Sheep's Clothing (4 page)

I swallowed hard to get the mouthful of roast beef past the tightening in my throat. It tasted like ashes. Even May’s delicious gravy had lost its flavor. What on earth had I gotten myself into?

I nearly had a heart attack when May appeared at my elbow.

“Something wrong, Doc?” she asked, concerned, “Ya look a bit peaky.”

I forced a laugh. It sounded shrill in my ears. “Oh, just… just overwork, is all. I wanted to get some fresh air and thought some food in my stomach might help.” I glanced at the front door. “Who was that, that just came through here? We normally don’t get city folk this far out.”

“That was Lord Alexandre Russeau,” she told me, adding in confidential tones, “His people are from
Europe
. I think he said France—isn’t that romantic?”

Ah. A noble. And a foreigner, which might explain some of the oddness. “What’s he doing out here?” I asked, trying to feign innocent inquiry.

“He’s thinking of buying up some land near here. I imagine it’ll be a real boon for Salvation if the deal goes through.”

“Certainly he couldn’t be going to inspect the land
tonight
, could he?” I asked, “It’s full dark out.”

“Well, he’s a bit eccentric,” May said, “He travelled all night to get here, so I imagine he needed to get his rest.”

“Oh? When did he get here?”

“Two nights ago. It was late, but I urged him to eat something—he looks so thin, don’t he? He declined, though. Said he would go hunting later.”

Hunting. The idea settled over my mind like a rime of frost. I could not specifically describe what it was about the idea of Russeau going hunting that chilled me, any more than I could explain to someone who was unaware of his apparent history what it was about him that rattled me in general. It was his eyes, the way they looked through people, as though they were not worth considering beyond what he could get out of them.

And the worst part about it? May seemed entirely unaware that there was anything at all wrong—and as such I was certain I could not explain things to her without appearing skittish and paranoid. She was utterly charmed by this
Devil of a man, and there was nothing I could do about it…

Nothing, that is, but order a further two beers to settle my nerves, something which I hardly ever do in the middle of the week.

***

             
The three beers didn’t work quite as well as I’d hoped, and I was still shaken when I returned home. Wolf was in the parlor, cleaning his revolvers, but he glanced up as I entered and looked at me for a few seconds.

             
“Ya saw him, didn’t ya?” he said by way of greeting.

             
I nodded slowly.

             
“What was yar impression of the man?” he asked.

             
“He’s… he’s the Devil himself,” I concluded, intending it metaphorically. But I had seen wicked men back East, wealthy barons who considered the world their plaything—and Russeau, whoever he was, didn’t seem to have even that regard for his surroundings. Everything was his to do with as he pleased, or even destroy without a backward glance. And the women—

             
“Was anyone with him?”

I nodded. “He had two women with him.” I described them to the best of my recollection. He scowled and nodded, as though his suspicions were confirmed. “Was one of them…?” I ventured.

“Yeah. She was there. He kept her, damn him, and now…” He spun the barrel of one revolver contemplatively. “Now I’ll probably have to kill her.”

“What?” I blurted, baffled by this leap in logic. I took a moment to reorient myself in the conversation. “I think you’d best tell me what’s going on.”

He looked at me keenly for a few moments, before nodding. “Ya need to know. And ya might understand a bit better now.” He holstered his guns and stood up, lifting his arm to stretch his injury with a slight wince, but apparently less pain than he’d had that morning. “My ma was an Indian woman, from a Sioux tribe. Pa was a white trailblazer who’d been injured by a wolf on the plains, and she took care of him, nursing him back to health. In the course of things the two fell in love, and he joined the tribe.

“I grew up learning what Sioux men tend to learn, things like hunting, tracking, stalking prey, cleaning yar kill and so forth. When I was getting old enough to marry I fell in love with a lovely lady from a neighboring tribe named Kimimela. She was my butterfly, more beautiful and delicate than any I’d ever seen, and when she said she’d marry me I was so happy I just about burst. Not long after, Russeau came through, and left nothing but blood and death in his wake—and he took Kimimela with him.

“One of the things I learned about when I was growing up was the different spirits of the land. One of them was the children of Jumlin, blood-drinking demons that possess human corpses and use them to feed off the living. I found out that Russeau was one of ‘em, and he was looking for a mate of his own—so he took her away with him. I was hoping to find her before…” He trailed off.

“Before what?” I asked, though I dreaded the answer.

“Before he turned her into one of them.”

I paused, piecing together what he had told me. I wasn’t so sure of the truth of what he’d said, but he seemed sincere. But assuming that Wolf’s account was accurate (and I had no reason yet to believe he was lying) this creature, this child of Jumlin… Russeau seemed solid enough, not like a spirit. I pointed this out to Wolf, and he nodded.

“Yeah, I noticed that a lot of stories go around with critters similar to children of Jumlin. I even heard a story some of the folks from Europe tell.”

A thought nibbled at the back of my mind. “What sort of story?” I asked.

“They call him a vampire,” he said simply.

This remark stopped me cold. “A… vampire?” I asked. “But that’s impossible—vampires are the stuff of legends—things that people tell stories of around the campfire at night.”

He looked at me keenly. “White folks think a lot of things are just stories,” he returned, “But not all stories are false. I know my business around here, even if ya don’t, and I can say with absolute surety that this is what Russeau is. I’ve seen him in action, and I tell ya, it ain’t pretty.” He hung his gun belts over a nearby coat-hook.

“But,” I said, “If Russeau
is
a vampire, and he plans to feed on the blood of the people here, it won’t be long before someone notices, right?”

“Russeau has a way of hiding what he does,” Wolf growled. “Think about Mrs. Cavanaugh—ya said she felt like a young woman again, and didn’t much care about the scratches. Mark my words, ya’re going to have more like her, and if ya don’t open yar dang eyes, things are going to get a lot worse around here.”

I absorbed this statement solemnly. I was still certain that this Russeau character, whoever he was, was no more than a man—albeit one who had direly offended Wolf, and who might have been guilty of more terrible crimes than merely kidnapping. Such men were not uncommon in the frontier areas, and the most cunning of them had managed to ascend to positions of authority in isolated towns like Salvation. If he was a land baron, this was a very real possibility, and I didn’t much like the idea of him becoming the mayor of this town.

Aside from that, now that I was safe in the familiar surroundings of my own home, I’d managed to convince myself that I’d imagined the cold, dead look in Russeau’s eyes—that certainly Wolf’s tale had colored my perceptions to the point that I’d just managed to frighten myself. I decided that the best remedy for my chills was a good night’s sleep to clear my head.

“Well,” I said, “I appreciate your warning, but I’m going to go to bed. I’m sure things will be much clearer in the morning.”

I turned towards the stairs.

“Hey, Doc,” Cowrie said.

I stopped. “Yes?”

“Are ya a God-fearing man?”

I turned back and looked at him for several seconds, pondering the possible motivation for such a question. I was raised Christian, like many of my friends and neighbors in New York, but I hadn’t really given the question any serious thought since graduating medical school, having turned my mind to things that I could quantify rather than nebulous concepts I had to take on faith alone. For this reason I had attended services in the town chapel only once, though I cheerfully returned any religious greetings and well-wishings from my neighbors. I hadn’t entirely discarded religion as an option, but I had not entirely embraced it, either. However, recounting all of this to Wolf struck me as overly personal for an initial conversation.

“If you mean to ask if I am a Christian,” I replied finally, “The answer is yes.”

He nodded, as though I’d confirmed a theory. “Then I suggest
ya start praying, Doc.”

I studied him for several seconds longer. I had not been under the impression that his religious beliefs ran parallel to mine—as he spoke of tribal spirits as though he believed them to be real—so the topic of his suggestion, as well as the timing, struck me as quite odd.

Nonetheless, I questioned him no further, and went upstairs to bed.

***

That night, my sleep was fitful and troubled by the most frightful nightmares I had ever suffered in my adult life. Visions of Russeau with his soulless, dead eyes—or sometimes eyes that blazed red like smoldering coals—menaced me, along with the women that he’d brought with him.

The women, in fact, seemed to be more vicious and feral than Russeau himself, crawling like lizards across the walls and ceiling with long fangs bared and ready to bite. When I fled these apparitions, I frequently found myself confronted by Wolf, who turned glowing yellow eyes to me before baring a mouthful of his own monstrous fangs.

After several hours of such dreams, I decided that sleep would bring no rest. Instead, I sat by my window, hoping that watching the passage of clouds across the swelling moon would finally calm my troubled mind and bring Morpheus’ blessing.

Instead, I saw—or fancied I saw—a curious sight. My bedroom window overlooks Main Street, and in the silvery moonlight I caught the silhouette of a great black dog trotting down the thoroughfare. I frowned and peered closer, trying to identify it as one of the local dogs, kept to help watch over the livestock or hunt game. Presently the black dog paused, its wolf-like ears alert.

I stood, trying to get a better look, and only then did I realize that the sounds of the night—the cries of owls and other night-birds, and even the chirping of crickets, all sounds to which I had become accustomed during my residence in Salvation—were completely absent, as though hushed by the presence of this black dog. Instead, I heard the harsh cawing of crows, and on several rooftops illuminated by the silvery moonlight I saw a scattering of black shapes—not many, I thought, but an uncommon number of crows for the region. The incongruous sight and sound deeply unsettled me, though I could not say why.

As I watched, my muscles frozen and my heart pounding, the dog glanced idly around, and then up at the window where I stood, and as it did the moonlight caught in the creature’s eyes. Ordinarily, the eye-shine of a wild animal would be yellow or green, but this particular specimen’s eyes flashed red. Startled, I fell back from the window, tripping over my own feet and sitting down hard.

I cannot explain, even now, what it was that inspired such terror of the beast that night. Logically, two pinpoints of reflected red light should not have carried the malevolence or intelligence that I saw in the dog’s eyes—and yet I was left with the distinct impression that the beast knew at once that I had been watching it.

Seized with this certainty, I couldn’t move from my newly seated position on the floor for several long minutes. When I could finally unfreeze my limbs, I made my way to the window and peered out as stealthily as I could above the window sill.

The dog was gone.

A chill ran down my spine.

I could not bear to stay by the window, but though I returned to bed, sleep had abandoned me completely.

***

              In the morning I emerged from my room feeling muzzy-headed from my poor night’s sleep. Wolf was in the upstairs hallway, headed for the washbasin again, but he turned and peered at me.

             
“Rough night?” he asked.

             
“Nightmares,” I replied.

             
He nodded. “It’s to be expected. Anything in particular?”

             
I told him of my terror-laced dreams of Russeau and his ladies chasing me, and how Wolf had figured into it.

             
“But the curious part happened after I was sure I’d awakened,” I said, and his attention sharpened.

             
“What’s that?” he prompted.

             
As is typical of nightmares, my night terrors had started to lose their fangs under the light of day, and I hesitated at recounting the rest.

“I… It’s probably nothing,” I said, shaking my head and trying to settle my nerves.