by Declan Finn
George ran for the opening to the convent driveway. The exit had walls on either side. As he stepped past them, two other werewolves slammed into him. Each of them wore a ring of car air fresheners around their necks, making them smell like the pine trees behind them.
He didn’t know if the werewolves had been alerted by his smell, if their vampire master had somehow detected him, or if Nuala had reported that Marco and Amanda had a shapeshifter of their own.
George knew he was in trouble. Both werewolves slammed him through the door of an SUV with a loud report of twisting metal. He slammed against the other door on the inside of the SUV, and the entire car rolled over, onto the roof. The force of the turn dumped him on his head.
George kneed one of the werewolves in the face. He reared back as far as he could, punching the second one in the nose. He used both hands to grab the wolf by the snout and the back of the neck, and slammed it through the roof, against the concrete.
George reached down to his holster, drew his gun, and blew the wolf’s brains all over the car.
The other wolf scrambled out of the car. George tried to reach around the corpse in front of him, but it was already an awkward position.
Screw it. George reached down, unlocked the door and opened it, and bolted out into the street. He came up, pistol in hand, and swung around, intending to use the car as cover as he hunted the other werewolf.
The second werewolf already leapt at him from the top of the car.
Marco felt like he was hit by a one-ton piece of ravenous animal. The beast was closer to four hundred pounds, and slammed him right through the door, into the hallway. He slammed against the opposite wall, leaving a hole in the drywall.
Marco barely tracked the action. One moment he had an idea about skewering a wolf on the remains of a bed frame, the next he was concussed, dazed, and his world had become a blur. He shot out with an elbow, and he felt it hit something relatively soft. There was no reaction from the beast, and it flung him over its shoulder like a weightless sack of potatoes.
The creature took off, with Marco in a fireman’s carry. Marco twisted, thrashed, and reached back, managing to get his arm around the wolf’s throat. He pulled with all of his strength.
The resistance was insurmountable. The wolf didn’t even notice.
Marco winced. To get through the full moon without becoming some sort of, furry abomination, he had dosed himself with enough of Amanda’s blood to become a minion. Her Vampire blood suppressed the lycanthropy and the extra strength that came with it. He didn’t even have minion-level strength because the vampire infection flooding his veins was busy with the shape-shifting virus.
In short, Marco was screwed, exhausted, and he couldn’t do anything about it.
Amanda now would be a good time to—
Just as he thought it, a second werewolf exploded through the wall of his room and hurled a round black object into it.
The flash-bang went off as the werewolf carrying him charged from the hallway. Marco winced in sympathy. Merle had used a string of flash-bangs against a cave of vampires in Afghanistan last month, and the effects were painful—to vampires. Their enhanced hearing didn’t react well with the over 200-decibel blast, or the brightness of a million candles.
Marco’s heart sank.
The second werewolf charged past Marco.
Yana cowered on her knees, frightened out of her mind. The world exploded in screams and gunfire, and the loud staccato of detonations. She gripped the back of the last pew, frozen stiff. She heard Jackie scream, which wasn’t nearly as bad as the tearing of flesh, and bones snapping like branches in a raging storm.
Yana wasn’t even all there. No, she was back in the horrid den of a Vampire assassin last month. She’d had to drink blood, then forced to do … other things that she had spent all of her time trying not to think about. Acts even she considered unnatural. She had done her best to move on by replacing the girlfriend she lost and making sure to relax. By doing more recreational drugs.
Now, lost in a haze of unreality, her head whipped around to every sound, flinching or whimpering at the slightest stimulation.
Then the doors burst open as a werewolf crashed through. It was a big black beast the size of a bear. A glancing blow bowled her over. The wolf slid to a stop as claws skidded along marble floors, and whirled to face her.
Another wolf came from the hallway that led from the monastery. It was a taller wolf that walked on two legs, carrying Marco over its shoulder. Marco’s had his arm wrapped around the wolf’s throat, as though trying to strangle it.
The wolf glared down at Yana. She whimpered, trying to scramble backwards on her rear. The bipedal wolf slammed a clawed foot down on her stomach, and the pinpoints of the claws dug into her skin. It looked down at her with its big gray eyes and gave her a grin that ran the length of its snout.
“Yes,” it growled, in a voice like gravel. “You’re the one. I thank you, little witch. Your prayers were not in vain. Reaching out to Hecate as you did pierced the cloak of holiness from the church, and enabled my master to sense my brother wolf here.”
Yana’s green eyes widened with the realization that everything happening here, from Jackie to this moment, was all her fault. Her and her stupid, drug-addled brain, and what Marco had once called her even dumber new-age neo-pagan gibberish, had opened the door for all of this.
The wolf dug its claws deeper into Yana’s stomach, and raked down, spilling her guts all over the floor of the church.
George took one bounding sidestep as the werewolf dove for him. He swung the gun into position, and fired three rounds into the wolf’s side, then once in its head.
“It’s a different game when the other guy is armed and ready for you, isn’t it?” George muttered over the corpse.
He looked back to the church as the sounds of gunfire broke out all over the neighborhood. His men were mixed in with the Vatican Ninjas, and they were scattered all over, mostly hiding in apartments with absent tenants, or scattered on rooftops. Some of the gunshots came from farther down the hill, or on the south side of the monastery, and even on the opposite end of the compound, beyond the treeline, on Midland Parkway.
But there were no gunshots over on the north side of the complex.
George clicked his transmitter. “Chavez, you there?”
“Confirm. What’s up?”
“Tangos coming your way. It’s why they’re on every other side—they’re feints. Any extraction will go right through you. You might be under attack any moment. I’m going to intercept the package.”
George rushed for the church door, and ripped it off its hinges, splintering wood.
He saw a werewolf carrying Marco down the middle of the church, while another one brought up the rear.
George drew down, firing into the back of the nearest wolf. The wolf took the first round in the shoulder, and staggered, falling against the row of pews. It bounded back, pushing forward, and caught the next round in the back, near the spine. It lurched the other way, and George readjusted his aim for the lead wolf, carrying Marco. It had already turned so that the side with Marco faced George. George aimed low, and for the front, hoping to catch the wolf at the hip, without injuring Marco. The first two bullets went wide, and the third caught the front pew. The werewolf burst out the side door, and George was about to give chase when the sound of a car screeched to a stop outside.
Chavez’s voice came from his radio, “Tangos have an armored car, and just came right past me.”
George growled, and took two steps backwards through the door, aiming for the driveway that ran the length of the property. If the car gunned the engine, it would come to him. If it took a moment to turn, it would be going back towards Chavez and his team and caught between the two of them. Without hesitation, he ejected a magazine and refreshed it with a collection of armor-piercing bullets.
The armored car gunned the engine, and George was ready, firing four rounds into the front tire, six into the drive
r’s side door, and then another four into the rear tire.
The car neither stopped, nor slowed, and hung a right turn, heading out of George’s sight as he emptied the magazine into the other back wheel.
George swept up the discarded magazine and rammed it back in. He knew that he hit the damn thing several times, in several places.
Which means they have run-flat tires.
George decided to take off after the car—unlike the proverbial dog chasing the bus, George knew exactly what he would do if he caught it. But he finally noticed a putrid smell of carnage from inside the church. He hadn’t even seen his friend Yana inside, where he had left her the night before.
George ran back inside the church. Yana was there, on the floor, holding her hands over her stomach. Tears ran down her face, and she whimpered through the pain.
And he saw that she was trying to hold her guts in.
He dropped to one knee at her side, and immediately radioed for a medic, even though he knew that there was no way she could be saved, even if he bit her. Amanda couldn’t turning her either. Too much of Yana was already on the floor.
George put his hand over Yana’s, and smiled at her. “It’s okay, Yana. You’re going to be fine. I’ve got people coming.”
Yana looked up at him imploringly. Her eyes were wide, and he couldn't tell if it was terror or pain. She opened her mouth, and nothing came out but a wail, filled with sorrow and pain. It turned into a sob. She whispered, “My fault, George. All my fault.” She sobbed again, weaker this time. “Me and my stupid Hecate. Stupid. So stupid,”
George didn’t know what to say to that. He always knew that Yana was a little flaky, with her Wicca and her hatred of guns (even though she’d used a crossbow against vampires in the past). But he had known her since she was six, in kindergarten, when she thought that Charmed was a documentary, and her Hippie parents made unfortunate brownies for PTA meetings.
All he could say was, “Don’t worry. We can fix this. We’ll get Marco back. He’s tough.”
Yana’s pale green eyes met George’s, and she tried to give him a weak smile.
Instead, she gave one last gasp. Her body relaxed, and she sagged in George’s arms.
Chapter 26
Slow and the Furriest
Marco Catalano woke up in blinding pain and screaming. He growled, infuriated, and then thrashed, pulling against the bonds that chained him to the wall. They burned against his skin, telling Marco that they were silver, meant to contain him.
In that case, they have another thing coming when I get out of here and kill every last one of them.
The sizzle as Marco strained against the silver warned him that all of the blood Amanda had given him had already burned through his system.
But this means that I should be as strong as a werewolf now. If I can get free, I can give them merry hell.
Marco growled as he pulled and thrashed against the restraints. He knew he should have a plan, but between the rampant rage in his head, and the blinding pain shooting through his arms and legs, he couldn’t even think.
“Oh, good,” came a deep, smooth voice, tinged with a Russian accent. “You’re awake. That will make things so much more delicious.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed, coming into focus. The first thing he was able to see was the vampire that had started this latest fresh Hell. It was probably the best view he’d had of the him since this entire mess started. Misha was good looking, downright handsome even—despite the scar in his face, left by Amanda’s teeth. Like his brother, Mikhail the Bear, Misha was big, well over six feet tall, and wide.
Marco smiled. “Fine, then. Bite me, you blood sucking little twit. I hope you choke on me.”
“Not that sort of tasty.” Misha smirked but said nothing, his deep, dark eyes flicking to another side of the room. “John, if you would be so kind?”
Marco followed the gaze to another man in the room. He was long and lanky, nothing like Misha; his body type was something along the line of “wire brush” or “pipe cleaner.” He had a thick black beard with matching ponytail. There was a shock of pink in his forelock. His outfit was meth user chic, sporting a dirty gray t-shirt and torn sweatpants.
John staggered a little in front of Marco, stopped, looked at him, and said, “Sit, stay.”
Marco wondered if this trick was supposed to do anything. He looked at the vampire. “Really?” Marco said, incredulous. “Hipsters? A hipster werewolf pack? I would have thought they would have turned into sheep, not wolves.” He chuckled darkly to himself. “Although in this case, they should be called Yipsters.”
Misha shrugged. “A man’s dark side can only manifest as a predator. Wolves are pack animals, so are people. It’s why there are so many stories about werewolves. Other variants are outliers.”
Marco glared at John in disgust. “Tell me that this pathetic worm isn’t the one who took me. That would be embarrassing.”
“No,” Misha drawled, “that would be Tully. He led the raid.” He smacked John on the arm, causing the werewolf to stagger into the wall next to Marco. “Now give him a real command.”
John looked at Marco, pushed off the wall, and straightened. “Shut up and listen to the master. And stop thrashing about.”
Marco gave him a look and an arched eyebrow, but he said nothing.
John nodded. “So there.” He focused on Misha. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
Misha grabbed him and shoved him onto the floor. The vampire’s eyes still bored into Marco as he ordered the wolf, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll need you to explain something.”
Marco’s dark blue eyes tracked Misha as he walked towards him. “You will be relieved to know,” Misha continued, “that you will not be part of our dining tonight. In fact, you will not be part of anything, except our side.”
Marco scoffed, then shook his head, saying nothing.
The vampire smiled. “Your lack of smart ass remarks, for example, is a result of John giving you an order to be quiet. You may think you're controlled and calm, but you’re not, believe me on that.”
Marco gave him a little smile that spoke volumes: somewhere between a comment about his control and calm, then rolled his eyes.
Misha’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled evilly, a tight little smile that was a mirror to Marco’s own. “Tonight, with the full moon out and shining, you will do anything you’re told. There may be a little left of Amanda’s blood in your system. The more it is burned out of your veins, you will lack even more control.”
He reached forward and grabbed Marco’s chin, slamming his head back against the wall. Marco ground his teeth, and moved his head around … and felt that his head had created a divot in the wall. Misha’s eyes both glowed with malice. They became even deeper and darker. Marco could see the vile carcass behind his handsome mask.
“And then,” Misha said, “once the creature has its total and complete domination of you, any wolf, even a beta like John here, can give you an order. You will do anything that anyone tells you to do. You will serve us. Tonight, we will turn you loose on Alina Savinkova, and you will kill her. Then, we will keep you as our pet until you’re no longer entertaining. Afterward, we feed you to the other dogs!”
The vampire smacked Marco, making the divot in the wall even deeper. Marco shook his head, clearing his head and his vision as best as possible. There was something wrong with Misha’s voice—or perhaps he had been hit in the head too hard, and he heard things. It was almost as though the vampire’s voice was echoing. The eyes seemed darker again. It was like during Misha’s assault on Marco’s home, there had been something so familiar about them. But he couldn’t think about it at the time, and even now, it was so difficult to put a thought together. There was something wrong. He knew there was something he should be worried about with Misha. There was something familiar about all of this.
“Never happen,” Marco said, coughing on plaster dust. “I’ll kill myself first.”
Misha waved it away,
dismissively. “Win-win.” He frowned, then kicked John aside like, well, a dog. “Worthless cur. Out of my sight, and tell me when Tully returns.” John scurried away. “We’ll obviously need an alpha to handle you on a long-term basis, even if John’s orders work now. Doesn’t matter. Either way, tonight you will kill Alina, and you will live with it. That we can guarantee you.”
Marco shook his head. He was definitely hearing things. There’s no way Misha’s voice could echo in this… His eyes flicked around the room. It looked like some sort of factory storage room. He focused on Misha again. “All this so you and whatever may be left of the Council can take over the world?”
Misha blanched and cocked his head at Marco. “You’re guessing.”
Marco shrugged as best he could with his hands chained above his head. He didn’t want to tip off Misha that the UN was bugged by Merle. But he needed more information. “Mister Day—Asmodeus, whatever—was seen walking into the UN. Your brother’s right-hand creature, the one Merle Kraft killed? We called him Scarface. He was spotted after he ate an FBI agent. He destroyed the laser microphone the agent had pointed at the United Nations building. So the UN is crucial to your plans. Or it was, until Merle hit it with all the holy water in their pipes.”
Misha sneered. “The plan is alive as long as I am alive. I am the Council, boy.”
Gotcha, sucker, Marco thought. “You’re already dead,” he countered.
“A technicality.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “The UN is a building filled with dictators, and you’re already giving vampire soldiers to terrorist groups. I don’t have to make a great leap in logic to think about how many times you can pull that off throughout the world. I mean, hell, make Europe desperate enough, they’re probably… what, months, weeks away from being talked into a vampire army?”
Misha narrowed his eyes, and he laughed, his laughter echoing throughout the room. “Close enough. We’ll start with all the countries with political prisoners, and go on from there.”