The entire village had been killed, and it had been for torment as much as revenge for the expressions on the many corpses said that most had been alive when set in place.
Harkon could not believe that Gazda had done this thing, and she searched for him in the ruins, hoping for an explanation, and fearing that she would find him among the dead.
She searched the grisly tableau dogged by shadows that were dispelled if she turned to look, and the huntress became vexed and confused when tinkling laughter came from burned out huts amidst a weeping echo, and always she felt a strong presence lurking near—and coming closer.
Harkon encountered remnants of a tattered black fog that swirled and faded in the blood-drenched shadows; and where the murk still clung to the stone stairs and drifted in the old slave hold the presence weighed on her senses and she could not linger.
When she did not find Gazda’s body among the others, she set flame to the Bakwaniri village, and hoped that the fire would purge the dead of their terrible sins and cleanse the jungle of that awful black mist.
###
More Vampires of the Kind
in
BENT STEEPLE
by G. Wells Taylor
The fire had burned down to an even orange flame when it exploded. There was a sudden cracking noise, a cloud of cinders and a fist-sized coal shot out. The missile rocketed toward Kelly and her breath caught.
Before she could flinch, membranous wings clawed open, grabbed the air. The coal—now the flying thing—swooped once around her head and disappeared into the frozen night.
Her eyes followed the blur until vertigo pulled and she had to grab her knees to keep from falling off her improvised chair. The wet logs grouped by the fire made slippery furniture.
Bracing her legs, she realized that the beer was getting to her—definitely; she’d have to slow down soon. Her balance was going. She chuckled and then looked across the fire at her companions. They were gaping at her.
“What?” She frowned, searching their shadowed faces. Some instinctive memory brought a hand up. She swatted the air in front of her. “What?”
“Holy shit, sweetie!” her boyfriend Randy howled. “You must be wasted!” He laughed. “That bat almost took your eyes out!”
“What bat?” Kelly struggled to regain her composure. She straightened her back then gathered her long hair behind her shoulders with a left and right swing of her head. She squinted into the icy pine branches above. The tall red trunks disappeared into ragged darkness.
“Wasn’t a bat, anyway.” She tried to recover, remembering only a flame-etched shape. “Too cold...it was a blue jay!”
“A blue jay? Ah Kelly!” Mike Keeshig was her older brother. He slapped his thigh and took a long pull on his Old Milwaukee. The American beer tasted bitter and cheap, but he preferred spending his money on the ladies at the Sweetwater Inn. Beer was all the same anyway if it was cold enough.
He chuckled, scanning the shadows overhead with his large brown eyes. The wind had the high branches swaying; they knocked against each other with hollow tones. Stars showed in a few jagged gaps, burning in the dark blue winter sky. “Was a bat—I saw it. A big one too!”
“Nah,” Kelly said, grabbing a fresh can of beer from a hole in the snow beside her—she almost tumbled off her seat again. Their snowmobiles had run down a good flat place for a fire near an old fence line. The cedar rails burned hot and the parked machines formed a good windbreak across their backs. They were miles from the highway with nothing around them but snow, shadows and bush. “Was a whiskey jack then…”
“Ah shit sister, some Indian you are,” Mike chuckled, pushing his black hair from his face. “Grandfather is right. We’re not fit to hunt poodles!”
“Grandfather never hunted no bats!” Kelly stabbed a finger across the fire. “What do you know anyway? You couldn’t hit a bat with a baseball!” She laughed at her own joke.
“Only a bat flies that close to a fire, blind like they are,” Mike said, scowling.
“True,” Randy agreed, nudging Mike’s elbow. He was hesitant to join the discussion knowing how angry Kelly could get when she was opposed. But he shrugged and hoped she was drunk enough to forget it. “And owls would hate the light.” He started asking Mike for a smoke but his friend suddenly shot a hand upward, pointing.
“There!” Mike lurched to his feet—trying to steady his footing on the uneven snow—his beers were getting on top of him too. “Right there.”
All three watched a black, finger-winged creature flap out of the shadows. In the flickering firelight they could see it was a bat—the venous membranes crimson. It was a big one too and in the queer light its eyes reflected red.
In the open silence of the frozen forest, against the low crackle of flames they could hear the leathery snap of its wings as it crossed the fire pit. The light tossed a creepy shadow high on the trees as it came straight at Kelly again. Her eyes were wide, glinting orange. Her whole body leaned away. There was no doubt she saw it this time.
Then there was a loud snap—something strong—like a flag blowing in a windstorm and the hard blunt shape of an owl hurtled across the open space. Its broad wings smothered the branches overhead with darkness. Talons reached out like demon’s hands and tore the bat from its flight. The smaller creature disappeared behind a flurry of feathers. The owl, crisp wings hissing in the frigid air, climbed the wind out of sight, into the high branches of the pines beyond the reach of firelight.
“Did you see that?” Randy
