"As you wish," Boots said, the smile never leaving his face. "If you would kindly open the lid of the coffin, I will begin."
"What's that?" Washed asked, casting a worried look at the box. "You want me to open it?"
"Yes."
"Why can't you?"
"Because you must master your fear of the unknown if you are to learn what I have to teach you," the bartender replied. "The choice is yours. However, I should warn you: if you turn back now, I will kill you before you reach the door."
Wash swallowed. His instincts were screaming at him to run, to leave this unsettling man and his coffin in the dust and get out of Leadville as fast as he could. If he shot Boots quick enough, he could do just that. He could steal one of the horses still hitched to the wagon downstairs and light out before the law could catch up to him.
His finger drifted toward the trigger as his thoughts raced. Boots watched him, still grinning. The bartender seemed to know his thoughts and was challenging him, waiting to see what he would do. Shooting him would be easy enough, but something told Wash that getting shot would only amuse the bartender. The muffled sound of the piano filtered up through the floorboards as the two men stared at each other.
Finally, Wash slipped his revolver back into its holster. He gave Boots a long look before kneeling down next to the coffin, wondering for the second time that day what he'd gotten himself into.
The coffin's hinges groaned as Wash opened it. He expected them to be stiff and hard to move, but the lid gave way easily, letting the dim light trickle into the coffin's interior.
What he saw made him jump to his feet and take a few steps backward, his hand over his mouth. He bumped into a crate and almost fell, but he didn't take his eyes off the coffin. His stomach threatened to heave his breakfast onto the floor.
Reclining in the coffin, eyes closed as if in sleep, was a man.
As Wash regained control of himself, he approached the coffin for a better look. The man appeared young, no older than thirty years. A black, well-trimmed beard circled his red lips, perfectly matching the fine suit he wore and the raven locks that lay on his shoulders. Clean white gloves covered his hands as they rested at his side. The only bit of color about him aside from his lips came from a bloodred necktie at his throat.
What struck Wash the most, however, was the man's face. Despite having been in that coffin for who knew how long, the man hadn't started rotting. Indeed, the face was rather handsome. It wasn't the face of a dead man, but Wash couldn't imagine anyone enduring the ride from the mines and the trip up the stairs trapped in a coffin. He looked up at Boots with questions in his eyes, but the bartender only stared back at him. Neither man spoke, and Wash suddenly realized that his breathing was the only sound in the room.
"Rather dashing, wouldn't you say?" Boots said, stepping up to the coffin and looking down at the man. "I always think so, but it doesn't mean much coming from me."
Wash's mouth worked in silence for a few moments. "What is this?" he managed.
"This is your future," Boots said, eyes glinting in amusement. "This is what will empower you to kill Cora Oglesby."
Wash shook his head, not understanding but frightened half out of his wits. Boots favored him with a look fitting for a lame dog. "How often I forget the fear mortality strikes into the heart. Very well, Washington Jones, I will explain. I do hope you won't mind if I do so in my own voice, though. After a good sleep, I enjoy nothing so much as a long talk."
Before Wash could react, Boots faded into the shadows, leaving the gunman alone in the room. Startled, Wash turned in a slow circle, hoping to see the bartender hiding behind a crate or standing by the window, grinning his grin, but the room was empty.
A moment later, he heard a soft rustling behind him. Turning his head, he saw white gloves gripping the edges of the coffin. The dead man pulled himself upright, his eyes sliding open. Wash Jones let out a yelp and scrambled backward, only to trip over a crate and fall on his back. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He rolled over onto his belly, pulled his arms and legs under him, and tried to get to his feet.
The man was standing in front of him.
Before Wash could move, a hand gripped his shoulder like a bear trap, hauling him to his feet and holding him until he could stand on his own. Wash found himself looking into the man's eyes. They glowed a soft golden color in the dim light.
"I had hoped you were made of sterner stuff," the man said, "but perhaps you will learn in time."
Beneath his fear, Wash felt his pride stir. "I ain't so yellow as all of that. You just startled me is all. Never had no experience with spooks."
"And I suppose you believe you would have acted differently if you had known what I am," the man said. His voice resonated from deep within his chest, making the air around them vibrate.
"Well, sure," Wash said, his own voice small in his ears.
"A show of bravery, perhaps?" The man's tone was mocking. "A valiant attempt to destroy me before I snapped your neck like a twig?"
"Not exactly," Wash said, looking down at his boots.
"I thought not. Such displays of bravado and prowess are best saved for mortal enemies."
"So what should I do to you, then?"
"Kneel," the man said. "Kneel before me and acknowledge that I hold your very life in my hands. Kneel before me that I might show you mercy."
Wash's legs stiffened. Never in his life had he knelt before another man, and he didn't want to start now. He looked into the man's eyes, trying to drum up his usual defiance, but the intelligence and raw power burning in those golden orbs melted his resolve. He felt his legs buckle beneath him. Looking up, he saw a grin spread across the man's handsome face.
"You should consider yourself fortunate, Washington Jones," the resonant voice said. "Few mortals have ever survived so long in my presence."
"Who are you?" Wash asked.
"I am a master of life and death. I hold eternity in my palms. I am a true child of the night, chosen by those before me to carry our dark standard forth into this great, untamed land." His eyes flashed in the shadows. "I am the one that will grant you eternal life and the power to slay your enemies. You will walk the night as one of us, immortal, omnipotent, a dark god upon the face of the earth."
"What should I call you?" Wash asked.
"I am
nosferatu
, a king of the undead. My name, such as it is, is Fodor Glava."
"Fodor Glava?" Wash tested the name on his tongue. "That's an odd one."
"I make no apologies."
"Shouldn't need to, I say," Wash said, looking at the vampire's polished shoes. His mind was racing. This man, whoever or whatever he was, hadn't killed him yet. Even more, he was offering to make Wash into something he'd never heard of before. It sounded powerful, like he would truly become a god among men. Nobody, not even Cora Oglesby, could stand up to him then. She would be the first of many defeated opponents, many helpless victims swept away by his power.
He looked back up at Glava. "So you're going to make me into one of you?" The vampire nodded. "Why?"
"It is our law," Glava said. "The line of
nosferatu
must not go extinct, so upon each awakening, we must select a mortal to receive our gift, raising them above mere slaves to join the ranks of the true undead. In that way, we ensure that the world will never see our end."
"But ain't you immortal?" Wash said. "What's this talk about keeping the line going?"
"We are not impervious," Glava said, his face placid. "We are powerful, intelligent, and cannot die of old age or disease, but we may still be killed."
"How's that?" Wash asked. If a vampire could still be killed, maybe he didn't want to waste his time becoming one after all.
"You will learn in time. For now, be content to know that there are those among your kind that actively seek our ruin." A hint of anger crept into the vampire's voice. "They study our weaknesses. They pursue us like hounds. They prepare traps and lie in waiting, eager to claim our lives should we take but one false step. All this because they refuse to accept the truth."
"What truth?"
"That we are the future," Glava said. "It may take a thousand years or more, but we will overcome their pitiful weapons, their paltry schemes, and their powerless gods. We will assume our rightful place as rulers of the earth."
The golden eyes flashed at Wash's upturned face. "Do you wish to have a seat among us on that day, Washington Jones? Will you cast aside the weakness of your humanity, your mortality, and embrace true power?"
Wash jumped to his feet. "Yessir, I will!" His blue eyes were bright with lust. This was better than he could have imagined. He would never grow old, never die of pneumonia or tuberculosis. He would be free to do whatever he wanted, and eventually, he would become a king. Maybe these
nosferatu
would let him rule over Colorado or even all of the West. He could have the best whiskey, the finest cuts of beef, and all the women he wanted.
A smile spread across Glava's handsome face, revealing a pair of pointed teeth. "So be it." The vampire's cold hand clamped onto the back of Wash's neck. Glava pulled him close, twisting his head back to expose his neck. "Prepare yourself for the taste of death."
Wash felt the man's teeth punch through the skin on his neck, and fear seized him. He flailed his arms and legs, trying to break Glava's grip and escape, but he might as well have been trying to pry open a grizzly's jaws. Searing pain coursed through him as his lifeblood flowed out of his body. A scream erupted from deep within his lungs.
The burning in his limbs began giving way to a warm haze. His muscles relaxed, and he even managed a smile, his eyes closing on the last light he would see as living man.
Fodor Glava let the corpse fall to the floor with a thud. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped lingering beads of blood from the corners of his mouth. As he tucked the handkerchief away, he sneered at the fallen gunman.
"When next you wake, Washington Jones," he said, "you will be one of us. You will share our power and our lust." He crouched down next to Wash's head, black locks framing the pale skin of his face. Leaning over his victim's ear, he whispered, "And you will share our curse."
THIRTEEN
Cora leaned back in the saddle and surveyed the motley bunch assembled before her. The men slouched in their saddles, shoulders hunched against the cold wind blowing down from the mountain. Snow swirled around them in silvery whirlwinds, catching the sunlight like a thousand glass shards. Next to her, James Townsend sat atop a brown stallion, looking unhappy.
Sighing, Cora lifted her Colt from its holster and dropped it back into place. She didn't like bringing this many men, but it couldn't be helped. They were riding against a small army of vampires; they needed all the help they could get. Standing up in her stirrups, she pulled the bandana down to her chin.
"All right, gentlemen, this is how it is," she yelled over the wind. "We're about to charge into a dark, dusty mine that's filled with undead monsters." The men exchanged glances. "I know King George here filled you all in on what's going on up there, so don't act like you ain't in the know. I see your crosses and your garlic, so I know you're prepared.
"The good news is you ain't going to be doing much of the fighting your own selves. That's what me and George are here for. All you boys need to concern yourselves with is keeping them from rushing us all at once. Ben here will stay with you and show you how it's done, so keep your wits and you'll do fine.
"But," she added before the men could relax, "that don't mean it ain't going to be dangerous. We're riding into a nest of demons, and maybe not all of us will be riding out. Stay frosty, stay loose, and above all, stay where you can hear me." She looked each of the ten men in the eye, one at a time. "As far as you're concerned, I'm the Queen of England. What I say is law, on account of I know what I'm doing and you don't. I'm the big damn hero here, and don't you forget it."
Cora drew her saber and let it flash in the afternoon sunlight. "Now then, let's go win us back a mine."
The men gave a half-hearted cheer through their bandanas, raising their crosses in the air. Cora waved her saber in a circle over her head, then sat down and turned Our Lady of Virginia toward the mines. Ben and James rode on either side of her, and the rest of the men filed into two columns behind them.
"Ten men is the best you could scare up?" Cora asked, giving James a sidelong glance.
"It isn't as though Lord Harcourt keeps a standing army of vampire hunters living at his private retreat, Mrs Oglesby," James said. "I had to make do with what I could find."
"What did you find?"
"Stable hands. Butlers. Whoever had a free afternoon," James said.
Cora turned her head to stare at him. "You ain't serious?"
"Of course," James replied, returning her gaze. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because we can't take a bunch of stable boys into a nest of vampires. Ain't you got hunters or hounds or something a little more able? Ain't you and Harcourt into hunting like that other British lord feller up there in Estes Park?"
"Oh my, no," James said. "Lord Harcourt finds hunting rather distasteful, and I must say I share the feeling. We both find scholarly pursuits much more rewarding."
"That don't sound familiar at all," Cora said, tossing Ben a look. "I swear, I don't know why I came out here without my bottle. Killing vampires with a pair of uptight schoolteachers ain't sober work no matter how you cut it."