The Frenzy War
Page 1
DEDICATED, WITH LOVE, TO MY DAUGHTER,
KAELIN
Published 2012 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 by Gregory Lamberson
Cover illustration by Patrick Reilly
Cover design by James Tampa
Edited by Lorie Popp Jones
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
ISBN# 9781605424538
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I’d like to thank my wife, Tamar, for providing the occasional English into Spanish translation and everyone at Medallion Press for their continuing and superlative support. Special thanks to my editor, Lorie Popp Jones, for keeping track of the multitude of characters and timelines that grow increasingly complex as The Frenzy Cycle and The Jake Helman Files progress.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part 2
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
“We have many (rules), but the most critical are these.
‘Do not kill man.’
‘Do not reveal your true self to man.’
‘Do not endanger yourself or your pack.’”
—Angela Domini
to NYPD Captain Anthony Mace
PROLOGUE
Luce, Italy
The iron hammer struck the red-hot silver with all the strength Marcelino Bianchi could muster, fusing together the two halves of the long object lying upon the anvil. Marcelino had labored as a metalworker, a blacksmith, and a silversmith for two decades, and his muscles had become as hewn as the stone face of a mighty cliff. He had learned the trades from his father, who had apprenticed under his own father and now helped Marcelino manage his business. Marcelino had taken his son, Petro, as his apprentice, but he wanted neither his father nor his son to help him now. This was his chance to serve God.
Sweat seared Marcelino’s eyes, but still he hammered away at the silver, flattening the blade, reshaping it, making it whole again. He approached his work with the fervor of an acolyte, taking strength and satisfaction from his efforts. The clanging in his ears, like the tearing of his muscles, inspired him to work harder, to serve those men who served his Lord. Perspiration soaked the long-sleeved shirt he wore beneath his leather apron.
When he finished his task, he seized the weapon’s hand-carved handle and drove the great blade into a chest filled with ice, heaving a sigh as steam hissed around him. He found the process purifying and wondered how it would feel to wield the sword in combat.
As she drove through the hilly terrain in her silver Fiat 500, admiring the view of the mountains in the distance ahead, Valeria Rapero engaged in small talk with her passenger, Father Jonas Tudoro.
She thought of the aged priest as a father figure, for he had placed her with a foster family when her parents had died in an automobile crash in Tuscany when she was eight years old and had looked in on her from time to time, monitoring her progress and encouraging her studies. When she turned thirteen, Valeria’s foster parents sent her to a private Catholic school, and again Tudoro had checked on her status. His visits became so frequent that he became a mentor to her, and as she neared graduation, he came to her with a proposal.
“The church has need of your services,” he said one sunny afternoon on the school grounds. “We’ve cared for you for nine years. Will you repay us with nine years of service?”
“Of course,” she said. “You know I will.”
Now, seven years later, after rigorous physical training, Valeria found herself escorting her mentor to the medieval village of Luce, a ninety-minute drive from Rome. Trees lush with green foliage parted, and the dirt road gave way to a driveway, which led to a three-story stone house that had once been an abbey.
Valeria parked the car and shut off the ignition, and she and Tudoro got out of the two-door compact. A gust of hot, dry wind blew long strands of blonde hair into Valeria’s eyes, and she brushed them over one ear. She scanned the bright green yard around the house and saw no sign of children.
A tall man with broad shoulders and a bushy mustache exited the rear of the house, which had a separate roof. A shop, Valeria supposed. The man wore a scorched leather apron, and as he approached them with a wide smile, he removed suede work gloves and stuffed them into the apron’s blackened pouch.
“Welcome back, Father.” The man’s sweat-soaked hair was black, even though he appeared to be middle-aged.
Valeria gazed at the veins in his piston-like arms and felt her own muscles tensing on instinct.
“Thank you, Marcelino.” Returning the smile, Tudoro shook the man’s hand. “This is Valeria, my protégé.”
Marcelino glanced at Valeria, his face registering surprise. Valeria had grown accustomed to such looks. Tudoro was a Catholic priest with gray hair, and she was a young woman not unaware of her attractive appearance. They made an unusual pair whenever they traveled together.
Marcelino offered her a polite bow. “Miss Valeria.”
“How do you do?” Valeria spoke in a respectful tone as she had been taught. Despite Marcelino’s powerful-looking physique, Valeria knew she could take him in a fight, but there was no need for her to dress down his ego.
Marcelino gestured to the back of the house. “I’m all ready for you.”
Allowing Tudoro to walk beside Marcelino, Valeria brought up the rear, searching the trees for movement. Whenever she accompanied the priest, she acted as his unofficial bodyguard, whether he realized it or not. She would allow nothing to happen to him while he was under her protection.
Marcelino led them into his dark shop, where he closed the wooden door and slid a dead bolt into place.
Valeria eyed the cluttered interior. Chains hung from the wooden beams in the ceiling. Hammers and accessories covered shelves. Silver trays and goblets arranged on a display shelf awaited pickup. A massive anvil dominated the center of the room. She noted a large furnace, a rack filled with precision tools, and an ice chest filled with water. The room felt at least twenty degrees hotter than the outside temperature, and sweat dampened her brow.
Marcelino picked up a narrow box four feet long and set it atop the anvil. Valeria thought the box contained a rifle.
Tudoro looked at Valeria. “Open it.”
Valeria felt her eyebrows rising and saw Marcelino’s do the same.
Tudoro’s eyes twinkled. “Go on. It’s yours. Why do you think I brought you along? I’m still quite capable of driving myself.”
Valeria moved toward the anvil, the soles of her boots whispering across the floor. With great care, she opened the box, revealing the scabbard and sword within. Using both hands, she removed the sheathed sword. Surprised by its heft, she brought the weapon close to her face, like a cross, and inspected the carvings on its handle: on one side, the head of a man wearing a hood low over his eyes; on the other, the features of a snarling wolf, with two red jewels serving as its eyes. Rotating the sword, she studied the heads in profile, facing in opposite directions.
A shiver of excitement ran through her body. Valeria knew about the swords—she had studied their history—but had never expected to hold, let alone possess, one. Drawing the sword from its scabbard, she wielded it with one hand, not an easy task, and the silver blade gleamed even in the dull light. Only scarred metal a foot above the pommel revealed the sword had once been broken. After setting the scabbard down, she grasped the sword with both hands and resisted the urge to show off her fencing skills in front of Marcelino.
The Blade of Salvation, she thought.
“Welcome to the Brotherhood of Torquemada,” Tudoro said as Valeria drove away from the blacksmith’s house and shop.
Her pulse raced. “I never dreamed it possible.”
“Because you’re a woman?”
She nodded.
“You’ve proven yourself more than skilled enough. You’ve earned this honor. And the requirements for serving as a knight in this order are different than those of a priest serving the church. Never forget: we’re an entity separate from the church despite our obvious relationship to it.”
“What will I do now?”
“First, you’ll travel to Greece, where you’ll join your fellow warriors in our crusade. We’ve identified several enemy strongholds there. Once you’ve eliminated them, you’ll take the war to America.”
America, Valeria’s mind echoed.
Piraeus, Greece
Elias Michalakis paced the cool, shadow-laden living room of the two-story house he had rented for the fall. The first floor served as a garage and storage, with a small back room that Arsen used for his bedroom. Upstairs, two bedrooms flanked the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Elias and Damon shared one room, Otis and Adonia, the group’s only female, the other. Galen, their newest recruit, slept on the living room sofa. The landlord had renovated the curved stairway and upstairs in marble before his wife had suffered a stroke and mounting the stairs had become too difficult for her. Such extravagance was wasted on the Wolves.
Elias peered through the sheer curtains at the vast seaport on the Saronic Gulf. Neoclassical mansions covering the hillside gleamed white in the afternoon sunshine. As far as he knew, the only Wolves left in Greece belonged to this cell. They had lost contact with the other cells and had been unable to track down their members. Last night Elias had assigned Otis to stake out a house that might have been rented to a team of agents from the Brotherhood of Torquemada. Otis had failed to return and had not called in, though he knew the importance of protocol. A sick feeling grew in the pit of Elias’s stomach. Because Wolves were monogamous and Otis and Adonia had mated, Otis’s importance to the group had increased.
I should never have allowed him to go out on his own, Elias thought.
“They took him,” Adonia said from the sofa. She wore her dark hair short, like the men. “Say it.”
Elias knew she was right. “No. It’s too soon.”
Adonia sprang to her feet. “Bullshit! Those Torquemadan dogs have probably eviscerated him by now.” She wore a blue tank top, and the muscles in her slender arms grew taut.
Elias sensed the others in the room tensing. “Calm yourself. Getting angry at me won’t help Otis. We have to stay clearheaded until we know what’s happened.”
Damon took Elias’s place at the window, which freed Elias to deal with Adonia’s frustration. Damon had helped Elias form the cell. Otis was their first recruit. The three of them had grown as close as brothers.
Adonia’s brown irises expanded, blotting out the whites of her eyes. “We’re the only ones left. We should be making plans to escape, not continue this futile—”
“Escape to where?” Elias said.
Adonia’s teeth elongated as spittle flew from her mouth. “America! Canada! Anywhere but Europe. This continent is lost”
Elias took a breath. “And what would we do if we migrated? Hide like rabbits?”
“At least we’d be safe. If we’d left earlier, Otis would still be alive.” Adonia caressed her swollen belly. “And my pups would have a father.”
Elias measured the woman with a patient stare. He knew she needed to vent.
“Someone’s coming,” Damon said.
Elias joined his comrade at the window, feeling the others crowding behind him.
“Who is it?” Adonia said.
A dark van stopped in front of the house. Elias tensed his muscles, ready to Change. Then the van’s side door slid open, and unseen arms pitched a body to the sidewalk. Elias recognized Otis’s black army jacket, if not the figure’s discolored features.
“Hurry!” When Elias turned, he saw the others already making for the door, and he ran after them.
Adonia led the charge down the marble stairs, followed by Arsen and Galen, with Damon and Elias bringing up the rear. Their feet scuffled concrete as they raced through the garage, emerging in the sunlight outside as the van drove off.
The five of them huddled around the still figure. Adonia rolled the body over, exposing Otis’s dead, swollen features. She cried out and Galen gasped.
Elias turned numb. The van rounded a bend ahead, hidden by trees. Adonia’s wail filled Elias with anguish. But something troubled him more than his friend’s death: Otis’s face had turned a deep shade of purple, while his hands retained their fleshy hue.
As if reading Elias’s mind, Damon tugged at Otis’s turtleneck. Large sutures circled Otis’s neck, and a thick line divided the differing colors like a chasm.
“Oh no,” Adonia said between tears.
Elias’s pulse quickened. The Torquemadans had cut off Otis’s head and sewn it back on. But for what purpose?
Damon unsnapped Otis’s jacket, revealing explosives secured to the corpse’s chest with wire.
“No!” Elias seized Damon’s shoulder, intending to jerk his friend away.
The concussion struck him before he registered the flash of light and the roar deafened his ears, and then wet carnage stung his face.
PART ONE
NO-MAN’S-LAND
CHAPTER ONE
Rhonda Wilson leaned against the back counter, facing her cash register, arms folded as she observed two men browsing opposite sides of Synful Reading. One was a regular, but she had never seen the other man before. She and Jason had just opened the bookstore an hour earlier at 9:00 AM, and Monday was always the slowest day of the week. Jason stood on the sliding ladder, moving older titles spine out on the upper shelves to make room for Tuesday’s new releases.
Steam hissed from the radiator, warming her chilled bones. Rhonda looked forward to the holiday season but disliked early December, with its cold wind and rain. At least Gabriel Domini, one of the occult bookstore’s owners, allowed her and Jason to keep the heat at a comfortable level. She got so cold in human form.
At eighteen, Rhonda did not know what to do with her life. She desired to see Europe, and she had taken this job to save money, but she did not know what to do after Europe. She had no career goals, and she was mature enough to realize that her interest in writing poetry did not consume her soul to such a degree that it could ever become more than a hobby. She supposed she would attend college down the r
oad when she had an inkling of how she wished to spend the rest of her life.
“You have to set goals for yourself,” her mother had told her. “Even if you don’t achieve them, you’ll find other interests along the way.”
Rhonda doubted her mother’s wisdom. Right now she liked things as they were. She enjoyed living at home with her parents, the only pup of the litter to have survived childbirth, and she liked working alongside Jason. She liked Jason a lot. They had become close friends the summer after high school graduation because of the time they spent together in the store, and they had just started dating in the fall when most of their friends had gone off to college. Now, with winter coming, she sensed another change on the horizon. She hoped it would be positive.
The customer she recognized—middle-aged, balding, wearing a tan corduroy jacket—approached her and laid a book beside the register. He offered her a polite smile but didn’t say anything.
Rhonda glanced at the dust jacket of the hardcover as she rang it up. The Wolf Is Loose: The True Story of the Manhattan Werewolf, a true crime book by Carl Rice, author of another true crime book she knew all too well—Rodrigo Gomez: Tracking the Full Moon Killer. Seeing the author’s new book caused her body to tighten. The store had become unexpectedly successful in the wake of the Manhattan Werewolf slayings two years earlier when the rogue Wolf Janus Farel had caused such a stir, but she wished Gabriel and Raphael Domini did not stock such material.
“They never caught him,” the man said. “He’s still out there somewhere.”
“I know.” But Rhonda knew better. According to the leaders of her pack, Angela Domini, the sister of Gabriel and Raphael, had slain Janus and then fled the city. Rhonda collected the man’s money and stuck the book and receipt in a plastic bag, which she handed to him. “Have a nice day.”
“You too.” The man left, and the bells on the door jingled.
Here I am, a teenage werewolf working in an occult bookstore in the Village, she thought. She did not really consider herself a werewolf—the term carried a negative connotation among her people—but she was a Wolf, and she belonged to the Greater Pack of New York City.