BLOODLINES -- Blood War Trilogy: Book I

by Dylan J. Morgan

  ST.PETERSBURG,

  RUSSIA

  Darkness—deep, foreboding, concealing. He’d hated it as a child, always wondering what horrors lay buried within its blackness, and even now—forty years after leaving adolescence behind—he continued to detest it. Despite having been turned into a vampire and recruited into a centuries-old coven, the secrets night kept unnerved him still.

  The fact that there were werewolves out there, gathered just beyond the reach of his nocturnal eyesight, didn’t help his demeanor.

  Dmitri swallowed but failed to dislodge the ball of mucus at the back of his throat. Shifting from one foot to the next, he ran the fingers of his right hand across the elegantly decorated pommel of his forty inch sword.

  Beside him, his commanding officer stood deathly still. “Take it easy, soldier. They can smell your fear and that will give them an advantage.”

  They had one anyway, as far as Dmitri was concerned. Monstrous creatures, most standing over eight feet when fully transformed, lycanthropes possessed a level of strength like no other beast he knew. They were cunning and powerful, callously indifferent, with a single desire to slaughter their enemies. He nodded; not so much in accord with his commander’s admonition but more an agreement of his own assessment: they had enough of an advantage already.

  Thirty-six years ago Dmitri had been a farmer struggling to survive in barren lands forty miles south of Moscow. His children were starving, his wife threatening to leave him, and when six black-clad horsemen turned up on his doorstep one autumn evening he thought his problems had just become a hundred times worse. At that moment he’d had no idea that thirty minutes later his mortal troubles would disperse quicker than his arid soil when touched by tumultuous summer winds. As he stood in line with his new comrades, staring into thick darkness surrounding Palace Square, he thought briefly about his two loyal sons and long suffering wife. He hoped they rested peacefully and their pain prior to death hadn’t been too great. Their screams had told him different but Dmitri had always been one to expect the best.

  It’s what he hoped for now.

  Being in the front line of an undermanned brigade protecting the palace, the best one could wish for when faced with an onslaught of ravenous werewolves would be a quick, painless death.

  Dmitri glanced to his left then right, along the column of vampires stretched across the square immediately in front of The Alexander Column. They looked as nervous as he: eyes wide in unconcealed fear, tongues licking the thin pink lines of vampiric lips. All lights around the courtyard had been extinguished, and Dmitri’s brethren appeared whiter than normal against the dark backdrop of the General Staff Building. Thirty vampires strong, possibly; he had no idea how many more guarded the interior of the palace but for the moment he wished he’d been assigned to that group. They, at least, were in the warmth of the building with any number of places to hide. According to the stories he’d heard these last few weeks there were no fewer than six escape tunnels out of the palace, although only the vampire hierarchy knew their locations. Searching the building for a concealed exit would be better than standing exposed in the courtyard waiting for hell to open up and spew forth its demons.

  His rank within the coven assured he’d been placed in this precarious position. Not yet a vampire for four decades, his life compared little to those more superior, warriors guarding the palace walls. He looked young, felt energetic, but hadn’t yet lived as long as a mortal lifetime—a time span he hoped to exceed by many years.

  The smell came first, rank and horrid—the odor of unwashed bodies and undigested meat. Dmitri’s guts tightened with fear. The sound of shoes scraping across cobblestones alerted him to the fact he wasn’t the only vampire backing away from the darkness.

  “Hold your ground,” his commander whispered. “Anybody breaks ranks and I’ll kill them before the werewolves get a chance to.”

  Dmitri’s knees locked. He told himself he was bracing for combat but knew terror had been what really froze his joints.

  Not long after the stench of approaching lycanthropes drifted through the courtyard, came the first rumbling of a deep throated growl. It seemed to echo off the surrounding buildings, amplifying in volume and making it appear as though they were encircled. Hairs rose on Dmitri’s ashen skin, and a deeper chill settled in his blood.

  “Shit,” someone whispered.

  “Draw swords,” his commander uttered.

  The sigh of hardened steel being removed from leather scabbards whispered throughout the courtyard, shortly followed by the harsh panting and heavy footfalls of approaching monsters.

  Dmitri swallowed hard but the mucus remained. His eyes widened, and in the depth of his nocturnal vision the shadowy outlines of brutish lycanthropes disturbed the darkness. How many were there he had no idea—they advanced so quick he had no time to count—but their numbers were so great determining their quantity would be worthless. Freeing the left hand from his sword for just a moment, he instinctively drew the sign of the cross upon his body.

  Clinging to the last vestiges of human memory, Dmitri prayed to the mortal’s God that his life would be spared.

  Steel clattered to the cobblestones. Dmitri turned his head as one of the vampires sprinted towards the palace, his defensive position abandoned. For a brief second Dmitri felt like following him, but realized almost immediately that even if he survived the impending lycanthropic onslaught the coven would behead him for his spinelessness.

  “Coward,” his commander whispered.

  The superior vampire didn’t chase the deserter. Dmitri understood why, and the reason gripped him with a sickening twist of fear: the werewolves were too close.

  “Good luck, men,” the commander said. “Defend the coven with your lives.”

  Raising his sword Dmitri stared in eternal horror at the shapes charging out of darkness wallowing around the staff building. He’d seen a few werewolves during his short time in the coven, but nothing like this. Monstrous bipedal wolves hurtled from the shadows, thick thigh muscles propelling them forward, arms outstretched towards the vampires with sharp talons extended. Dmitri had yet to see the damage they could do, but he’d been told many stories of werewolves disemboweling vampires in a single swipe of their razor-sharp claws. For the moment though he focused on the eyes piercing the blackness—fiery red as if the very depths of hell itself burned in the creatures’ minds.

  Dmitri grunted loudly, a feeble attempt to join in the determined battle cry of defending vampires.

  He ignored the line of brave vampires that broke ranks to engage the approaching monsters, and instead locked his vision on one brutish lycanthrope charging for him. One sweep of your blade—right to left, below and upwards—should be enough to rent this hellish creature in two.

  The moment of truth had come and he wondered how much good his limited training would do.

  His commander launched his counterattack on a werewolf. In less than ten seconds the three hundred year old vampire was being ripped to pieces on the cobblestones.

  Dmitri stepped forward, raised his sword in readiness, and only then did he notice the second wave of lycanthropes leaping off the old slate roofs of the surrounding buildings to join the battle.

  Fear solidified the ball of mucus in his gullet. His bladder released its contents.

  Large claws sliced through his flesh, assaulting his nerve endings with burning agony. As cold blood poured from his rent body, Dmitri wondered if his wife and children would forgive him if they ever met again.

  * * *

  On the second floor in the west wing of the Winter Palace, Markus stood impassive at the large window and gazed into the courtyard at the slaughter below. He’d seen it all before. The world in which he lived was violent and bloody, filled with massacres. He’d partaken in many conflicts during his eight centuries of life; if any of his vampire defenders were worthy of becoming an Elder like he then they would survive this battle, just as he’d survived countless others during his existence.
With the way the battle was playing out below him he doubted any of them would make it.

  The thought of drawing his sword and racing from the room to defend this palace never entered his mind. He’d resigned himself days ago to abandoning the building but hadn’t told anyone about it. His orders, right until half an hour before this conflict began, had always been the same: the palace is important to the coven, defend it with your lives.

  His army was doing just that, and their lives were disappearing fast.

  The forward line of defenders near the impressive column had been decimated. Vampire bodies lay strewn across the courtyard, the cobblestones drenched with immortal blood. Hungry lycanthropes tore away chunks of flesh and feasted ravenously. Werewolves more focused on their task hunted the fleeing defenders, and quickly made their way towards the palace. Sounds of slaughter drifted across the city and even in this chamber Markus could smell the sweet aroma of spilled blood.

  Briefly, he wondered what mortal historians would write about this historic night—whatever they penned, it would be wrong.

  A feeble, weak moan filtered through the darkness of the chamber, breaking his train of thought. Markus looked away from the massacre and stepped from the window. The chamber was immense, with a high ceiling and superbly decorated walls. Many paintings, some decades old and worth a small fortune, hung throughout the room. He crossed the gloom towards the elegant four-poster bed and neared the emaciated figure lying under soft silk sheets.

  The ancient vampire was waking. Markus hoped the pathetic creature had enjoyed the last sleep he would ever have. In reality he’d labored through about three hundred more slumbers than he deserved. Less than a year ago Markus told his beautiful wife that her father Noah had died a violent, gruesome death at the claws of renegade werewolves. Luckily the aged vampire was not one of the Founding Elders, and his ‘passing’ had gone largely unnoticed by the greater covenant. Markus himself had felt only relief. Noah had despised him since the day they’d met. At least four times throughout the centuries he’d almost perished in different accidents and suspected Noah of trying to eliminate him, although he had never found any evidence to prove it.

  Markus’ only crime was falling in love with Ilanna and taking the luscious vampire away from her daddy. Noah had never forgiven him and shunned him ever since, only acknowledging him when Ilanna was around.

  Smiling, he gazed down at the wretched face of his father-in-law. Soon, all that hatred and discrimination would be avenged.

  When Markus had told Ilanna about Noah’s death she’d refused to believe him, demanding to see his body. He’d escaped exposure by claiming the ancient vampire had been torn to shreds by the werewolves and almost completely devoured. Tearfully—and he’d found the tears easy to fabricate—he had given her the locket Noah had always worn around his neck enclosing a picture of Ilanna, the necklace smeared with her father’s blood.

  Those weeks after he’d skillfully delivered the untruth had been hard to live through, with Ilanna’s grieving and mood swings, but they’d passed over time and now they were closer than ever. If she ever found out he’d caused the old vampire’s injuries and kept him unresponsive through drugs in one of the most populated houses within the coven, she’d have him beheaded.

  Markus’ smile broadened. The most difficult secrets to keep hidden were the ones that could take your life. Markus was sure that everyone in the supernatural world—if they lived as long as he—would have skeletons in their closets, though he doubted theirs would be as dramatic as those in his. Or as plentiful.

  This secret, and many others, would ensure his death if ever the coven learned it.

  Muffled by the locked doors to the room and beyond, the panicked shouts of vampires preparing to defend the palace from bloodthirsty werewolves rang in his ears.

  Closer, a mere foot away, came the gargled breath of a dying vampire.

  Drugs kept Noah subdued, and the lack of fresh blood held him close to death. The once powerful vampire, who’d threatened him with his life on countless occasions, was now his puppet.

  “Alexander?” the old vampire asked, his voice whispered and pitiful.

  The deception complete, Markus had ensured the vampire’s eyesight had deteriorated enough that he now saw only shadows. Changing the timbre of his voice Markus answered, “Yes, Sir, it is I.”

  “Where is she? Has she arrived?”

  “I believe I heard her carriage only moments ago, Sir. You will not have much longer to wait.”

  “Be sure to show her straight in.”

  Markus bowed. “Of course, Sir.”

  He stepped away from the bed and backed towards the door. As the shadows within the room deepened and washed over the prone figure of the one vampire he despised above all others, Markus bared his fangs in one last show of defiance.

  Silently he unlocked the chamber’s outer door, and left it wide open upon his exit. Concealed for more than two centuries within the palace, Markus’ secret lair lay exposed.

  * * *

  The majestic foyer of the Winter Palace was stained with blood. The carcasses of vampire defenders lay scattered across the marble tiles, some being picked at by ravenous werewolves. From further in the palace, the voluminous roar of hunting lycanthropes and the clatter of steel swords indicated the defense of the royal building was coming to its logical and gory conclusion.

  Markus had paused only briefly on a nearby landing and gazed down upon the slaughter in the entrance hall. The defenders were scattered and clueless, running for their lives. He didn’t expect a confrontation, but he carried his sword tight as he hurried deeper into the palace’s heart. If he encountered a werewolf, he would slay the beast as he’d been doing for almost eight hundred years. If a vampire crossed his path, he would kill them as well.

  No one must see where I am going. If he was discovered now, his position as supreme Elder of the coven would be destroyed.

  He had created two separate chambers in the palace, and not a single vampire within the coven knew of them. The one was now open; the other he hoped would stay concealed for eternity. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Markus satisfied himself he was alone and that nobody—neither vampire nor werewolf—had followed him. Dragging the key from his pocket, he removed a book from the ornate eighteenth century bookcase, slid the key into the slot, turned it, and pushed the case inwards. It slid noiselessly on rollers dug into the concrete floor. Placing the book back on its shelf, he slipped into the narrow opening, closed the case behind him, and locked it.

  He waited for five minutes; listening. Nothing moved beyond the wall in the main section of the palace. Not even the screams of dying vampires or the roar of hunting lycanthropes penetrated his darkness. Opening his eyes, Markus saw nothing at all. No natural light filtered into the enclosed space, rendering even his nocturnal vision useless. Dropping the key back into his pocket he turned and cautiously ambled along the constricted passageway.

  After marking off ten paces, he took the first step down into the palace foundations. The spiral staircase, constructed by slave workers long since deceased, wound downwards at a sharp angle. He counted these steps too, yet the ice cold touch of the expected water still made him gasp when he placed his foot. He continued down, slowly this time because the river would have made the steps slippery. With the cold water touching his upper chest Markus stopped, pausing for a long time and listening. His breath echoed back up the makeshift stairwell; water lapped gently at the smooth rock; and silence overtook all else.

  Reaching forward under the surface he located the metal door, fingers searching deeper for the keyhole. Digging into the breast pocket of his shirt he retrieved another key, and carefully felt its shape to ensure he held the correct one.

  The Neva River that ran adjacent to the Winter Palace’s north façade was deep and wide. It would hide him completely. Only one more day, at the most, of discomfort and then he’d be back in the lavish splendor of his coven.

  Markus smiled, to
ok a deep breath, and slid beneath the surface.

  * * *

  The door to the chamber opened and she walked in: Ilanna, beautiful and radiant. She’d finally come to see him just as Alexander had said she would. His aide had told him many glorious things over the time he’d been convalescing in the room. He told about the war against werewolves and how the lycanthropes were losing ground; about the war against the hybrids and how that was progressing favorably too; Alexander told about the savage and brutal death in combat of Markus, his daughter’s dishonest husband, and that had been the best news Noah had ever received.

  Now Ilanna was here, finally, and his greatest wish would be granted.

  After so many centuries of life, Noah didn’t want to face death without one last look at his beloved daughter.

  He stared through the gloom as she approached; wishing Alexander had been kind enough to provide more light. Ilanna remained nothing more than a deeper silhouette within an abundance of shadows crowding the room. He struggled to free his hand from under the bed’s silken sheets but this cursed fatigue failed to relinquish its hold over him. Alexander had promised it wouldn’t last long, but it seemed that he’d said that every day.

  Excited at the prospect of once again seeing his daughter, Noah couldn’t shake the unnerving thought that he had no idea how long he’d been lying in that bed waiting for Ilanna’s arrival. At that moment he couldn’t remember what her face looked like or even Alexander’s, despite the vampire having tended to him for the duration of his convalescence. With a cold shock he realized he’d never seen Alexander’s face at all.

  Ilanna approached, cautiously, no doubt afraid to look upon her father while he lay in such a diseased state.

  Shaking with effort he finally managed to pull his hand clear of the sheet. He needed to see her one last time—run his fingers across her soft cheeks and tell how much he loved her. He couldn’t wait for her to say the same thing.