“I can’t.”
A streak of anger sizzled through Zoltan. “I’ve been helping you for two years, so you will tell me—”
“I can’t!”
“Dammit, Russell!” Zoltan clutched the arrow tightly. “It’s because of an arrow like this that I became a vampire. I couldn’t stand the thought of dying without knowing what happened. I had to stay young and healthy to keep searching for the truth. I gave up my mortality for this, so tell me where you found the damned arrow!”
A pained look crossed Russell’s face. “Fine. Two weeks ago, I was following Lord Liao and a troop of soldiers when they were attacked by a smaller force. I figured the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and they were taking some heavy casualties, so I helped them. We killed most of Lord Liao’s soldiers, but of course, he teleported away. I was wounded and fell unconscious. I would have died when the sun came up, but they saved me.”
“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—”