DUMBLETON, THE COTSWOLDS, ENGLAND, APRIL 1940

The drooler attack left James’ squad in a bad way. The worst off, obviously, was Collins. His mission was over. James squeezed the soldier’s hand, who looked pleadingly into his eyes. The light remained in Collins’ pupils, but his gashed open neck required immediate attention.

“You’ll be fine,” James assured him, “you’re alright.”

Sleeping Dragon’s mind seemed to have drifted away, maybe as far as her distant homeland. She avoided direct eye contact with James. Perhaps she actually had a moral conscience? After all, the girl she’d slayed looked to be no older than eighteen or nineteen. In better circumstances, James would’ve bound her to a chair in the farmhouse and handed her to the authorities. But he knew the task was too tall without her.

James nudged Captain Everett, who put pressure on Collins’ wound. “Let’s take him inside.”

Everett worried him the least, but when James looked closer, the man was covered in sweat and had turned ghastly pale.

They lifted Collins by the armpits and took him up the weathered, wooden porch steps. Silently, Sleeping Dragon went ahead of them and got the door. It was a small home with gas lights and minimal decor, but on the shelves were porcelain animals, children’s toys, and other nicnacs. They laid Collins atop an old shag carpet in the entrance way.

“Find me a needle and thread,” James instructed Sleeping Dragon. She set her swords down and scampered off. James turned to Everett. “There’s a liquor cabinet somewhere. Bring the lot.”

“Yessir!”

Everett returned shortly with bottles of vodka and gin. James got to work disinfecting Collins’ wound with the vodka. When finished, he held the bottle to his patient’s lips.

“Let some drip down your throat,” James told him. “Don’t swallow.”

Collins closed his eyes and did as told, grimacing. James put the bottle aside.

“More,” Collins croaked.

James didn’t want the poor fellow to vomit, but he let the paratrooper drink a bit more before giving the bottle to Everett.

“You’d better have some too,” James said, “you’re a little green around the gills.”

Everett took the vodka and eagerly pounded back a slug. Sleeping Dragon brought a sewing kit, and had already fixed black thread to the needle.

At least she was good for that much, James thought, as he beckoned her closer.

“If you’d be so kind?” James asked, and held out his hand for the needle.

Sleeping Dragon was reluctant to give it up. She shuffled her feet in place. “I can patch him up, sir. My sister’s a seamstress. She taught me-- ”

“I thought she was a vampire hunter,” James balked, and immediately regretted engaging her in conversation.

“She is, sir, but her dream is to open a textile shop someday.”

James bit his lip in frustration. It was no time for icebreakers. Did she not see the man before her bleeding all over the rug?

“That’s nice. But you do realize this is a person, not a dress?”

“Understood sir,” she responded, not receiving his implication of ‘give me the damned needle already, woman’.

Sleeping Dragon quickly crouched over Collins and dropped the sewing kit. The soldier gritted his teeth anticipating the pain to come. James wanted to stop her, but was too dumbfounded by her suddenly open and proactive presence. She pushed the needle against Collins’ sanitized skin and punctured his neck. Collins bucked on the rug, but James held him down. Sleeping Dragon’s hands glided, sealing the gore like a tear in a turtleneck. With each pass of the needle, Collins as well as the whole room relaxed, until she was satisfied with her work and bit the thread off.

“Well done,” James coceded. “You’re a woman of many talents.”

She only responded with a simple salute, but James could tell she was pleased with the stitch job. So was he. It would hold for the time being.

“Still with us, Collins?” James asked.

A thumbs up came from the man with the bloody, black line across his neck.

“Good. You’re deactivated for the time being.” James turned to Sleeping Dragon and Everett. “Everett, stay behind and look after him.”

He saluted, and James could feel the relief wash over the trooper. The paratroopers were trained to fight Jerries, not for this. The task at hand required something other than strength. It required some kind of, as the French said, je ne sais quois. And, despite his personal reservations towards her, the woman had it, whatever it was.

“You’re with me,” he told her.

After saying farewell to the paratroopers, James and the huntress left the farmhouse and walked together through the pitch black night, down a dirt road leading to the town of Dumbleton. They strode side-by-side in awkward silence, apart from the rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch of their boots on the gravel. It felt to James like a really bad date.

He still steamed over the young girl his “comrade” had wantonly slain. Undoubtedly, they would encounter more droolers. Further tragedy had to be avoided, and as much as James preferred not to engage with the woman, he needed to broach the subject.

“Listen,” James started. Sleeping Dragon flinched a little when he spoke up. “May I call you Miss Dragon?”

“Very well, sir,” she muttered.

“There will be no further harming of civilians. Is that understood?”

“Even when they’re harming us?” she sassed back.

The insubordination astounded James, but he was determined to make his point. “‘Droolers’, as I call them, despite their appearances, are innocent people.”

“My English isn’t perfect; maybe, my understanding of ‘innocent’ is different than yours.”

“Please allow me to finish. It’s a temporary state. Surely you’ve noticed after a day or so of observation?”

“I never leave them alive for that long.”

James sighed. He had a long way to go with her. “Perhaps, I should start from the beginning. Humans turn into droolers when a vampire has sexual intercourse with them. It is a symptom of man's natural attraction to vampire pheromones; our scent, in other words.”

“Sir, I have seen plenty of these 'droolers' in past hunts,” Miss Dragon said. “They’re fiends who carry out the bidding of their vampire masters.”

“Indeed. The pheromones vampires release are meant to be a tool used to prey on humans, not to elope with them. That said, the effects in that regard are mind-altering. Vampires of old never used to have sex out of their coven. It was considered taboo. However, time has a way of eroding traditions. Vampire culture being no exception,” James lectured.

He noticed some physical ticks in Miss Dragon: covering her nape, scratching at her scar, and shifting around in her clothes. Perhaps, the subject matter was making her nervous? James guessed she was likely a virgin.

“I, for one, value the liberty of our modern age,” James said. “However, in the case of vampire-human relations, these rigid structures were in place for a reason. The pheromones emitted by both males and females of our kind during intercourse is quite potent: the usual effects of our musk are multiplied tenfold. After inhaling, the human’s mind becomes malleable. They’ll obey any orders from the vampire for the following 24 hours or so.”

“That's impossible, could that...” Sleeping Dragon trailed off.

“Something wrong, Miss Dragon?”

“The droolers, as you call them, are much stronger than ordinary people. They have vampire-like reflexes and super strength! The farm girl earlier from was-- you heard the soldier, a monster!”

"Ultimately, you don't have to agree with me," James sighed, exasperated. "But I am the commanding officer of this mission. I've ordered you not to kill droolers and I expect you to follow those orders.”

"Understood, sir," grumbled Miss Dragon.

“I will show you how to use non-lethal force against the droolers. The most important thing you must know is that droolers are stupid."

"Obviously."

"But being uninhibited from thought makes droolers far more fearsome than a normal person.”

Miss Dragon squinted at him, still appearing doubtful.

James scratched his head. She was a tough nut to crack. “I'll pose you a question: how do you do things?”

He could see Miss Dragon’s mind working as she grinded her teeth. “What do you mean, ‘how do I do things’? I don’t get it, sir.”

Trying to calm his misconceived and confused, but surprisingly attentive pupil, James lowered his tone. “You, of sound mind, first contemplate an action. This sends a signal from your brain to the part of your body that needs to exert effort. This is all done quite quickly through the nervous system, but it does take time.” James explained. “Droolers, on the other hand, simply do.”

Miss Dragon nodded. “Do as their vampire masters say.”

James couldn’t suppress a smirk. “I wouldn’t use those precise words, but I think you’ve got the general concept. Their lack of brain activity actually gives them a sort of feral speed and brute force-- ”

Miss Dragon sensed the upcoming ‘but’ in James’ speech and interrupted “But it’s also their weakness.”

James smiled, almost proud. “A drooler won’t take into consideration such things as surroundings or strategy.”

As the two of them walked and discussed tactics, James relaxed his shoulders and breathed a bit easier than before. Miss Dragon was a strange bedfellow, but at the very least, she seemed willing to listen to reason. James suddenly felt cool sweat beading on his forehead and a mild migraine coming on in the wake of their exchange. A kind of aftershock after the initial quake. Perhaps he hadn’t been as completely even-keeled as he thought.

The pair approached the village of Dumbleton. It belonged on a postcard. Through the countryside, bubbling streams ran under mossy, stone bridges and turned the old, wooden water wheels. An horned owl hooted atop an ancient, stone wall that may have been older than James lining the grassy hills in the distance. A beautiful midnight scene, but one too dark for human eyes. The buildings were no brighter than the fields they walked through. No Farmhouses, general stores, nor churches had their lights on. Faint moans echoed in multiple directions.

James shook Miss Dragon’s arm. “Listen. Do you hear that?”

“The owl, sir?” she sighed, unamused.

“Not the blasted owl,” James snapped. “Droolers. Everywhere.”

Miss Dragon closed her eyes and focused on her hearing. “I can hear them. They’re still far off. Shall we engage?”

James stopped to think. “Perhaps. Herod’s reckless, but his military senses are still intact. He’s spread his droolers out to patrol and control the town.”

“Maybe he knows we’re coming, sir.”

“Or perhaps we’re not the first to arrive. If we were to strike first, I’d first like to do some reconnaissance. Do you happen to see any tall buildings? ”

“I can’t see much of anything. Wait…”

Sleeping Dragon pointed to a far-off, tall mansion perched upon a grassy knoll. A light shone in the highest window, the only light for miles around. It was a beacon of hope for James’ heart. It was a far better find than any old vantage point.

He patted his partner on the back. "Good eye! So that’s where you’re hiding, Herod."