Port Royal, 1657

I drew the sword forth from the trunk and held it out for the Captain. “Silver,” I told him. “Ye must use silver, or silver washed blades. Not iron nor steel will harm them.”

He laughed, and withdrew his cutlass partially from its scabbard. Ah, so there was that sorted, then.

I placed the sword back into the trunk and withdrew the Lorenzoni rifle. Twelve shots this one would fire before the magazines ran dry, and this one I’d made meself, during one of those times when I’d lost the trail.

“How well do ye shoot?” I asked him. “We will want to be doing most of the work with these, for the creatures are wicked quick, and getting close is never the best play.”

He held out his hand and I passed the rifle over, turning to retrieve the bag which held the spare balls, patches, and powder horn. I explained the action and how to reload the magazines.

Me second pistol, I withdrew next, and me own possibles bag. I’d no idea how many of the creatures would be there with the sire, and I wanted every advantage.

“Purity,” I told him as we walked. “Purity is the key. The beasts cannot tolerate it.”

I was speaking softly, for we’d no idea how near we were to the enemy’s lair. Somewhere ahead was all the shopkeeper had known. Somewhere ahead lay the only plantation to have changed hands in the past six months, and I’d seen the creature in London not long before that.

“Near any substance can be used,” I went on, “but silver is the best, for it retains its strength even as it approaches its purest state. Pure gold is soft as dough, and pure lead the same. Silver, now. Ye can wash a blade in it, and it will last longer before it wears through than gilt.

“Even with silver,” I clarified. “As ye have seen, ye must pierce the heart. Even with the runes and the magic, ye must do for the heart, or the beastie will regenerate. Aye, regenerate, for I could not in any way call what happens healing.

“Alternatively, if ye do not have silver, the heart must be completely destroyed. In the east of Europe, they pin the creatures to the grave with stakes so large as posts, nailing them to the consecrated earth.

“If all else fails, or if ye have the chance, smash the head in. If ye can destroy the brain, as with the heart, the demon cannot repair the puppet.

“Fire works as well,” I added. “Perhaps better than the rest, but ye cannot always be assured of laying hands on a flame.”

He laughed at that. “Have no fear, Friend Smith,” he chuckled. “Laying hands on a flame is not an issue for me.”

We walked on in silence for a time, then, as I tried not to dwell on the bad thoughts battering at me wits. Me heart fought me, growing heavy, and me pace slowed. Finally, I stopped. The Captain stopped beside me.

I turned partially to him, me head down, me eyes wet. “When we reach the lair,” I asked him, me voice near a whisper. “Do we see a read haired girl… with freckles….” I waved a hand unsteadily about me face.

“Yes?” he prompted when I didn’t continue.

I turned full on him and looked up into his eyes, mine pleading. “Would ye try not to kill her?” I begged softly.

“I do not understand,” the Captain frowned. “If they are monsters, would you not—?”

“There is a thing that I have not told you,” I confessed. “A thing about them that few know….”

“And that is?” he prompted again.

“The puppet is awake,” I breathed, me voice cracking.

“Awake?”

“Aye,” I sighed. “Awake and aware. It feels all, hears all, sees all, the while unable to do aught about any of the vile things the demon does with its body.

“I suppose it tickles the filthy—” I pressed me eyes closed and pressed a fist to them. When I opened them again, I looked into his eyes and told him, “The victims must ride their own bodies like baggage, knowing all that’s done by their flesh, with the laughter of the demon ringing in their souls.”

“Should we not, then, put them out of their misery?” the Captain asked, “Would that not be mercy?”

I shook me head, slowly and slightly. “When first they are possessed,” I explained. “The demon has very little control, and almost no sense of itself. Fresh up from Hell, it knows only hunger, understands only savagery. Very few puppets survive this stage. Most of them go mad well before the demon becomes aware enough to moderate itself.”

I looked to see was he following what I was saying.

“The mad ones just go along, do ye see?” I said. “By the time the fight becomes fair, they’ve already lost.”

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“Fair?” he wondered dubiously.

“Aye,” I pressed. “Once the demon is in full control of the puppet and begins to repair the carcass, the savagery diminishes and intellect arises. It becomes less instinctive, and more intelligent. The forces driving it change.

“This may take dozens or even hundreds of years,” I explained. “And the vast likelihood is that neither host nor parasite will survive long enough to complete the process.”

“I do not believe that I understand what you are trying to say,” the Captain scratched an ear.

“Will,” I told him. “Does the puppet have sufficient sense of self remaining, it becomes a battle of wills. Does the demon subsume the puppet, or does the puppet subdue the demon?”

“That is possible?”

“Indeed,” I told him. “For good or ill, some few souls survive the ordeal and strive to reassert control.”

“And what happens if the puppet triumphs?” he seemed intrigued.

I sighed again. “That, me friend,” I told him, “depends entirely upon the puppet. The creature that comes out the far side of that struggle is a sort of chimera, you see. Still a demon-driven skin puppet, but yet, a person with the memories and character of the puppet’s original life.

“A person who was good before being taken will be a good person again.”

“And an evil person?”

“Ah, well, you’ve but to wait a few more hours to see that, for such is what we pursue. The most evil of men in control of the most fell of demons.”

“I see, he said. And this red haired girl?”

“Mary Kate,” I told him. “Me betrothed.”

“A good woman, I take it?”

“Very good,” I assured him. “The dearest jewel of the Emerald Isle. And if she yet lives, doubtless in the clutches of the demon.”

“And you would give her the chance to triumph over her puppeteer?”

“If it be possible.”

“And you believe that you have a way to aid her in this?”

“I believe that I do.

“Then let us not tarry,” he smiled, suiting action to words.

I knew we were getting close long before the smell reached me nose. From the corner of me eye, I could see the cold expression settle into the face of the big Dutchman. He could feel it as well, I surmised.

We slowed, proceeding more cautiously. I’d me pistol out and swinging slowly back and forth, scanning the foliage to either side of the road. I swallowed the bile and came to a halt, motioning the Captain to do so as well.

“Not much farther,” I rasped. “We should begin seeing guards soon. Some may be human.”

“Oh?”

“Aye,” I said. “They cannot trust the newly turned with any sorts of tasks that require more than the random rending of flesh, and they will not use their higher functioning fellows for menial tasks.

“That mind controlling thing they do assures them of ready slaves for the scut work, although they’ll also hire thugs or mercenaries. The controlled tend to be on the thick side, if ye ken me meaning.

“I shall go in first while you cover me with the rifle. But do not fire unless you determine the target to be a vampire, and me cause lost. We want to keep from alerting the bulk of them for so long as it is possible.”

“Do not worry, Friend Smith,” the Captain assured me. “This is not my first, nor my second battle.”

I nodded and started off.

“Oh,” I turned back after a step or two. “Don’t let any of them get a tooth in ye. They can leave ye open for turning with a solid bite or slash, and naught can I do about it with the skills I possess.

I moved forward carefully, crouching lower as I progressed. By the next bend in the road, I was on me belly, creeping ‘round the verge of the pathway and so near to the brush as I could manage without telltale rustling.

I spied the first of the plantation guards, and he was indeed human. Well, after a fashion. Untainted by vampire bite, he managed yet to be farther down the road to damnation than the average lout it was me displeasure to encounter, and I could taste the bleakness of his evil from yards distant.

He was facing in me general direction, but his eyes were focused higher, as though he couldn’t imagine any intruders taking more care than to simply prance down the middle of the road singing travel ditties. I eased back around the bend as his gaze moved to the far side of the path, taking knee once more and glancing to me rear to see me new friend settled comfortably in the roadside brush, me rifle held ready in his hands.

I nodded back at him and pulled a smallish throwing knife from me belt. It was cold iron, with not a trace of silver to its makeup, but no less dangerous for me current target for that. I traced the runes already laid upon the blade with light fingers, reinforcing the spell. Placing the blade against me forehead, I bowed me head and added a small prayer to God for his guidance and forgiveness.

Then, taking a deep breath, I eased back out into the path until I had him in full view. His eyes were only just passing me own side of the trail, and they went wide with recognition of his peril even as I let fly. His chest was puffing with the air to give cry when the narrow blade pierced it and the spell took hold, felling him like a dropped sack of potatoes.

I raced forward and dragged him to the edge of the trail, noting as I did so, that the Captain had moved to me previous position and had the rifle ready again.

Me skin crawling, I doffed me wide hat and donned the odious lump he’d been wearing, me scalp already itching from anticipated verminous assault. The tattered long coat smelt of dung and urine and less pleasant substances, and I’d almost rather run naked through a swamp than don it, but don it I did. Taking up his fallen blunderbuss, I took foot and moved to trail’s center. He’d been shorter than I, and stouter, but I hoped that hirelings would not be such close friends that they’d notice such alterations.

The next sentry I encountered was sound asleep, leaning against a tree, an empty rum bottle by his side. I gave him a prick with one of the spelled blades in any case, just to be sure. With a glance back to me new shadow, I moved forward, struggling not to scratch.

The gorge was full in me throat when next I encountered sentries. Two of them this time, and I began to worry. One at a time, I was relatively certain I could deal with quietly. Two at once, and it began to be a problem.

I staggered on down the road at them, the empty bottle taken from the previous picket dangling from me left hand, for all appearances, dancing deep within Bacchus’ warm embrace.

They challenged me in rough, angry voices, which I ignored, smiling broadly at them as I approached.

Holding the empty bottle out before me, I veered to the villain on me left with the idea of placing him betwixt meself and his partner.

The guard swore at me viciously and moved to dash the bottle from me hand, only at that moment seeming to recognize that mine was a face he knew not. He reared back and made to draw his pistol, but by this time I’d stepped aside and in.

I bashed in his skull with the bottle before his fingers could close on his pistol’s grip, dropping the shattered remains as me own good right hand dove for a weapon ere the second thug could raise the alarm.

I needn’t have bothered. The man was stumbling backward, his hands clawing at the hilt of a knife protruding from his throat.

Me head jerked around, and the Captain was there, smiling and waving. I turned back, in time to see the picket keel over backward, gargling out his life’s blood. No doubt the blade hadn’t been spelled, but with such a wound, that had hardly mattered