He stepped onto the ledge, ducked his head, and dropped into the room.
Two blazing torches kept obscurity at bay; light from their flames dancing across the dark, uneven walls of the small room. Low ceiling beams deepened the shadows above him, and the dark, storm-laden night only served to thicken the gloom. The floor felt soft under his feet, and he glanced down to see the pale threads of straw scattered around the room. A fetid aroma clung to the static air: the acidic tang of urine mixed with the heavy stench of feces. His nocturnal vision adjusted rapidly to the limited lighting, and he picked out the oval shapes of chain suspended from the walls, long blades hanging from hooks in the mortar, and electronic batons housed in a locked wire cabinet. The torture chamber had seen plenty of use over the centuries; Anton had no doubts about that.
He stepped to the small door, wedged the point of his sword between frame and lock, and popped the door free. Shelving stretched along one wall in the darkened hallway, all sorts of intricate objects and gimmicks lining its surfaces. Anton reasoned the artifacts were probably used in the many pawn shops around the city that hybrids usually ran their war offices from. He’d closed down a few of them in the past week—maybe tonight’s emergency meeting had been called to formulate a surrender plan.
Anton smiled this time. No chance; the coven didn’t take prisoners.
At the end of the narrow corridor between the racks of knickknacks, a beaded curtain hung across a doorway and fractured the lighting within into strips of luminescence on the passageway’s dusty floor. Anton edged towards the entrance, his wet clothes giving off no sound, his footfalls silent in the darkness.
According to vampire sources, there should be five hybrid officers in the room. Five of Asia’s best, Anton mused. Five against one were the kind of odds he thrived on.
He eased his fingers against the covering and pulled one row of beads sideways a small fraction. Smoke hung in the room like the thin tendrils of an early morning mist. He could smell the opium and also picked up the scent of Jie Tea. A wall jutted from the right side of the door, obscuring half of the room. A table lay ahead of the entrance and Anton noticed two hybrids sitting with their backs to the doorway—numbers one and two, he thought—one of the males partially hidden by the wall. The aged hybrid he’d observed crossing Lockhart Road sat across from those two—number three—a rolled cigarette hanging from its mouth, gnarled fingers holding a small china cup. There were two he couldn’t see—a female and another male judging by the information he’d been given and the sound of voices in the room—most likely at the other end of the table. Without sizing up their threat, it would be those two he’d have to be wary of the most. The first two hybrids were dressed in similar changshan’s as their elderly comrade, their greased-back hair shining under the room’s dim lighting.
The top five hybrid commanders on the Asian continent sat less than ten yards from him, and they didn’t even know he was there. Anton’s eternal heartbeat quickened, his hearing picking out the conversation filtering from the table and the rattle of rain outside the building. His wet clothing tightened around his body as ageless blood flooded his muscles, and fangs surged from his gums as he readied himself for battle. His taste buds tingled with the sweet flavor of his own venom.
An arsenal of swords spread across the left hand wall. Anton recognized a broad bladed Dadao and about a dozen Miao Dao sabers hanging horizontally in their sheaths. An over-sized, muscled, humanoid torso intertwined with a dragon decorated the hilt of every weapon—the adopted symbol most Chinese hybrids fought under. A large window spanned the far wall, about eighty small panes that revealed no light beyond. Familiarizing himself with the room’s layout, Anton reasoned the window backed onto alleyways behind the restaurant, those darkened lanes shrouded in shadow.
He couldn’t understand their conversation, but the topic seemed to provoke a lot of emotion. The elderly commander slammed his fist on the table, mouth deforming while talking as his anger produced a subtle metamorphosis. Anton hated werewolves but at least they could control their transformations; the creatures in the room before him were just animals.
By now the restaurant had emptied, and it was time to go to work.
Anton swallowed saliva coated with poison, and allowed his body to expand further as adrenalin flooded his veins. He knew one thing for certain: he’d have to be swift and ruthless.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Now living and working in Norway, Dylan J. Morgan was born in New Zealand and raised in the United Kingdom. He writes during those rare quiet moments amid a hectic family life: after dark, with limited sustenance, and when his creative essence is plagued the most by tormented visions.
www.dylanjmorgan.com
@dylanjmorgan
BLOODLINES -- Blood War Trilogy: Book I Page 16