boxes of dirt, and DuPont was kind enough to tell me the locations of three of ‘em. Now we can go consecrate them so they can’t be used.”
It sounded like a plan, however absurd a plan it might be, but one detail still puzzled me. “I still don’t quite understand—why is the dirt so important?”
“Russeau needs to sleep with some of his home soil near him. Folks like him usually sleep in a coffin with a layer of dirt at the bottom, but in a pinch they can keep a smaller amount with ‘em. Otherwise they can’t sleep worth a darn, and if they get tore up in a fight they can’t heal right.” He must have seen the confused look I still wore, because he sighed. “Earth from his homeland. It’s like a feather bed to him.”
“I… still don’t understand,” I confessed.
He sighed. “It’s how they work , Doc. I don’t know why. As long as they’re good and hid, we’ll never be able to properly destroy Russeau and his ladies. They’ll just keep coming back. So we need to find all the boxes and destroy them.”
Now that Wolf’s bandage was secured, I started to attend to my own knife-wound, only to find that I could not readily examine the slash without assistance, such was its positioning at the back of my arm.
“Here, let me take a look at that,” Wolf offered.
“Are you familiar with medicine?” I asked.
“I know nuff to patch someone up. Go on.”
I stripped off the makeshift bandage—making a mental note to replace the ruined towel—and removed my coat, rolling up the left sleeve of my shirt as far as it would go so Wolf could tend to my wound. After working in silence for a few minutes, he spoke.
“Got a bee in yar bonnet about something?” Wolf asked. I glanced back at him, a bit surprised.
“That knife was made of silver,” I said. “That’s a pretty soft—and expensive—metal to make a weapon out of.”
“Yep,” he said.
“So it seems likely that it was made for some specialty purpose,” I continued, following my unlikely train of thought.
“Yep,” he said again.
“But it seemed to be exactly the sort of weapon he needed to lay you low,” I said, hoping he would jump in at some point.
“Yep,” he said a third time, with almost maddening patience.
I sighed. “Why silver?” I asked.
He looked up at me. “What about silver?”
“Why does silver burn you?” I craned my head to better see him. “You said that Russeau wasn’t human, that he was a vampire. It seems logical that… if inhuman creatures exist… what are the odds that only one—or three—would exist…?” I trailed off, cleared my throat, and tried again; my mind told me this was nonsense, but my gut told me otherwise. “You healed from a stab wound in two days—a stab wound that nearly killed you, and left your side blistered and septic. I’ve never seen anything like that. Now, grabbing a knife burns you, and you say it’s because it’s silver. So… why silver? Is there… Are you…?” I couldn’t make myself finish the sentence—there was no good way to ask someone if they were human or not.
He grunted and tied the bandage in place with a swift jerk.
“Well,” he said, “The fact that you’re letting me treat your arm tells me ya ain’t afraid of me.”
“I’ve seen no reason to be, of late,” I allowed. “But there’s so much that doesn’t add up right now.” I unrolled my sleeve and gingerly pulled my coat on, mindful of my injury.
He nodded his shaggy head slowly. “I get what ya’re trying to say, Doc,” he said. He took a deep breath. “And ya’re right.”
I blinked and frowned. “I’m... right about what? Which part?”
He sat back. “I ain’t human. Not entirely, anyway.”
The back of my neck prickled and my throat tightened, as a cold sweat formed on my brow. I’d heard stories and rumors of the local Indians being less than human, but this struck me as something entirely different. I licked my lips nervously.
“What are you, then?”
It sounded like a plan, however absurd a plan it might be, but one detail still puzzled me. “I still don’t quite understand—why is the dirt so important?”
“Russeau needs to sleep with some of his home soil near him. Folks like him usually sleep in a coffin with a layer of dirt at the bottom, but in a pinch they can keep a smaller amount with ‘em. Otherwise they can’t sleep worth a darn, and if they get tore up in a fight they can’t heal right.” He must have seen the confused look I still wore, because he sighed. “Earth from his homeland. It’s like a feather bed to him.”
“I… still don’t understand,” I confessed.
He sighed. “It’s how they work , Doc. I don’t know why. As long as they’re good and hid, we’ll never be able to properly destroy Russeau and his ladies. They’ll just keep coming back. So we need to find all the boxes and destroy them.”
Now that Wolf’s bandage was secured, I started to attend to my own knife-wound, only to find that I could not readily examine the slash without assistance, such was its positioning at the back of my arm.
“Here, let me take a look at that,” Wolf offered.
“Are you familiar with medicine?” I asked.
“I know nuff to patch someone up. Go on.”
I stripped off the makeshift bandage—making a mental note to replace the ruined towel—and removed my coat, rolling up the left sleeve of my shirt as far as it would go so Wolf could tend to my wound. After working in silence for a few minutes, he spoke.
“Got a bee in yar bonnet about something?” Wolf asked. I glanced back at him, a bit surprised.
“That knife was made of silver,” I said. “That’s a pretty soft—and expensive—metal to make a weapon out of.”
“Yep,” he said.
“So it seems likely that it was made for some specialty purpose,” I continued, following my unlikely train of thought.
“Yep,” he said again.
“But it seemed to be exactly the sort of weapon he needed to lay you low,” I said, hoping he would jump in at some point.
“Yep,” he said a third time, with almost maddening patience.
I sighed. “Why silver?” I asked.
He looked up at me. “What about silver?”
“Why does silver burn you?” I craned my head to better see him. “You said that Russeau wasn’t human, that he was a vampire. It seems logical that… if inhuman creatures exist… what are the odds that only one—or three—would exist…?” I trailed off, cleared my throat, and tried again; my mind told me this was nonsense, but my gut told me otherwise. “You healed from a stab wound in two days—a stab wound that nearly killed you, and left your side blistered and septic. I’ve never seen anything like that. Now, grabbing a knife burns you, and you say it’s because it’s silver. So… why silver? Is there… Are you…?” I couldn’t make myself finish the sentence—there was no good way to ask someone if they were human or not.
He grunted and tied the bandage in place with a swift jerk.
“Well,” he said, “The fact that you’re letting me treat your arm tells me ya ain’t afraid of me.”
“I’ve seen no reason to be, of late,” I allowed. “But there’s so much that doesn’t add up right now.” I unrolled my sleeve and gingerly pulled my coat on, mindful of my injury.
He nodded his shaggy head slowly. “I get what ya’re trying to say, Doc,” he said. He took a deep breath. “And ya’re right.”
I blinked and frowned. “I’m... right about what? Which part?”
He sat back. “I ain’t human. Not entirely, anyway.”
The back of my neck prickled and my throat tightened, as a cold sweat formed on my brow. I’d heard stories and rumors of the local Indians being less than human, but this struck me as something entirely different. I licked my lips nervously.
“What are you, then?”
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