he looked back out over the horizon and noticed movement. A tiny figure in the distance walked irregularly in his direction. Step, step, and then rest.

Is it her? Is she hurt? He wanted to run up and check. But there was little cover. “Damn it,” he said. “Have to risk it.” With all his might, he ran in the figure’s direction. And it was her. The woman with the honey brown hair and blue eyes. Rory.

She froze, eyes wide in horror. “You.”

“Well, what do you mean by that?” Byron asked, stung by the rudeness of her greeting.

Rory raised her chin defiantly and faced him. Her eyes afire. “What do I mean? What do you think I mean?”

He scoffed. “Vampires almost never kill anymore. You’re talking ancient history.”

“Ancient! That was barely a full day ago.”

“For you.” Byron pointed to himself with a thumb and said, “For the rest of us, that was more like three hundred years ago.”

“I guess this is where you kill me now? I’m not exactly fit for running away again.” Her jaw tightened and her steely mask faltered, revealing a tired resignation on her face.

An undefinable something melted inside him, and he reached out to comfort her. A hair’s breadth from her, his arm shot back, repelled by the mysterious force that guarded her. “Still can’t touch you. I was thinking I’d take you back to your Doc and Sven,” he said and waved a hand toward Mount Forlorn. He turned away from her. “But it seems like somebody can take care of themselves. I’ll just be on my way then.” He walked a few steps before gazing at her sidelong.

She collapsed and covered her face.

He shifted uncomfortably and scratched his brow. “My name’s Byron. I know you’re going through a lot, Rory, but we’ve really got to get you to cover. Can you stand?”

She wiped her cheeks with shaky fingers and glared up at him.

“How bad are you hurt?”

A heavy sigh broke the silence, and she said, “Not sure. It’s my ankle. I’m able to walk on it, so I doubt it’s broken.”

“Let me carry you then. We’ve got to get some distance between us and the tribe. Just, you know, say the magic word—well, not please, but whatever it is you do.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you can eat me? No, I can walk. It will be fine. I will be fine.” She stood using the crutch as support and grimaced. “I will be fine… ugh.”

“But you won’t be, anyone can tell that.”

A vein throbbed at her forehead, and she swatted at him with her free arm. Her palm contacted his shoulder and a crackle of sparks burst around the point of impact. They stared at each other for a moment and it was Byron who realized what happened first.

The spell is broken. He slung her over his shoulder and ran.

In his ear, she yelled, “This isn’t funny. Put me down.”

And it was almost as if a large invisible pair of hands made a marionette of his body. It forced his legs to a halt and his arms down until Rory stood on the ground. He blinked at her. “Again?”

“Look I’m sorry—or no—I’m not sorry. Since I’ve met you my life has taken an unexpected turn for the crazy. I’m getting sick of everyone knowing what’s best for me around here.”

He held both of his hands up in the air. “I’m the last person who will say he knows what’s best for you. If you only knew...”

“If I ‘only knew’ what?”

“Never mind. We’ve got to keep on moving.” He looked down at her injury and sighed. “Slowly but surely it is then.”

Rory hobbled by his side for a while, and Byron cursed under his breath.

She stopped and said, “I could go a little faster if you hadn’t made me drop Maggie’s crutch.”

He squinted at her. “I have no idea who this Maggie is, and I don’t remember you having a crutch.”

“Typical.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, go back and get your damn crutch? Or-”

“MAGGIE’S crutch,” Rory said.

Byron kicked the ground. “Do you want me to go back and get Maggie’s crutch for you?”

“Yes, please?”

“Fine.” Byron backtracked their steps until he came upon what looked like a crude crutch with some rustic carvings. On closer inspection, he recognized the Blueskin runes for woman and child carved into the side. He ran back to Rory, and asked, “This it?”

Her expression softened on his return, and she nodded. “Thank you. Sorry to be such a pain.”

“It’s a dangerous world. Can’t say I blame you. Not completely.”

“Maggie helped me escape. If the wrong Blueskin found it and she got blamed—I shudder to think what would happen to her. Her husband lied to someone named Big Chair for me.”

“Oh yeah, the big cheese himself, eh? I wonder what he’s doing this far away from the hill? Did you get a good look at him? He’s eluded us every time we’ve looked for him,” Byron said.

“Didn’t see him. But I overheard him shouting…”

They walked in silence for a while. Now and then, Byron would look down at her stick and meet her eyes. This is taking forever. Just let me carry you, he thought. But there was no way she’d allow it. With each gaze, she’d look away with a peculiar self-satisfied smirk on her face.

Night passed into early morning, and Rory sighed. “How much further.”

“See that far-off mountain.”

She grumbled. “I don’t know if I can walk much more. Should we make camp? I mean, it’ll be day soon, won’t that be a problem for you?”

“Not really. Long as I don’t get hit by a direct ray of sun, now that the sky is full of ash. Suppose we could stop for a minute. Might be a bad idea to linger too long, on the off chance there’s Blueskin scouts prowling around.” He found a pair of large stumps and motioned for her to sit.

“So, what do you know about the Big Chair?” she asked.

“Just what I’ve heard. He’s basically the leader of the Blues. Seems like whoever is the strongest among them ends up with the title. I assume they have a brawl over the position.”

“Any reason he’d talk so different from the others?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like with a southern drawl? And not with the stilted language the rest of them speak?”

Byron looked away and back from where they came. “Southern drawl, huh?”

“Yep. There was no mistaking it.”

Could it be Vic? But his skin isn’t blue. Body paint? “You said you didn’t get a good look at him though?”

“No. I-” She stopped and sighed. “Do you have any idea why the Big Chair would collect people like me? Maggie told me the Big Chair was grabbing witches, er, ‘more of my kind,’ I think was how she put it.”

Byron failed to shield his surprise. His eyes grew large and his mouth gaped. He crossed his arms and paced in tight circles. “We’ve got to get you back.”

She stood and stretched, picking up her crutch. “All right, I guess that was enough of a break for now.”

He shook his head. “Too slow. Let me carry you. I promise I won’t stop until you’re safe with your friends. Even if I have to run all the way to Alma.”

“I don’t-”

“I won’t force you. Couldn’t even if I tried. But there’s more than just our lives at stake.” Can’t know for sure, but I have an inkling those witches might still be alive.

A defeated look washed over Rory’s face. Her eyes fell to her feet, and it almost seemed like she’d be fine with dying if it meant she could sleep in. “In that case—All right.”

“Piggyback so you can see?” She nodded and held her arms out. He turned away from her, lowered himself and picked her up, careful to avoid bumping her injured leg. Nails clawed wildly into his chest. I guess we all have a limit to how stubborn we are.