NIGHTWORLD

06: Deadlands

Rural Hungary, 1997

Jaro let the laundry door swing shut behind him, kicking off his muddy boots and stepping into his slippers. Sniffing away his runny nose, he hung up his raincoat and dried his paws, before passing through into the kitchen. 

Pa sat at the table, a cup of cold tea before him, a small bundle of pages clutched in his gnarled fingers. Jaro stopped, stomach sinking as he realised what his father had found. 

He briefly considered ignoring it. Maybe if he just went upstairs to his room, it would never need to be discussed and they could stay happy.

But he could see it on his father's face – that wasn't an option. Things had to be said. He was running away, but he wasn't a runaway. 

“Pa?" He asked, taking a seat across from the old wolf.

Sandor laid the pages flat, Jaro's signature clearly scribbled across the fine print. It was a contract, pledging him a place in the French Foreign Legion, should he pass their entrance exams. 

The silence was like a lead weight crushing the air from Jaro's lungs. He tried to suck one in, wishing his father would say something already. Part of him wanted to head him off, to think up some brilliant response to leave his father dumbfounded, but his mind was blank. He was a wild deer caught in headlights.

“Leaving." 

Jaro blinked, slowly. “I… I suppose so." 

“And to fight in some other countries' army, no less?" Sandor looked up, the old wolf's ears twitching. “I suppose the Hungarian forces aren't good enough for you then?"

“It's not that, Pa," Jaro explained. “It's just… I need to go somewhere else." 

“Somewhere else." Sandor shook his head slowly. “How is our home meant to thrive, if all the good young people leave the first chance they get? Did you think about that?" 

“Hungary is doing just fine without me. I'll come back." 

“Speaking French." 

“No, I–. Look. I wasn't trying to hide this, I just thought–" 

“Barely eighteen!" Sandor roared, standing so forcefully his chair went over backwards. He seized the contract, waving it in Jaro's face, before slamming it on the table. “A man for two months, and already he's chasing a way out! Go then, Jaro! Leave me here alone, if that's what you want!" 

“It isn't about that!" Jaro protested, though he knew his father – this wasn't a battle he was winning now. “This is something I have to do." 

“So wait," Sandor said, his voice falling very quiet now. “Give it six months to think things over, I am asking you. I don't want my son to become a killer. To die in a country I've never been to."

“Pa… the Foreign Legion is providing support to destabilised regions. It's not a combat heavy position." He could feel himself babbling, just trying to get his point across. “I'm gonna be a medic, not a killer." 

Sandor shook his head. “Soldiers kill, son. That's what they're for." 

“Not always! They can protect, help provide support," Jaro snorted, a sudden flash of anger seizing in his chest. Damn it, this was his decision. His father needed to understand he wasn't a damn child anymore. “Besides that's rich coming from you! We live out here, hunt the wild animals, slaughter our livestock for food and trade! Just because something kills doesn't make it evil." 

Jaro's father turned away, staring out the misty window. “Old enough to sign himself away for wars, but he still thinks like a petulant little boy." 

“I'm gonna be a medic," Jaro said quietly, feeling very small in his seat. It didn't feel like quite the death blow he had imagined it. Instead it felt like an excuse. A lie, even. 

Jaro loved his father. But he hated the part of Sandor that made him feel small, and worthless. Like nothing he could do could ever be enough.

“Soldiers kill for conquest, and we kill for food." His father spoke slowly, deliberately. “One is a natural cycle, one is violence for its own sake. Damn it, Jaroslav. Why not at least talk to me before making this decision?" Sandor turned back, his brow deeply furrowed. “Tell them you'll think it over. Six months." 

Jaro's face fell, and he pointed to the contract. “That's my copy, and it's… already signed." Even if he wanted to change it, things were too late now. 

“I see," Sandor said, pinching the bridge of his snout. “Well then that's all there is to say." 

“Pa, I mean, we can talk about it a bit more and maybe–"

“No," the old wolf cut him off. “There's nothing to talk about. Just go then, kill and die for France, if that's what you want so badly." 

Nightworld, 2003

Jaro marched through the fog, idly wondering if it was ever truly warm in Nightworld. It was a difficult thought to imagine. Everything was cold here, from the temperature to the people and landscape. Dead trees, scratched rocks, pale grass. The land felt like a dying garden, overrun with weeds and mould.

He cradled a rifle in his arms, a sling looped around himself. It was an M14 – a lean, semi-automatic rifle with a fitted sight and a high stopping power. It was the same kind of model Jaro had used in the Foreign Legion, and holding it now felt odd. Sort of comforting in its familiarity, but almost frightening by the same token. The tour in Africa hadn't been quite what he expected. At first things had gone well… but eventually… 

He shoved the memories aside, focusing on the task in front of them. 

After convincing Ioana to help lead him to the druid Chevron, she and Jaro had gone to Isla to explain their plan. The old Doberman hadn't loved the idea of splitting up the group again so soon, but Kadir vouched for the necessity of a defence against the vampire's mind control, and after that Isla had few arguments.

Reluctantly, the director had given them orders to find the mystic, who Ioana claimed lived alone, deep in a marsh to the south. 

The Deadlands. 

Kristian and Frankie had been sent with them for support. Kristian for the research opportunity, and Frankie to help kill anything that needed killing. The rest of Team Two had headed east, towards the last known location of Team One, which Isla seemed oddly fixated on finding. 

Jaro didn't like the idea of splitting up either, but after what Romulus had done to them in the Godhead's Lament… he didn't want to go through that again. Kadir could hardly look at him, and every time he was left alone with his thoughts, Jaro found his mind wandering back to what the vampire made them do in that dungeon. Of Kadir on his knees, of the gruff caracal slowly stroking Jaro's cock, neither of them in any place to be able to stop it, forced to bend to the whims of an immortal creature locals called the Teardrinker. It turned his stomach, and got him hard at the same time; a sick blend of fear, humiliation, and arousal all at once. 

He didn't understand why it felt that way, but that wasn't a question he ever planned to explore again.

Shut up, shut up, he thought, over and over, trying to drown out the memories and worries. Instead, he focused on their surroundings, on the pestilent route Ioana had led them down.

He had to admit that 'Deadlands' was the most appropriate name for the marsh. It had taken more than half a day to march from Cujac to here, and as the hours dragged by the greener hillsides had slowly withered around them. The landscape flattened out, and the earth became soggier. The wildlife grew scarcer, and the trees started to close in. The wide pools of marshwater stunk of rubber and copper, the ground underfoot far from anything stable. With so much still water in the ground, it was impossible for any kind of long-term path to be trodden out, and Jaro found himself struggling to tell what was solid and what was not.

Huge thick tree roots curled from the mud like vines, a constant tripping hazard to watch out for. More than once Frankie had to remind Jaro to keep his head up and on swivel, because he'd gotten trapped in the hypnosis of staring at his boots. 

His socks were soaked hours ago, and now a slight squelch accompanied him with every step.

But all of that inconvenience and discomfort was easily forgotten, for the chance to fight back. Arousing or not, Jaro had never felt something so awful as Roman's mind control in his life, and he never wanted to again. To be puppetted like that was foul, and he didn't have to think hard to imagine all the horrible ways it could be used.

They're not as strong as they think. They can be fought. They can be killed.

He repeated the words to himself like a mantra, over and over, trying his best to internalise it. 

“Soooo… what did she ask ya' for?" Jaro blinked out of his stupor, realising he'd been lost in his thoughts. 

“Sorry, what?" He asked, looking at Frankie. 

The dingo grinned. She was dressed in loose pants and a singlet, the muscles in her shoulders and arms rippling beneath her fur. In her arms she carried a boxish shotgun, spare shells strapped along the side of it. Sometime before they'd set off, she'd also taped one of the silver-tipped stakes to the end of the barrel like a bayonet. 

“The 'ol ornery burgomeistress up there," she said, jerking her chin towards Ioana, who strode a few metres ahead of them, busy in conversation with Kristian. Amongst the group of soldiers, none of the accents stuck out quite like Frankie's. The rough, rural Australian lilt had a very distinct kind of twang to it, one that Jaro couldn't tell if he liked or not. “Don't tell me ya think she's leadin' us off out the kindness of her bloody heart now, hey?"

Jaro shrugged. “I said I'd show her some medical techniques. Preventing infection, sewing wounds, that kind of thing." He left out the part about teaching her to use automatic rifles. “Besides, I think she's glad to lead us away from Cujac. Doesn't want us drawing unwanted attention to her people." 

Frankie snorted, unwrapping a piece of gum and throwing it in her mouth. “Yeah… nah. That ain't it, mate, sorry to burst ya bubble. Ioana's a clever old fox, and sooner or later she's gonna ask yous for a favour, trust." 

“I don't know if she's the type." 

“Don't underestimate 'em," Frankie continued. “Just cause they're rural cunts what without power or proper shitters don't mean they're stupid. You don't survive for two thousand years in Nightworld without some real grit in yer veins, right?"

“I suppose."

Jaro glanced behind them – there was no trace of the open plains they'd begun on. They were in the heart of the Deadlands now, and he could feel it all around him like an oppressive veil. Even the sound was different – gone was the wind and bubbling water, the sensation of open space. Everything felt soft and quiet, the odd creak or whistle sounding through the squat trees – it was like a tomb. Through the narrow gaps in the wide tree trunks, Jaro spied old signs of people; crumbling ruins with blackened bricks, random patches of gravestones, even cracked wards similar to those he'd seen back in Cujac. Even the animals here seemed wary to tread. He'd noticed one or two toads, and even a rat, but the birds were nowhere to be seen. 

It truly felt dead, and he wondered if there wasn't a reason for it. 

“Ioana!" He called, after another hour had passed, his watch showing him it was nearly sixteen-hundred. “Light's fading. How much farther to Chevron?" 

The fox slowed her pace a little, looking back without stopping completely. “I am not certain. Chevron sometimes moves her home, but if we keep on, she will be here eventually. Soon, we find her, soon." 

“Huh," Frankie said beneath her breath. “How interesting." 

“Do you always see the worst in people?" Jaro asked. 

“Usually," she admitted. “When you've seen as much I have, you begin to realise there ain't much more to folks than that. My sister was the optimist, we kinda had a yin-yang thing goin' for a bit. I always hope for the best, 'course, but I prepare for the worst. That kept us safe anyway, least for a little while."

“I just don't see why Ioana would lie, what could she have to gain?" 

“Like I said mate, these people have survived with grit and tenacity, and sometimes that means cold-blooded bloody ruthlessness. I heard 'em chattering about how they live under the vampire's rule, how they're worried us bein' here might offend the Cortège. They're subjects, Jaro. Maybe it stays that way because they offer up tribute." She shook her head. “I ain't saying she's rotten, alright? I'm just sayin', keep your eyes open." 

Jaro nodded, unable to help admitting to himself that it made sense. He didn't know these people, they had their own way of surviving. It was easy to trick himself into thinking they were simpler, because they had less technology, but Frankie was right – when it came to people things were never simple, no matter what century you looked at.

Still, Ioana had told him that if the Cortège wanted to break through Cujac's wards they could do it with ease. After seeing Romulus, he believed that much. If they wanted to give Team Two up to the vampires, they could have done so already.

So what would be the point of leading us to a death trap way out here? 

As Jaro went to step over a fallen log, Frankie shot a paw out, sticking it to his chest. 

“Hush," she hissed, ears twitching. 

“What?" Jaro asked, adjusting his grip on his rifle. Ahead, Kristian and Ioana continued forward, oblivious to Frankie's warning. 

“What's that?" The dingo asked, and Jaro cocked his head, the sound of a high-pitched whistle distant in the air. “We're not alone!" 

At that moment Jaro heard a loud snap, and suddenly Kristian had collapsed, clutching his leg as a scream rang out from deep in the back of his throat. 

Ioana whirled her crossbow around as half a dozen strangers suddenly appeared, flooding into the clearing. 

“Fuck, go!" Frankie cried, shoving Jaro to one side and taking cover behind a tree. 

The strangers were mostly canines, armed with bows, axes, and large hammers. Their outfits were made of randomly assorted studded leather pieces, and they wore bones and antlers strapped to their bodies like decoration.

Raiders.

Jaro darted around the side, trying to flank. Kristian continued screaming from the middle of the clearing, Ioana snarling as she blindly fired crossbow bolts back into the crowd swarming the area. 

Frankie's gun went off with a deafening boom, blowing the nearest axeman's skull to tiny chunks. 

Jaro pressed his rifle to his shoulder, pulling sights on a kneeling bowman – who was busy nocking a new arrow into his longbow. Jaro flicked the safety off, but just as he pulled the trigger a big jackal wielding a hammer came crashing into him, shoving the barrel to one side and swinging for his head. 

Jaro reacted fast, ducking the blow and dropping his rifle, throwing a shoulder into the hammer-jackal while his off-paw drew his handgun. He moved on instinct, pressing the pistol into the jackal's gut and rapid-firing the trigger twice. The jackal jerked viciously, hammer tumbling from his paw as blood sprayed out on the tree behind him, a thin whine sounding deep in his throat. Jaro shoved him aside, switching back to his rifle and trying to get sights down on the bowman again – though the nimble fox had already moved. 

“Damn it!" He cried, moving position. “Get the archers!"

Out in the clearing, Ioana had dragged Kristian to relative safety, the marten still shouting in pain. Yelling meant he was alive, so Jaro aimed his focus towards the attackers. Frankie's shotgun continued to go off, blowing the thin leather armour to pieces, the odd bullet ricocheting with a ping off any loose pieces of plate. The raiders were clearly wary of the gun, spready around so as not to be caught in tight clumps; but it was obvious they had no proper training on how to avoid gunfire, and continually tried to charge Frankie's position from different angles, never quite prepared for how quickly the dingo's buckshot could cut them down.

Still creeping around the fringes, Jaro caught up with the bowman, who'd also circled the group and was now drawing on Ioana, who was in turn busy firing back at the main cluster charging Frankie. Without hesitating, Jaro put the rifle to his eye and pulled the trigger, the kick like a punch to his shoulder, the larger rifle-round clipping the bowman in his chest, throwing him into a flailing pirouette before he dropped dead. 

Jaro heard Frankie's shotgun blast one more time, and then the cacophony of gunfire and shouting finally silenced, his ears still ringing. 

“Don't do it! She'll come for me! Don't!" One of the raiders cried, as Jaro returned to the clearing. He was on his back, clutching his gore-soaked side. Not a wound you lived through without serious medical intervention. “Stop!" He cried, and Frankie pulled the trigger. 

Jaro lowered his rifle, eyes sweeping the clearing. It was carnage, it had been a slaughter for their attackers. Most laid dead or near-dying, their insides smeared across the grass, mixing in with the fetid swamp water. 

“All of em?" He asked, glancing around. 

Frankie nodded. “Yeah nah, that's the lot." 

Flicking his safety back on, Jaro swung the rifle to his shoulder, jogging over and dropping to a knee by Kristian. Ioana sat next to him, her eyes wide and her maw hanging open. 

Jaro ignored the old fox, going straight to the arrow-wound in Kristian's leg. The marten had calmed slightly now, but he was still hissing keenly, rocking slightly in place as both paws squeezed down on his thigh. 

“Let me look, let me look," Jaro ordered, his old training kicking in. 

Shaking, Kristian removed his paws, revealing the dark wooden arrow which had punched into the fatty tissue on the outside of his thigh. 

“Ah, ah, damn it… Jaro…" Kristian grunted, his paw seizing the wolf by his shoulder and squeezing, hard. “An arrow?"

“It hasn't hit the femoral," Jaro explained, trying to see how much blood was lost. “But we need to be careful not to cause any permanent damage." He drew his knife, putting the blade as close to Kristian's leg as he dared, quickly slicing through the wooden shaft with one firm cut. He tossed the fletching, snapping his fingers at Ioanna. “Hey, hey, how far to Chevron's? He needs to be cut open, but I'll need a fire and some dry shelter." 

“I'm…" Ioanna shook her head, eyes darting between the bodies in the clearing. “I don't know… my ears…" She cringed, holding her paws to her head. 

“Ioana," Jaro snapped, squeezing her forearm in his paw. The old fox looked up, quivering. “How far? A kilometre? Less? Can I carry Kristian there?" 

“I don't know." 

He looked to the marten, who was staring at his wound blankly, mouth opening and closing. “Doctor come on, stay with me now. Can you move your toes?" 

“I c-can," he replied robotically, nodding. “I've never been injured like this before. I was supposed to stay out of combat." 

“It was fuckin' stupid of me to letcha walk point," Frankie growled, standing watch over them. 

“It's done now," Jaro said, tightly winding a bandage around the marten's wound. “Kristian, keep wiggling your toes, alright? Focus on each one, and tell me if you feel any numbness or shooting pains." He turned back to the dingo. “I'm gonna lift him. I can't get the arrowhead out here." 

“Jaroslav…" Ioana mumbled, pointing at one of the bodies. 

“Not now, we gotta get moving." He slipped one arm beneath Kristian's, carefully helping the doctor to his feet. “Come on, tell me if you need to stop, or feel faint." 

“I'm alright," he mumbled unconvincingly.

“You are not listening, look!" Jaro glanced back at Ioana, who was on her knees before one of the dead raiders. She'd pried his mouth open, and was pointing inside his jaw. “These are Black Tongues," she said. 

Jaro leaned over and saw she was right, everything inside their mouths, save their yellowed teeth, was as black as oil. 

“Oh, what now?" 

“They have drunk willing of a vampire's blood," Ioana explained. “This gives them strength, but clouds their minds. They are servants, sent out to hunt for their master."

“So that means…" Jaro began.

Frankie finished it for him. “..there's a fucking leech out here." 

Jaro looked around, and suddenly it felt as if the shadows all grew a little deeper. He was cognizant of how isolated they were down here, of how hard it would be to run with Kristian injured – not to mention the slippery ground beneath them. 

The Deadlands. 

“We still have sunlight," Frankie added. “Let's get to this bloody Chevron, and we can decide from there what we do next."

“It will smell blood," Ioana muttered. “It will hunt us." 

“Then it'll die," Frankie replied, her voice ice-cold. Jaro found himself believing her. 

“Come on, let's go," he said, hefting Kristian and bracing him. “Ioana. Keep leading us." 

The old fox seemed to gather herself, finally nodding. She took off forwards, followed by Frankie, with Jaro and Kristian bringing up the rear. 

They moved slowly through the marsh, racing the ever-setting sun. An orange haze began to bounce across the marshwater, fog rising in the distance like a threat. 

Still, Jaro fought to remain calm, occasionally asking Kristian inane questions to keep him talking and alert. 

“How long until I need the next dose of your serum?" 

“I don't know, maybe tonight? Tomorrow morning? Forty-eight hours after the first should suffice." 

“Ah, okay. Um. I never asked, where are you even from? I barely know anything about you." 

Kristian seemed to consider that one. “Prague. I am Czech." 

“Well, that Czechs out." 

Thankfully, the marten laughed. “Fuck you." 

“Legs still working? Toes?" 

“Yes, yes, nothing abnormal. I know what you're doing. I am technically a doctor, Mister Tamasi. I outrank you." 

Jaro snorted. “Oh? And do you outrank the arrow in your leg?" 

“I… hrm, I suppose not."

They kept on walking, Ioana letting them know that it should only be a little while longer to Chevron's hut. Jaro believed her – many of the trees this far in were adorned with more of the little wards and mystic symbols, much like the ones in Cujac. They looked fresher than those he'd seen earlier in the marsh; these had been repaired, or made recently.

“Do you have somebody, Jaro?" Kristian asked suddenly. The question took the wolf by surprise, and he was glad the angle made it difficult to see his reaction. “A partner? A girl? Someone to go back to?" 

“Well…" He cleared his throat, cheeks hot. “There's my father." 

“Just you two?" 

He thought of Boz. Of his smile. His dry wit. His strong arms holding Jaro tight. “There was someone, once, but… not anymore. They… were sick." 

“I'm sorry." 

Jaro sniffed. “Not your fault." 

Ioana ran up to them then, pointing to a particularly thick copse of old gnarly trees. “Here. Chevron's hut is just within. How are you doing, Kristian?" 

“Alright, he's good, we're good," Jaro said, hurrying Kristian along. 

“Whoa, not so fast mate," Frankie said, pushing in. She gestured to Ioana. “You go first, we'll follow. So's not to spook her." 

The fox didn't miss it, and her eyes darted down to Frankie's shotgun, held level at the large dingo's waist. “You do not trust me, then." 

Frankie sucked in a breath, squaring her shoulders up. “Didn't say that." 

“For God's sake, can you not?" Jaro snapped. “He needs attention! We don't have time for this." 

Ever so slightly, Frankie adjusted her grip on the gun, raising the barrel by less than an inch. “Sure. Her first." 

Ioana glared, but finally threw her paws up, face curling. “Fine! Have it your way." And she whirled, pushing into the dense brambles. “Don't know why I help you people. You would do well to be remembering how dead you would be if I had not."

Frankie flashed Jaro a knowing look, following after Ioana, with he and Kristian close behind. Jaro trusted Ioana, but even so he reached down and put his free paw on the grip of his pistol. 

Could she have been with those Black Tongues? He thought, watching the fox's shoulders bob as she slipped through the tight branches. He tried to recall if he'd seen one of her crossbow bolts actually land. Maybe her shock at the carnage in the clearing hadn't been surprise at how powerful their guns were. Maybe she was horrified at having to watch all her friends be killed. 

Jaro grit his teeth, following close, raising his pistol just in case she– 

“NOOO!" Ioana suddenly cried out, and Frankie quickly shoved forward, shotgun up. 

Kristian and Jaro were next, stepping through to reveal the sight of Chevron's hut. 

It looked as if it had been a small bungalow, constructed of old logs and a thatched roof, several separate small shelters for tools and supplies dotting the grove. It would have been quaint, once. 

Not anymore.

The entire right wall of Chevron's home had been ripped apart, tools were scattered, chunks of splintered debris littering the ground. Claw marks covered the trees and floor of her home, weeds and berries smushed into the walls and floor. There had been small pieces of furniture inside, but all that was left of a small bed and table now was splintered chunks of wood.

“How could they do this?" Ioana cried, falling to her knees. “How was she found?"

“Damn it," Frankie grunted, raising her shotgun. “Whatever was here, it's gone now." 

Along with our hopes of resisting Romulus. Jaro thought, carefully setting Kristian down by a sturdy tree. 

“But so is Chevron…" Ioana said, climbing to her feet and approaching the demolished hut. She examined the claw marks across the ground, the scratchings in the dirt. “Something took her." 

“Vampires don't take prisoners," Frankie said awkwardly, obviously struggling with the archaic Wallachian language. All traces of her usual mirth and playfulness were gone, her voice a flat line. “Your druid's dead, Ioana." 

“No, I refuse that," the fox replied, shaking her head. “If it came only to kill her, she would be dead at our feet. Look, something has been dragged." She pointed to the dirt, several grooves carved into it. They led to the edge of the grove, where a larger hole had been ripped through the dense wood. “Chevron has long been an enemy of the Cortège – long has Dracula desired her heart." 

“So he took her back to torture her," Frankie said, gesturing for Jaro to help her translate the awkward attempt at their language into something clearer. “She's gone. Best we can do is rest up here, and make for Cujac in the morning. We will find another way."

“No, no," Ioana insisted, following the claw marks and pointing furiously to where they led off in the distance. “This is not the work of the Cortège, I am sure of it. This is being too…" She snapped her fingers, searching for the right word. “Subtle! It explains the presence of Black Tongues, also. Chevron has always had ways of hiding herself from vampire eyes, they needed mortal paws to find her. If this were the Cortège, there would be no ruins left. Chevron would lie dead at our feet. This…" Ioana pointed at the demolished hut. “This is something else. Whoever took Chevron, they mean to offer her up as a gift."

“Jaro…" Frankie said, throwing her paws up. “Come on mate, talk sense here. She's only seeing what she wants to." 

He paused, feeling caught. “The Cortège would send thralls. I never saw any of these Black Tongues inside the Godhead's Lament."

“This is a fucking trap." 

“It is no trap!" Ioana cried. “Chevron has spent decades aiding my people, and any others she can. It is by her grace that we shield ourselves from Dracula's watch, it is her wards that keep the thralls and the selkies from picking off our livestock!" Her lips peeled back in a snarl. “If she is dead, then show me where is her blood?! If Chevron is alive, she is deserving of better than dying as some vampire's tribute." She spat into the ground, turning on her heel. 

Frankie only shook her head, stepping away. 

Jaro followed the dingo, hoping not to nettle any sore spots. 

“Stubborn fucking bitch," Frankie hissed, angrily tearing open a new gum wrapper and throwing it in her muzzle. “Clearly I gave her too much bloody credit thinkin' this might be a trap, turns out she's gonna walk us into an early grave just by sheer bloody mule-headed idiocy!" 

She paused there, blowing air from her cheeks in a heavy sigh. 

“Done?" Jaro asked, and the dingo nodded silently. “Okay, look. The way I see it, Kristian needs rest anyway. I can pull the arrowhead out of his leg, but he needs at least a day to rest up before he should really travel – probably more. So we're stuck here anyway"

“Jaro… You're a good kid but–"

“Let me finish," he said firmly. “You didn't see what Romulus could do. There was no avoiding it, it was an instantaneous switch he threw on. He could make us do anything, and he could filter through our minds like a damn filing cabinet! Without protection, if he got hold of Isla… then Dracula would know everything about how to attack our world." He stepped around her, grabbing her broad shoulders and forcing her to meet his eyes. “We need a real way to fight them, Frankie. I want to watch these bastards die, but I can't do it if one thought will stop me from pulling the trigger." 

The dingo chewed a few more times, turning the gum over in her maw, clearly displeased with the idea. “You haven't really seen what they can do," she said softly. “Not like I have. I've killed more vampires than any other person on Earth, Jaro. I know what I'm doin', and I didn't do it by rushing into their dens." 

“It isn't ready for us," Jaro said. “It won't know we're coming until it's too late. It's the same way Kadir and I escaped the castle – these creatures are strong, yeah, but they're arrogant. Used to a docile and weak population. Not us."

“Jaro, stop," Frankie insisted. “You're almost convincing me here." 

He snorted. “I already have, and you know it. I'm sick of feeling afraid of these fucking things. It's time they felt afraid."

The dingo grunted, shaking her head. Finally she lifted her shotgun, a grin breaking out on her muzzle. 

“Let's go skin us a leech."