Hell Come Sundown by Nancy A. Collins

of Indian slaves, as well as a saddlebag full of gold, and was told to go as far away as humanly possible and never return.
    â€œAnd so I spent three hundred years trapped in eternal darkness, immobile yet still aware of my surroundings. I felt my skin wither and the flesh rot from my bones while being tormented by a dreadful thirst that burned in my belly, just like the coals I used to roast that accursed six-fingered priest! I would have probably stayed buried until the sun dwindled to a cinder, if not for those fools searching for water.
    â€œI am far older and wiser now. I shall have my empire, but I shall take my time building it. The mistake I made before was thinking in terms of human spans. Because of that, I exposed myself to the cattle on which I preyed, and gave sworn enemies a chance to unify against a greater threat. I know better, now. What are years, even decades, to one who measures his existence in centuries?”
    Hell spat into the dirt at his feet in disgust. “So, are we gonna get on with this, or are you gonna keep jawing?”
    â€œI had hoped that you, of all my spawn, might be able to appreciate what I had to say,” Sangre grimaced. “But I see you are as thick-witted as the rest of the natives of this wretched continent! But before we continue, you must rid yourself of that horrid bauble you wear about your neck.”
    Hell looked over at Pretty Woman. The left side of her face was so swollen it looked as if someone had managed to shove a small rubber ball under her eyelid. She turned her head slightly, so that she could see him with her good eye, and mouthed the word ‘ no ’. Hell’s fingers closed about the medallion, pulling it free from around his neck with a single yank, and let it drop to the ground.
    As the bloodstone fell from his grasp, he was overcome by a rage so intense and all encompassing it tinged everything red, as if someone had dipped everyone and everything around him in blood. It was as if he had been standing on the beach and a great wave had suddenly come up from nowhere and crashed down on him, dragging him out to sea. He could not see, hear or breathe, and he could not regain his footing as he fought against the tide. But instead of water, he was surrounded by a fearsome darkness, and the harder he struggled, the more he drowned.
    His belly burned as if packed with hot sand, and his tongue felt as if it was made of jerked beef. The agony was so intense he cried out, burying his face in his hands. He knew he would do whatever it might take to quench the thirst raging within him, even if it meant crawling on his belly through barbed wire and broken glass. Suddenly a voice broke through the screeching white noise that filled his head. When it spoke the words were like a cool hand on a feverish brow.
    You need not suffer so. All that is needed to end the pain is a little blood. Drink from the woman. Her blood is yours. Take it, my son .
    Hell lifted his face from his hands and stared at the Indian woman before him. A part of him found her familiar, but he could not push aside the fire in his gut long enough to think of where he knew her from.
    Her blood will be sweeter than any wine. It will slake your thirst and make you strong. Drink deep, my son, and bind yourself to my service for all eternity .
    Hell slowly approached the trembling woman. Although she struggled mightily to escape, she was unable to free herself from the two strong men pinning her arms behind her back. Her one good eye was wide with terror, and the fear coursing through her body made her carotid artery pulse even faster. If he concentrated, he could hear her blood rushing through her veins, pumping through her racing heart. It was as if it were calling out to him, begging him to set it free.
    He leaned forward, brushing his cheek against the side of her head. She involuntarily gasped and held her breath. Her perfume was a heady mixture of fear and sweat. Something buried deep