Chapter 282 - Last Rites part 13

"I smell blood," I said, putting a hand on Justus's chest. He twitched in surprise, then drew close to my side, eyeing the creaking woods that surrounded us.

"Blood?" he hissed. "Whose blood?"

"Signor Fa," I replied grimly, and he let out a horrified groan.

"God forgive us for our deceits," he whispered. "That blood you smell is on our hands!"

"Quiet!" I snapped.

I lifted him from his feet and hurried forward, ignoring his protests.

Down the road, near the wooden bridge that spanned Golub Creek, the fruit seller's cart lay overturned. His wares—quinces, plums, apples—were scattered across the earth. The smell of blood was palpable, and there was a large stain on the ground near the cart. Blood, black in the moonlight. As we stood there staring mutely at the wagon, we heard a labored grunting sound and some splashing in the creek below.

"What is that?" Justus gasped, clutching at my sleeve.

"Calm yourself," I said. "It is only the merchant's horse."

Telling the friar to wait nearby, I hopped down into the creek.

The merchant's palfrey lay on her side, struggling weakly in the muck. Two of the animal's legs were broken, and her neck and flank were crosshatched with congealed wounds. The degenerate ones had fed on her after attacking the fruit seller, leaving the animal to die in agony after their bellies were full. The poor beast must have panicked when the ghouls set upon her master and raced over the side of the embankment.

I could see their footprints in the mud beside the sluggish flow. There were three sets, two children and an adult. Madame Damilan and the children who had gone missing, perhaps.

"Is Signor Fa down there?" Friar Justus shouted down.

"No," I said. "They took his body with them."

Or made him into a blood drinker, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

The degenerate ones were not like "real" vampires. They were more like the creatures that shamble their way through your popular modern horror fiction—Dracula, Carmilla, the Hammer horror films. They did not reproduce like true vampires. They could, but they rarely did. They did not have the mental faculties for such a deliberate act.

With the ghoul, a single bite was enough to transmit the curse to a mortal victim. It was like an infection. Rather than transform immediately, if they managed to survive the initial attack, their victim languished for days, growing increasingly feverish and weak. After some time, the victim would appear to expire. It was not true death, but a sort of transformative coma. As the victim lay in his or her deathlike state, the corrupt Strix spread through their body, transmogrifying their mortal flesh into a debased analog of our own immortal cells. Their victims might lie in a deathlike trance for days, even weeks, before the transformation was complete.

In those ancient times, man's medical knowledge was terribly crude, so the victims of ghoul attacks were often buried alive. When the degenerate vampire finally roused, they had to claw their way from the grave. Any reason they might have had was driven from their minds by the shock of being buried alive, the horror of being forced to dig themselves from their own graves. Obviously, the vampire mythology of the Middle Ages was based more on these ghouls than the powerful race of immortals from whence their kind descended.

Our corrupt offspring… Oh, how we loathed them!

The footprints led away to the north, following the shore of the winding watercourse. That was why I did not pick up their scent as easily as I might have. Whether by accident or some crude animal instinct, they were moving along the creek, and the water was washing away their spoor.

The peddler's horse snorted, eyes rolling.

"I am sorry, girl," I murmured, and I drew my sword from its scabbard and struck the creature's head from its neck.

Justus, peering over the grassy embankment, groaned and stumbled away. He was loudly sick.

I leapt from the creek and cleaned my blade in the grass. "The corrupt ones are moving along the creek," I said, sheathing the blade. "We must follow in like manner. Are you going to be all right?"

Justus nodded, still doubled over. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Yes," he croaked. "I… I am sorry. I do not mean to be weak. It is just… I am not accustomed to seeing living creatures killed so…"

He vomited again.

My fearless vampire killer! I couldn't help but smile.

"Come, my sensitive scholar," I said. I turned my back to him and squatted down a little. "Climb upon my back and I will carry you. We do not have the time for you to flounder through the mud."

"Why don't you just take me back to the inn?" he pleaded.

"It is almost finished," I soothed him. "I have their trail now. Their reign of terror has come to an end."

Justus sighed. He put his arms around my shoulders and hooked his legs around my waist.

"Hold tight," I said, and then I leapt down to the muddy creek.