Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1)

by Lee Swift

  “So you think that you and I might have this unique DNA?”

  “Yes.”

  “One question,” Michael said. “If you believe that why haven’t you reached out to Dr. Wilson to have him test you?”

  “Until now I didn’t believe it. Actually, I wouldn’t let myself believe it.” She sighed. “Because Dr. Wilson isn’t regarded highly in academic circles.”

  Austin knew in his gut that this Wilson character was connected in some way to all that had happened to him. How and how much, he wasn’t sure yet, but he was determined to find out. “Maybe we should visit this Dr. Wilson fellow.”

  “Absolutely we should,” Remington said. “He’s involved, that’s for certain. I’m still not convinced that you and Angelique aren’t fully, uh…human.”

  Angelique grinned. “Honey, just because Austin and I might not be one hundred percent Homo sapien doesn’t mean we aren’t the same species. Whoever took my brother after he got shot made sure he was cared for. Given the extent of his injury, most would have died.”

  “Austin wasn’t breathing. The medic could not detect a heartbeat.”

  “He recovered because of his supercharged metabolism. Dr. Wilson’s hypothesis on hyper-hibernation might explain that, too.” She went on to tell them both about the man’s ideas on extended reparative dormancy in hominids.

  “Even with that, it is still hard for me to accept how your brother can be standing right in front of us. No man comes back from the dead.”

  “Have you ever heard of CPR? Near death experiences? People being shocked back to life after their hearts stop? There’s something special inside our bodies that helps us recover. I’ve never been sick a day in my life, have you, Austin?”

  “No colds or flu. Never. The picture of perfect health,” he said. “Until I got shot.”

  “If what Angelique is saying turns out to be true, that means this conspiracy goes all the way back to our last mission,” Remington said. “Someone very high up made sure you and I thought Austin was dead. Why?”

  “Whatever the reason, honey, Austin is here with us now,” Angelique said.

  Michael’s eyes landed back on him. “But let’s not get sidetracked. Is there any more that you can tell me?”

  “No,” he answered. “I’ve told you everything.”

  “So who, exactly, did Angelique and I bury?”

  “Hell, I don’t have a clue. Like you said before, whoever is behind this has access to a ton of resources.”

  “That’s an understatement. Whoever hid and cared for you for so long must have had a reason. We just need to learn their identity to figure out why.”

  “Hopefully, your guys will have some answers for us when they get to Murphy Street.”

  An officer rushed in carrying a cell phone. “Sir, it’s Harris.”

  Remington took the phone and clicked on the speaker. “What did you find?”

  “The building on Murphy Street was wiped clean, Sir.”

  “What about the body or the other people on beds in the inner room?” Austin asked.

  “It was vacant. No body, fibers, hairs, fingerprints. Nothing. It’s completely sterile. Very professional. Someone was expecting us.”

  CHAPTER 33

  2:15 PM

  David Bathry watched Octavian Drake’s limousine arrive at the car park. He plastered the best smile he could muster on his face and walked out to greet him. “It’s so good to see you, Your Majesty.”

  “And you, Sir Bathry.” The bastard extended his hand, which of course he shook. “Thank you for meeting us on such short notice.”

  Lowering his gaze as the bile came up his throat, he answered submissively, “Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.”

  “We don’t stand on formality these days.” Drake smiled. “That is only for ceremonies, which I could do less of having to attend.”

  “David.” Poole offered his hand.

  “Belisarius.”

  They shook hands.

  “What’s the status on that APW you told me about?”

  “Still trying to get it taken down, as you requested,” Bathry lied. “But it isn’t so easy.” To question them more was a risk, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Jack was still on the loose. “I’m not sure what is important to the Morvicti about this particular man. Do you, my lords, like the Met, think he’s the copycat Ripper?”

  Drake answered sharply, “McCord is not The Ripper, Bathry.”

  He had struck a nerve with the noble, which only added to his curiosity.

  McCord? Now I have a name. “Yes, Majesty.”

  Even more than before, he wanted to pin The Ripper slayings on this McCord fellow, whose location he now knew after studying hours of video feeds.

  His orthodox brethren were about to end McCord’s life.

  Bathry had forged a suicide note that denoted McCord was The Ripper. It would be arriving at Scotland Yard within the hour, complete with the address where McCord’s corpse could be found. The police and the Morvicti would come to the conclusion McCord was The Ripper.

  The news would ring out from London to the nine seats of the Imperial Morvicti Council.

  With both the police and council’s attention on Coach and Horse Street, he would have more time to locate the real Ripper.

  If in any way McCord was tied to Octavian, so much the better. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

  “Of course,” Drake said.

  He led them through the front door and into a non-descript room. The first of many doors and stairs opened after he finished the sequence of codes. Rapidly, he went through the safeguards at each checkpoint as they descended into the secret passages.

  At the lowest level, he led Drake and Poole to the gates, etched with the inscription from their ancient tongue, which translated as: “Those who pass these iron gates have been forgotten and must pay Kharon’s fee.”

  Kharon, the ferryman, and the very first of the Bathry Bloodline.

  Albert stood on the other side of the gate. “My lords.” He bowed. “Have you a coin?”

  Drake and Poole each produced a gold piece, the ceremonial tribute required to enter, whether born noble or low.

  Albert took the coins and placed them in the black satchel. He brought out a giant iron key and unlocked the gates. When he swung them open, a piercing shriek of metal filled the cavern.

  Bathry grinned. I love that sound.

  Drake and Poole grimaced.

  “This way.” He didn’t wait for them, but headed through the gates and down the main passageway. This was Bathry domain. Here, he was king, not Octavian Drake.

  Drake and Poole caught up to him. Their narrowing eyes and thinning lips were clear signs of the men’s silent revulsion at having to enter The Sanctuary of the Forgotten.

  Their discomfort gave him such pleasure. “We do not have guests often, Majesty. And never any of your standing. This is quite an honor to my bloodline.”

  They walked silently through the long hallway, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Bathry was quite used to the smell, a combination of the dampness and the hundreds of bodies resting here, but he knew the royals would literally be turning up their noses to it. He nonchalantly glanced back and stifled a grin at what he saw. The two nobles seemed to be doing their best to hold their breath.

  Sconces adorned the stone walls in the underground and interconnected chambers. For centuries they had held torches, but now they contained only electric lights. He had chosen low wattage bulbs to keep the mystique of the timeworn jail.

  “My lords, as you know, this is the third sanctuary of its kind in the historical records of the Morvicti.”

  “Alexandria and Rome,” Poole said. “We know, David. How much farther to The Ripper’s cell?”

  “Just a few more passages to go through. This area contains the lost bloodlines.” He pointed to the right. “These are the Stalcucs.”

  The room contained dozens of small cells stacked on top of one another, from floor to
ceiling. Each cell contained a body laid out horizontally on a stone slab. Drake and Poole glared into the room as they passed. Not surprising, since the Stalcucs had beheaded so many Drakes for centuries. Their uprising had given hope to the low born, including the Bathrys. The Stalcucs defeat had taken it away.

  As the party turned down another passage, they saw a young Bathry woman, a distant cousin of his, atop a ladder next to one of the higher cells.

  Her name was Phoebe or Fiona. Something like that. He was too important and too busy to remember names of servants, even ones with this woman’s curves. He would never marry so far beneath him, but a night ravaging her delicious body would be a nice distraction.

  Holding a few bags of blood, she wore jeans and a T-shirt. She was providing prisoners their single monthly drop.

  Drake and Poole turned their heads in the other direction.

  “Your Majesty; my lords,” she said, lowering her eyes.

  Bathry sent her a wink. “Good work, my dear. Carry on.”

  She nodded and continued with her task.

  Why did the other bloodlines find this work to be so distasteful? Bathry, like his brothers and sisters, found it beautiful. Eternal life. That was what it meant to be one of the Morvicti, whether above ground or below, even if one had to remain in everlasting slumber.

  “Here we are, Your Majesty.” He pointed up to a cell closest to the ceiling. “On that slab is The Ripper, just as I told you.”

  “Sir Bathry, hand me that ladder behind you,” Drake commanded, making Bathry’s skin crawl.

  “Majesty?”

  “I want a closer look.”

  As his heart skipped several beats, he lowered his gaze. “Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.”

  He watched Drake ascend to the cell of the imposter that he had placed there a year ago. His plan was foolproof. All who had been in St. Patrick’s cemetery the night of Jack’s staking were below ground in their bloodlines’ sanctuaries, just like his own father. It would be more than a decade before any rose, and long before that happened Bathry would have the real Ripper returned to his cell.

  I will find you, Jack. I must.

  Drake leaned into the cell and stared at the face of the imposter. Then the bastard glared down at him.

  Something is wrong.

  The man who sat in the most important seat on the council descended the ladder. “Sir Bathry, that is not the body of Jack the Ripper.”

  CHAPTER 34

  2:15 PM

  “Who is behind this crap?” Austin could see by the look on Michael’s face that he was struggling with the same question.

  Harris’s report about Murphy Street being cleaned out meant things were worse than he’d imagined. Someone very clever had obviously remained several steps ahead of them.

  Who?

  The police commissioner who’d chased him and Angelique? The killer? Maybe they were one and the same.

  “Poole is our best lead at this point,” Remington said. “As Commissioner of the City of London Police he is only responsible for law enforcement of the historic core of London. With less than a thousand officers at his disposal, I can’t imagine he would utilize them for this kind of activity.”

  “He must have access to other resources if he turns out to be the mastermind behind this.”

  “There is nothing in Poole’s records that point to him being part of a criminal syndicate, terrorist group, or secret intelligence organization that we’ve been able to find,” Remington said. “He’s one of the most respected men in the city.”

  “Maybe so, but he was standing outside your home.”

  “And don’t forget Poole followed us to the casino,” Angelique added.

  “I’m still trying to connect the dots as to why Poole is involved in this,” Remington said. “Why would the City of London Police be watching our flat?”

  He shrugged. “No clue.”

  “I know you said that you were careful not to be followed by Poole from Murphy Street, but is it possible he did without you detecting him?”

  “Not a chance, buddy. He had to have known yours and Angelique’s address.” He shook his head. “I ditched him when I got in the delivery van, though I wish I had circled back and confronted him. Now we’re still in the dark about what he wants with Angelique and me.”

  Remington nodded. “You are the best I ever served with. None better. I know when you want to shake someone there isn’t a chance of them finding you.”

  “I would not have gone to Angelique’s home if it hadn’t been for that picture. I was afraid she was in trouble.”

  “Obviously, she is in trouble. Poole showed up at our home.”

  “Where is he now?” Austin asked.

  “We’re not sure. While you were in the interrogation room I sent some men to find Poole. The man didn’t report to work today, which according to his secretary is quite odd.”

  “I don’t know how or why, but the commissioner is involved.”

  Remington nodded. “I agree.”

  “What about the dead guy?” Angelique asked. “Walt Turner?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary so far. Single man. Vice President of Operations of the International Business Council Bank, IBC for short, which is based in Romania but has offices here in London and around the world.”

  Angelique’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “My scholarship to King’s College came from IBC Bank. Could that be the connection we are looking for?”

  “It’s sure worth investigating,” Remington said.

  “Did you show Angelique the photo of us?” Austin asked.

  “No, but I have it with me.” Remington reached into his pocket and handed the picture to Angelique.

  “You and I were eight years old. We were at the beach and you, me, and dad built that giant sandcastle.” With her eyes welling up, she continued to gaze at the picture.

  He could see on her face that the memory of their parents’ tragic death still haunted her as much as it did him. I should have stayed with her.

  “I saw it on the table next to the bed where I woke up today.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh God.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have gotten a copy of that picture, Sis?”

  “No. In fact, I haven’t seen this since the fire. I thought it had been destroyed with the rest of mom and dad’s belongings.” She flipped it over and pointed to a date in green ink. “This is the original, Austin. I’m the one who wrote this. See the heart after the year? That’s from eight-year-old me. This sat on Mom’s piano.”

  “Who in the hell was able to get this? Mom and Dad’s home and everything inside went up in flames. And how did they get it to Murphy Street? And why?”

  An officer came in and dropped off Chinese food.

  Angelique handed the photo back to Remington.

  “You keep it, honey. We’ve already checked it for fingerprints, but besides Austin’s the rest were smudged.”

  Austin devoured every bit of the spicy, crispy beef and moved on to the cashew chicken. “What about you two? Michael told me his version about how you got together. What’s yours?”

  “Michael came to your funeral, Austin.” She sipped on her cup of jasmine tea. “He and I were both devastated about losing you. We met for dinner, comforted each other. One thing led to another, and we eventually fell in love.”

  “It’s obvious you two think alike,” he said, smiling. “Your stories are the same.”

  “She was the most beautiful, wonderful, sweet woman I’d ever met.” Remington kissed her. “Still is.”

  “More than ‘Thong Girl’ in the library?” she asked with a grin.

  “Who?” Remington said and kissed her again.

  Angelique and Remington continued to share with him for over an hour. Not just about the strange things happening, but about moving in together, their wedding, remodeling the flat, and many other good times since he’d been gone.
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  Officer Jones walked in carrying a complete outfit of typical ‘spook’ attire.

  “Nice looking suit,” Remington said. “Have we located Commissioner Poole yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Damn.” Remington’s frustration mirrored Austin’s.

  “These are for you, Mr. McCord.” Jones handed over the clothes.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m sick of this sweater.” He needed a moment to collect his thoughts. “Where can I change?”

  “The door on the left,” Remington said. “There’s a shower, too.”

  “Great. I’m sure I smell really good after being in a coma for so long.” He leaned over to Angelique. “What do you think, Sis?”

  She laughed. “Whoever put you in that hole on Murphy Street must have provided you with sponge baths. You don’t smell bad at all.”

  “I still need a shower.” Once in the bathroom, he studied his reflection in the mirror carefully, expecting to see some gray and a few wrinkles. But the face staring back at him was the same it had been the day of the mission to retrieve the senator’s nephew.

  Exactly the same face. How is that possible?

  He turned on the taps. Placing his hand under the showerhead, he felt the water warm quickly. He stripped out of the clothes he’d bought at the store earlier with Turner’s money. As he washed off the grime of the day, he tried to fill in the blanks between Iraq and when he’d awoken.

  He’d been shot. That was certain. Michael had witnessed it. He’d felt it. But there wasn’t even a scar.

  Angelique had told him and Michael about Dr. Wilson’s hypothesis. It sounded crazy, but what other explanation was there?

  And someone had retrieved him from Iraq without Remington being aware of it. How? Sure, military logistics could screw up but not when it came to dead soldiers. Who had taken his dog tags?

  There had been a funeral for him. Whose body was in the casket?

  He’d been taken to London? Why?

  Each question only led to more questions. And right now he had absolutely no answers, only leads.