water.
The Council of Elders had made arrangements with a Russian shipping company to carry her to America, and the voyage had been difficult. They were paid in advance in gold and asked no questions, even though their passenger spent most of her nights in her cabin violently, deathly ill. The prolonged smell of salt water-the very proximity of it-had weakened her and nearly driven her mad. But she had survived. Upon her arrival in Philadelphia she was already several weeks behind Malachi and the others, who had commandeered a ship from the main port of Romania.
Shaniah shuddered to think of what had happened to the crew of the ship as Malachi and his then small band fed on them one by one, leaving only enough crew alive to pilot the ship to the American shore. Shaniah guessed Malachi would have forced the captain to sail the ship up a river until finding a spot to go ashore unnoticed. After landing, he likely killed everyone remaining and burned the ship.
It was only conjecture, but it is how she would have done it if she had gone mad like Malachi, defying centuries of Archaic laws and feeding on humans again.
Weakened and sick from her journey, she left Philadelphia as soon as possible and moved to the countryside. She found an abandoned farmhouse and rested there for several weeks. She stayed hidden, and hunted deer, feral pigs, and even a few wild dogs, until she regained her strength. Demeter had traveled with her aboard the Russian vessel and had survived the trip in fine shape.
She and Malachi had lived for centuries, and every one of her people agreed: one or the other would one day lead the Archaics. There would come a day when Shaniah, like the rest of the Old Ones, would live long enough to become an Eternal. But the process took centuries. Shaniah had become an Archaic during the Middle Ages, but in the human world she passed for a woman in her twenties.
And when the previous leader of her people, Genevieve, had been killed-in an accident, many thought, that Malachi had arranged-the Council of Elders made it clear the choice was between Shaniah and Malachi. There were weeks of private deliberation, dissecting the strengths and weaknesses of each candidate. It was generally agreed among her tribe that where Malachi was aggressive, headstrong and vain, Shaniah was thoughtful and deliberate. He embraced his animal nature. Shaniah knew the survival of her people depended on remaining hidden, separate from humans. It was her steadiness and courage that drew her people to her. Many centuries ago, Archaics had fought against humans and while they possessed greater strength and other attributes that humans did not have, the war between them had been disastrous.
Human beings, the Archaics had learned, were not without their own strengths. Men could be devious and clever, and used technology to their advantage. Their civilization had grown and progressed, while the Archaics’ remained stagnant. Soon they were vastly outnumbered and finally retreated deep into the mountains of Eastern Europe, where few humans traveled, and it became their law to avoid contact with humanity at all costs.
There were many in the tribe who disagreed with the decision, and from time to time there had been Archaics who reigned terror on the people nearby. But for the past few centuries her people had lived in peace, hidden high in the mountain passes.
Though many suspected Malachi of culpable actions in the death of Genevieve, there was no proof.
When the Council finished their deliberations, they announced Shaniah as the newest leader of the Archaics. Her word was now the law. Technically, she answered to the Council and could be removed if it was deemed necessary, but that had never happened in the recorded history of her race. For all intents and purposes, her decisions were final.
When she was chosen, Malachi, who long believed he would rule one day, slowly descended into madness. He was convinced he deserved the office and fomented rebellion. His anger at what he considered a betrayal overwhelmed him. He spoke out, building dissent among the people. When Shaniah ordered him arrested and brought before a tribunal, he escaped with a few followers, left their mountain stronghold, and terrorized the towns and villages below. She and her personally chosen soldiers had not been able to catch him before he captured a ship and escaped. And it was up to her alone to bring him back. He must face Archaic justice. Or he must die.
The sky to the west had gone dark, and a half moon rose above the mountains to the southwest. Shaniah waited, using all of her senses to be sure the camp below was deserted. When she was certain, she spurred Demeter to a slow, careful descent down the canyon.
She rode along the edge of the camp, staying to the far right of a stream. The sound of the rushing water made her feel slightly nauseous and she circled away, reining Demeter around behind the buildings. Time, wind, and rain had removed any sign of the massacre. No doubt Malachi had dragged the bodies off, and there was no blood visible on the ground. Malachi had killed here though-she could smell him.
She dismounted outside the general store and tied Demeter to a hitching post. Inside, the store was full of goods. It was strange no one had come here to steal the food, guns, and ammunition still lining the shelves. But she supposed the stories of what had happened here kept the looters away.
The general store held no clues, and she moved on to the saloon next door. She found the signs of a struggle and bloodstains lining the floor. Most of the killing had happened here. She knelt and examined the scene, but it was harder to single out Malachi’s scent because there were too many smells mixed together. It was there though. Perhaps if she concentrated, she might be able to lock onto it and follow him to his lair.
He had eluded her repeatedly over the last four years. Being able to travel only at night, her unease in crossing rivers and streams had made her job more difficult. Malachi was feeding on human blood, giving him the ability to more easily tolerate the things that made an Archaic weaker, like rivers and streams. And Malachi was cunning. He knew she would be coming. He did not make it easy, leading her on, doubling back, and sending her down any number of false trails.
Two years earlier, he had staged a massacre of a band of Blackfoot Indians in Montana. But he had left the bodies and his band had refrained from drinking the blood. The massacre had made big news in the territory. The humans made inquiries and decided renegades had killed the Indians. When Shaniah was finally able to examine the site of the killings, she discovered that Malachi had staged the elaborate scene to taunt her. His smell was everywhere, but he was long gone and it was months before she picked up his trail again.
She stood and headed for the doorway, and upon leaving the saloon found three men, all of them dressed in filthy buckskins, standing next to Demeter. The sound of the rushing water in the stream had covered their approach and they had entered the camp downwind, her sense of smell failing to warn her. One of them held her horse by the reins. He was tall, missing his two front teeth and had a long beard, twisted and gnarled below his chin. It was stained and dirty and Shaniah did not want to think about what might have landed in it. The other two men were shorter, and just as ugly and disgusting as the first. One of them, his face lined with scars, wore cavalry pants and a ridiculous-looking top hat. He held a large rifle, which she thought might have been a Sharps carbine, and the other one, his hair greasy and matted to his head, held a lantern, which cast a flickering shadow on the wooden walls of the surrounding buildings. The man holding Demeter’s reins had two Colt pistols with handles out, belted around his waist.
This was trouble.
“Well, lookee here,” the tall man said, his tongue pushing through the space of his missing teeth, giving a lisping quality to his words.
Shaniah was dressed completely in black; a long leather duster, riding boots, and woolen pants. She had bound up her shoulder-length blond hair, hiding it beneath her black Stetson, but up this close it was easily apparent that she was a woman. And she carried no weapon except a dagger hidden in her boot.
Shaniah studied the men and for several seconds said nothing. It was quiet as the looters waited to see if she might try to run.
“That happens to be my horse,” she said. During her years in America she had practiced her English and her words came out only slightly accented. One of the men standing behind Demeter laughed and shifted his rifle, holding it at port arms.
“Is that so?” The tall man lisped. “Me and Beaver and Jonesy here was just riding along and we seen this fine stallion and thought he might have gotten lost. Where you from, honey?” he asked, as the two men chuckled behind him.
She didn’t see their horses anywhere, but they could have left them outside the camp. They were most likely scavengers, here to raid the town of whatever supplies remained.
She ignored his question. “Yes. The horse belongs to me, and I’ll be taking him now,” she said, stepping forward slowly. She needed to be at just the right distance.
