Monsters and Mortals - Blood War Trilogy Book II

by Dylan J. Morgan

  Once outside the vehicle she collapsed to her knees. My God, what the hell is wrong with me?

  The question, raised by the fading threads of coherent thought, was irrelevant. She already knew what was happening but Deanna clutched at what little sanity remained in her mind. This can’t be happening to me. After all this running, am I really going to join this crazy world forever?

  The leather hood disappeared, yanked from her head. A new world of smells rushed to meet her: the sharp fragrance of fir, beech, and spruce trees combined in a cloying bouquet; the musty scent of forest wildlife mingled with the pleasant odors of different grass types, bilberry and various ferns; the unclean stench of two individuals cowering near the trail’s edge, their natural body odor complimented by the fragrant whiff of fear.

  The ball gag was jerked clear of her mouth and Deanna snarled like a rabid animal, glaring through darkness at the two figures. Night had taken on a shallow gray hue, obscurity pushed to the outer extremities of her vision. Saliva coated her chin, mouth open to accommodate oversized teeth and a tongue that longed to feel flesh on its buds.

  When completely human, raw meat had sickened her, but now Deanna coveted the taste of a fresh kill and the warmth of spilled blood.

  She could no longer contain the inevitable, and the agonizing transformation thundered towards its animalistic conclusion.

  Deanna’s head snapped down as another wave of agony washed through her plagued body. Knuckles cracked and fingers lengthened, nails splitting and surging from her digits to form claws. The fine, thin coating of hair on her body altered in a second; follicles thickening, growing from the skin into a thick heavy pelt that coated her body. Limbs snapped, hips shattering then reuniting, backbone crunching with the force of a tortuous transformation.

  Thumping with agonizing pulses, her brain swelled inside its cranium, head expanding and facial bones sliding forward as if they were liquid. A harsh, guttural howl bellowed from Deanna’s lungs as a wolfen snout erupted from her face.

  The transformation reverberated like thunder in her ears; the ear canal’s widening to capture the forest’s natural sounds from miles around.

  Still on all fours, Deanna bared her teeth at her prey and salivated with bloodlust.

  The werewolf standing beside her, still in its human form, shouted to its colleague and the other lycanthrope let go of the bonds that contained the two hybrids. With squeals of panic they loped into the darkness.

  “It’s time to hunt,” the German werewolf whispered, although the words almost failed to register in her transformed mind.

  The urge to feed swamped her totally.

  Deanna sprang from her position and charged into the woods. Preternatural speed and power carried her through the undergrowth, and although she stumbled at first in eagerness and unfamiliarity with her new stature, she soon mastered her stride and agility.

  An intense hunger distorted her stomach. Pausing at a new-growth beech, Deanna sniffed the air. The forest stench was almost overpowering but the fragrance of panic settled heavily on the air currents. The hybrids had split up; one scrambling straight ahead, the other peeling away to the right, quite possibly attempting to double back and deceive its pursuers. Deanna was new to the hunt, but a primeval instinct had taken over. She bounded through the shrubbery to her right, snapping low hanging branches from her path with monstrous ease.

  Behind her, something crashed through the forest. She paused, but only for a moment, clearly picking out the scent of the other two werewolves, now transformed and following her progress.

  Facing forward once more, Deanna inhaled the forest deeply then charged after her prey.

  The hybrid hadn’t gone far; quite possibly a juvenile creature, it fought desperately against the tethering bonds of thick undergrowth and fallen spruce trees in a dense part of the forest. It shrieked in utter terror as Deanna thundered from the darkness towards it.

  She missed with her first lunge. Claws scratched the hybrid’s skin and it squealed in pain, but the creature had been nimble enough to dodge Deanna’s attack. She tumbled through weeds and soft fern, her momentum halted by the rough bark of a fir tree.

  Watching from the darkness, one of the werewolves barked its disapproval at her.

  Deanna panted heavily, a conscious thought telling her to calm it and not attack recklessly; her ravenous stomach protested and fought against caution.

  The hybrid, itself transformed but smaller in stature than Deanna’s new identity, scrambled up an incline, trying to secure purchase on the surrounding shrubbery. The fragile plants ripped clear from the soft, summer-warmed earth.

  Standing erect, Deanna advanced slowly; edging to the creature’s left. It hissed, reached for a tree bough and caught it with both hands. The hybrid pulled itself desperately from the thicket.

  This time Deanna didn’t miss.

  Her seven feet tall, four hundred pound body of muscle and power slammed into the terrified hybrid and tore at its flesh. The hybrid fought back, slashing Deanna’s chest, trying to ward off the abyss of death. It spurred the werewolf on.

  Excitement pulsed in her body and she squirted urine into the surrounding foliage. Deanna’s second lunge was spot on. Her teeth sliced through its throat like razor-sharp knives, a rush of pleasure cavorting in her essence as the hybrid’s warm blood filled her mouth.

  Deanna clamped hard, the tearing of flesh, muscle and tendons echoing in her mind. Shaking her head and pulling hard, she ripped away the hybrid’s throat.

  Not bothering to chew, she swallowed the meat whole.

  The supervising werewolf howled triumphantly.

  Shuddering in agony, the hybrid’s dying breaths gurgled from its savaged throat.

  Leaning in once more, Deanna snapped vertebrae between her teeth and wrenched her enemy’s head from its neck.

  Raising her head and consuming the morsel in one gulp, Deanna bellowed at moonlight lighting a cloudless sky.

  THE LAST STAND

  BOOK III of the Blood War Trilogy OUT NOW!

  http://bookgoodies.com/a/B00GFCQBDM

  After six centuries of brutal conflict a fragile peace now exists between vampires and werewolves. United in the goal of culling the hybrid bloodline, combined raids by both species sweep the globe. Scattered and in disarray, hybrids are forced into Europe to make a last desperate stand for survival.

  Tamara Wyatt, a high-ranking hybrid commander, barely escapes with her life after an ambush by werewolves in the Ukraine. Rendezvousing with the remaining clans, she discovers sanctuary is hard to find even amongst her own kind. With the net closing tighter, Tamara must act quickly if she is to save not only her own life but that of the hybrid bloodline.

  Six hundred years of callous bloodlust is not easily forgotten—the supernatural world is governed by lies, treachery, and hidden secrets. Markus, the oldest living vampire, has forged a truce with the pack’s Alpha-Male, Isaac, but has done so at a high price. And already weakened by hatred and betrayal, the ceasefire’s delicate foundations are about to crumble under the most shocking secret of them all.

  EXCERPT FROM THE LAST STAND

  TWO

  Wan Chai District,

  Hong Kong Island, China

  Anton waited two minutes, stood from his position, and crossed the rooftop to the rear of the structure.

  In the building under his feet, four hybrid officers waited for their commander to join them. Anton had no idea what they would talk about in their secret meeting, but if he were quick enough they wouldn’t have the opportunity to discuss anything at all. This wasn’t a reconnaissance mission any longer and Anton’s orders were to do what he’d been recruited for all those centuries ago: elimination. Unbuttoning his long, dark coat, he pushed its tail to one side to expose the crafted pommel of his Chinese Maio Dao sword. He couldn’t see his colleagues, but knew two pairs of vampire Eliminator’s were positioning themselves on either side of the restaurant entrance: his back-up should he need it.

 
He doubted they’d be required. This wouldn’t be his first solo mission.

  Without losing stride, Anton withdrew his saber and stepped from the edge of the building. Gravity took him and he dropped ten feet in less than a second. The rope he’d tied to the rooftop had become slick with rainwater, but his free hand gripped it tight enough that he stopped his descent three feet before the blackened-out window on the rear side of the restaurant. Anton had popped the glass from its frame about an hour ago, when the evening’s clientele were at their most raucous, thus hiding any noise he’d made.

  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