“Who are they?”
Russell groaned. “The only thing they asked for in return was that I not tell anyone who they are and where they live. I’m sorry. I really do appreciate all you’ve done, but I can’t say anything more.”
“Very well. Keep your mouth shut and point in the right direction.”
Russell snorted. “Why is this so important to you?”
Zoltan lifted the arrow. Moonlight gleamed off the steel tip. “An arrow much like this one killed my father.”
“You want revenge then?”
Zoltan shook his head. “I’m sure the culprit is long dead. I want answers.”
Russell shifted his weight. “Sometimes there aren’t any. Just go back home. They want to be left alone.”
“Who are they?”
“Go home.” Russell teleported away.
Zoltan lunged toward him, but he was gone. “Dammit.” It was just as well. Russell wasn’t going to give him any more information.
Pivoting in a circle, Zoltan took in his bearings. The middle of nowhere. No weapons on him, other than the arrow. He took out his cell phone and checked his location on the GPS. Tibet.
He considered returning to the castle to grab more weapons and a coat. Even though it was the middle of May, spring was late here. A cold wind was blowing from the north, ruffling the grass that had yet to turn green.
On his phone, he spotted the nearest village, over a hundred miles to the southwest. Why waste time going home? He could be at this village in half an hour, asking questions.
He set off at a brisk pace, excitement building inside him. This was a lot more interesting than what he normally did every evening. Work in his office in Budapest. He was dressed for work—white dress shirt, red tie, an expensive Italian suit and loafers. Not at all suitable for an adventure in Tibet, but if he got into any sort of trouble, he could simply teleport back home.
Tibet. Did the people who had killed his father travel all the way from Tibet? When he’d searched for them centuries ago, he’d covered Eastern Europe, western Russia, and the Middle East. Finally, in the northwestern part of India, he’d given up, unable to believe that anyone would travel that far to kill someone in Transylvania.
Was his father’s murder somehow connected to his mother’s mysterious background? She’d been from the east, but no one knew where exactly. His father, a merchant who traveled the Silk Road, had fallen in love with her and brought her home.
Could she have been from Tibet? Zoltan’s pulse quickened. After almost eight hundred years, he might finally get some answers.
He teleported as far as he could see, then repeated the process until he was close to the village. The landscape gradually changed, growing more hilly and forested. He teleported to a high branch of a pine tree so he could survey the village. It was nestled in a valley along the sides of a stream. No electricity. A few lanterns were lit along the one main street. He checked his cell phone. Out of range. If he returned, he’d need to bring a satellite phone.
He dropped to the ground, adjusted his suit and tie, then sauntered casually into the village. An old woman was hunched over a homemade broom, sweeping her front porch.
When Zoltan greeted her, she straightened, eyeing him with suspicion.
He greeted her again, using English and giving her a smile. Then he showed her the arrow. “Do you know where—”
She launched into a tirade of angry words, shook her broom at him, then rushed into her ramshackle house, slamming the door behind her.
Zoltan sighed. He should have realized there would be a language barrier. Over the centuries, he’d learned nine languages, but the Tibetan spoken in this village was not one of them.
He spotted a man sitting on another porch, drinking from a leather pouch. “Good evening.” He lifted the arrow. “Do you know where—”
The man stumbled to his feet, muttering under his breath. Then he waved his arms as if trying to chase Zoltan away. When that didn’t work, he spit in the dirt, then rushed into his house and slammed the door.
Silly human is trying to get himself killed.
Zoltan turned toward the voice but saw only a dog resting on a porch a few houses down the road. Of course. Since early childhood, Zoltan had possessed the strange ability to communicate with animals. They were often his best source of information, since the conversations were purely mental and devoid of any language barriers.
He walked slowly toward the dog, sending him a message. Why would my questions get me killed?
The dog jerked to a sitting position. What was that?
It’s me. Zoltan stopped in the street, ready to teleport away if necessary. It was always hard to predict how an animal would react. Most dogs were friendly, but every now and then, one would feel threatened and attack.
What? The dog tilted his head to the side and quirked his ears. Are you talking to me?
Yes. I have the ability to communicate with animals.
Are you kidding me? The little spotted dog leaped off the porch and scampered toward him. Can you really talk to me? Can you hear my thoughts?
Yes. And you can hear mine.
Holy dog poop! The dog pranced around him in a circle. This is so awesome! I didn’t know humans had thoughts. Some of them don’t seem very bright, you know, so I wondered. Have you always been able to do this? Could you do it when you were a puppy? You must be a weird human. I think you smell a little weird. Do you like to eat? I like rabbit. Would you like to be my friend?
Sure, Zoltan replied as the dog circled him for the fifth time. This was obviously one of the friendly dogs. Can you relax a little bit?
Why? Are you having trouble keeping up? I’ve always suspected humans are slow. You don’t smell like the other humans I know. I could pee on you so you’d smell better.
No thank you.
The dog suddenly jumped and looked to the side. What was that?
I’m not sure.
I think it was a rabbit. I like rabbit the best. Are you hungry? I am. If you throw your stick, I’ll bring it back to you.
Zoltan showed the arrow to the dog. I’d like to know more about this stick and the people who made it.
The dog sat in front of him and tilted its head. Do you have any food with you?
No. But I could pat you on the head.
The dog’s tongue lolled out while it considered. Okay.
Zoltan patted its head. Good dog. So what do you know about the makers of this arrow?
The dog’s tail thumped on the ground. They’re hunters. Fierce warriors. The humans here are afraid of them. You should stay away from them.
Zoltan rubbed the dog’s ears, and its tail wagged so hard that its rear end wiggled. Why should I stay away?
Because they’ll kill you.
Zoltan paused. Where are they?
You stopped petting me. And I shouldn’t tell you, cause you’ll get yourself killed. I’ve always suspected humans aren’t very bright.
Zoltan patted its head. What a smart dog you are. Where are they?
In the mountains to the south. Do you want to play with me now?
I have to go. Thank you for your help.
You’re leaving? But we just met. And you’re my friend now.
You’re a good dog. Zoltan gave it another pat, then zoomed out of the village.
Wow! The dog’s voice grew dimmer. You’re really fast for a human. I bet you could catch a rabbit. Just don’t get yourself killed, okay?
Neona pressed a hand into the round earthen mound where her twin sister, Minerva, was buried. Two weeks had passed. Two weeks since half her soul had been wrenched from her. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the same litany of questions ran through her mind.
How can I live without you? How will I face each day? Her hand fisted around a handful of dirt, squeezing it into a hard ball as a
jolt of anger ripped into her grief. Why didn’t you fight harder?
A tear rolled down her cheek, and Neona dropped the clod of dirt. She knew the answer. Seven years earlier, her sister had given birth to a son. Male children were not allowed in Beyul-La, so Minerva had been forced to give the little boy to the Buddhist monastery thirty miles away. Her broken heart had never quite mended.
At first, Neona had tried her best to alleviate her sister’s pain by putting up a cheerful front. But as Minerva’s despair had grown more entrenched, frustration and regret had seeped into Neona’s heart. She and her sister should have defied the queen and kept the baby boy.
With a sigh, Neona lay back on the grassy hillside and gazed up at the stars. How could they have defied the queen, when she was their mother? They could have ended up banished from Beyul-La. How could they have left their home and everything it meant to them?
Neona loved Beyul-La. It was the most beautiful valley in the Himalayas. In all the world, she suspected. It gave them life and purpose, while the outside world seemed to promise only hardship and death. But there had been times when they’d lounged on the grass, stargazing, that Minerva had claimed they were prisoners.
“Look how vast the sky is,” Minerva had said. “The world around us must be just as wide. Do you not yearn to see it?”
Neona had attempted to soothe her sister’s unhappiness by repeating the words they’d heard since childhood, the mantra that had comforted them for years, making them feel special and important. “We are the chosen guardians of this sacred valley and its secrets. Our mission is noble and necessary.”
“What is noble about being forced to give away my baby?” Minerva had muttered bitterly.
With a sigh, Neona wiped the tears from her face. The mantra no longer provided comfort. And her sister had escaped the only way she knew how. In death. The battle two weeks ago had claimed her and four others.
“Neona!” a sharp voice reprimanded her. “You shouldn’t spend your life here among the dead.”
Neona sat up to see Lydia approaching her. For a few seconds she considered reminding her old friend that she had some of her family members buried here among the dead. A line of five new earthen mounds now marred the hillside, alongside one older mound covered with grass. But the haggard look on Lydia’s face stopped Neona from speaking. Lydia was suffering in silence.
All the warrior women of Beyul-La were suffering. The battle two weeks ago had been devastating. In a matter of minutes, their number had gone from eleven to six.
Lydia stopped halfway up the hillside. “The queen has sounded the alarm. An intruder has crossed into our territory.”
Neona leaped to her feet and rushed down the hillside. “Only one?”
“It appears that way.” Lydia accompanied her to the small village of a half dozen stone buildings with thatched roofs.
The other women were there, lighting a few torches before the main campfire was extinguished to leave the valley in darkness. Then the five women hurried to the cave where Neona’s mother, Queen Nima, was waiting.
The torches were slid into brackets on the stone walls, and the large room brightened. Pink- and cream-colored stalactites glistened with moisture high overhead, and sparkling water fell from a fissure in the stone wall, splashing into the pool below. Behind the pool, a narrow corridor wound deep into the inner recesses of the sacred mountain. In front of the pool, there was a wide stone floor, worn smooth over the centuries.
Queen Nima paced across the floor and motioned to the owl perched on the back of her throne. “He has spotted one male intruder, invading our territory from the north.”
Lydia’s niece, Winifred, muttered a curse. “Do you think it could be Lord Liao?”
“Possibly,” Nima replied. “Or one of Master Han’s soldiers.”
“They’ve never gotten this close before,” Neona said. The battle two weeks ago had occurred forty miles from their border. The women warriors of Beyul-La had borrowed horses from the nearby village to travel that far to fight the enemy, for it was imperative to keep the sacred valley a secret.
“No man can be allowed to see Beyul-La,” Nima warned them once again. “Freya, take the eastern territory. Winifred, the west. Neona, the north. And Tashi, the south. Find him. If he’s a lost villager, show him the direction home. Threaten him with death if he returns. If he’s one of Master Han’s men, kill him without hesitation.”
The four women bowed their heads to acknowledge the acceptance of their orders.
Neona rushed to the area where they kept their armor and weapons. She always wore the breastplate and helmet left by her father, a warrior from Greece.
“There are only six of us now,” Winifred said as she slipped on a metal-studded leather breastplate.
“We know that,” Lydia muttered, watching her one remaining daughter, Tashi, put on armor.
“I think we should each consider having a daughter,” Winifred continued.
“Perhaps,” Queen Nima replied. “We will discuss it later. First we must deal with this invasion.”
“Oh, I see what Freddie means,” Freya said, coming to her sister’s defense. “The intruder might have potential.”
“Exactly!” Winifred nodded. “He could be fair of face, strong, and fleet of foot.”
Lydia snorted. “More likely, he’s a stumbling fool who has lost his way and doesn’t have the sense to get home.”
“But if he’s a good specimen,” Winifred argued, “we should consider taking his seed.”
Freya sheathed her sword. “I hope I find him.”
Winifred scoffed. “It was my idea. I should be the one to find him.”
With a laugh, Tashi handed them each a coil of rope. “Here. In case you need to tie him up.”
Neona frowned. Freddie and Freya seemed awfully eager to have a child. Didn’t they care that they would have to give the baby away if it was male? Neona had tried only once to get pregnant, but when the seed had failed to take root, she’d secretly rejoiced. After seeing the pain her sister had gone through, she was afraid of falling into that same trap of despair.
“Very well,” Queen Nima conceded. “You will take the man’s seed, but only if he is exceptional. Our daughters must be warriors, superior in mind and body. And don’t forget the main purpose of this mission.”
Neona nodded, while the other women murmured, “Yes, your majesty.”
With a growing sense of unease, Neona slid on her father’s helmet. It was brass with a black plume and decorated cheek guards. She’d always wondered what had happened to the brave Greek soldier who had journeyed so far from home and become the father to her and Minerva.
When she was young, she’d asked her mother, and Nima had said he’d gone back to Greece. Then she’d warned Neona never to speak of him again. Over the years, Neona had come to suspect that her mother had not told the truth.
“Stay true to our noble cause,” Queen Nima reminded them. “Once you are done with the man, kill him.”
Chapter Two
From his perch high on top of a craggy peak, Zoltan surveyed the countryside around him. The landscape had become increasingly mountainous as he’d traveled south. Up here, he could see farther, but the cold wind was slicing through his suit. As a Vamp, he could endure it better than most humans, and since he’d always prided himself on never quitting till a task was done, he decided to press on.
A large bird flew by, a hawk, Zoltan thought. It was a shame he’d never been able to communicate with birds like his mother could. If so, he could have asked the hawk the location of the fierce warriors that the dog had warned him about. Or perhaps the bird would know something about the feathers on the end of the new arrow he still held in his hand.
A few years ago, he’d taken the old arrow from his castle to some scientists in Budapest so they could examine it using modern technology. The
results had surprised everyone. The arrowhead was ancient, similar to those used by the army of Alexander the Great. The carvings were unknown. The feathers were from a golden eagle, and the wood had come from a king cypress tree, which grew in parts of China and Tibet. The scientists had concluded that the arrow had been crafted in ancient Greece, using wood that had been imported from the east. They’d urged him to donate it to a museum, but he’d declined.
Now he had to wonder if the scientists had gotten it backward. What if the arrow had been crafted here in Tibet, using an ancient Greek arrowhead? Did that mean the so-called fierce warriors had traveled all the way from Tibet to Transylvania to kill his father?
Zoltan had always wondered if his father’s murder had been an act of revenge after the death of his mother, but it didn’t seem likely. It would have taken months to travel such a long distance in 1241. And his father had been murdered only a few hours after his mother.
Unless . . . could the murderer have been a vampire? A Vamp could have teleported to Transylvania. Or maybe the fanciful tale told by a few surviving villagers had been true. They’d given him a horrifying account of monsters and warriors so fierce that no living person could have ever defeated them. Zoltan had always suspected their elaborate story was nothing more than a pitiful piece of fiction to justify their failure to save their village and loved ones. If only he could remember more of that fateful day . . . but he’d spent most of it unconscious. He’d awakened the next day, miles from the village with no idea how he’d arrived there.
He took a deep breath. That was 1241. Those warriors, even if they had been fierce and monstrous, were now dead. Unless they were vampires . . . But if they were bad vampires, why did they fight Lord Liao two weeks ago? Why did they save Russell?
Zoltan levitated higher in the air, gritting his teeth against the cold wind. Higher and higher so he could see over the mountaintops. There, to the south, were those lights?