A flock of well-dressed vampires loitered in these luxurious surroundings, lounging indolently on plush velvet divans or mingling in the corners, exchanging carefree giggles and gossip. The trill of high-pitched laughter mixed with the gentle clink of crystal goblets filled with an enticingly crimson beverage. Pearly-white fangs peeked from the jaded smiles of elegant vampire men and women, wearing the latest fashions from Chanel and Armani.
Selene’s face hardened. She had little patience with such as these. Although vampires to be sure, these preening sybarites were no Death Dealers, merely undead socialites and libertines, more interested in their own epicurean pleasures than in the never-ending battle against the hated lycanthropes. Don’t they know there’s a war on? she thought for maybe the millionth time.
The decadent atmosphere was redolent of expensive perfume and steaming plasma, but, despite the numerous bodies crowded into the salon, the temperature remained pleasantly cool; vampires were cold-blooded by nature.
Her sudden arrival attracted little notice. A few curious heads swung toward her, examining the drenched Death Dealer through bored and disinterested eyes, before returning to more engaging amusements. She barely caused a ripple in the flow of sophisticated chitchat and witty repartee working its way around the lavishly appointed chamber.
No matter, Selene thought. These were not the vampires she needed to speak to. Her eyes scanned the room, hoping to locate Kraven himself, but the manor’s surrogate master was nowhere to be seen.
A bitter smile reached her lips. If Kraven was not here, presiding over the salon’s festivities, then she knew where he had to be…
Not for the first time, Kraven thanked the dark gods below that, contrary to myth and folklore, vampires were perfectly capable of admiring their reflections in the mirror.
He posed bare-chested before the trifold mirror in his sumptuous private suite, which had once belonged to Viktor himself. The dressing room itself was the size of a small apartment and was lavishly furnished in showy pieces of superlative quality and design. An armoire of gargantuan proportions held the regent’s considerable wardrobe, while an intricate Persian rug cushioned his neatly pedicured feet. A custom-made Tiffany lamp shone overhead, allowing him a surfeit of light in which to admire himself.
The standing mirror offered three equally flattering views of the vampire lord’s Adonis-like physique. A mane of shoulder-length black locks gave him the romantic dash of Heathcliff or Byron, while his well-built chest and biceps were impressive even by vampiric standards. Piercing black eyes looked back at him from the center mirror, liking what they saw. Only the ruddy tint of his flesh, pinker than was normal for a vampire, hinted at centuries of overindulgence.
Not bad for seven hundred plus, he noted with approval. Kraven had been a gentleman of leisure since at least the Renaissance…
Two attractive vampire women, each less than a mortal lifetime old and hence little more than servant wenches, attended to him diligently, seemingly just as enthralled by his physical perfection and considerable manliness as he. They knelt beside him as they gently eased a pair of tailored silk trousers over first one foot, then the other. Their cool, eager fingers traced the rippling contours of his sculpted musculature as they raised the trousers up his legs, then proceeded slowly to button the front of the pants from the bottom up, one delicious centimeter at a time. Trading a glance, they giggled like naughty schoolgirls.
Kraven basked in the servant girls’ adoration. Let them have their fun, he thought magnanimously. Why shouldn’t they feel privileged to wait upon the person of the lord of the manor? Was he not the preeminent vampire on the Continent?
And soon to be so much more.
The double doors of his suite banged open, jarring him out of his blissful reverie. He turned to see Selene, of all people, barging into the privacy of his chambers. The Death Dealer’s dark brown hair was soaked in a most unflattering manner; nevertheless, Kraven felt a surge of lust at the sight of the striking female vampire. Too bad that, judging from her severe expression, Selene’s mood tonight was something less than amorous.
So what else is new? he thought sourly.
The servant girls backed away instinctively as Selene strode across the room. Dripping water onto his imported Persian carpet, she reached beneath her coat and slammed a heavy object down onto the lacquered top of Kraven’s antique walnut desk. He observed, with some distaste, that the metallic item was a firearm of some sort. Kraven didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy about the gun, but Selene evidently felt otherwise.
Intense brown eyes locked onto his. “We have a serious problem,” she stated.
The dojo was located on the top floor of the mansion, in a converted attic loft. Unlike the opulent decor found elsewhere in Ordoghaz, the training area was Spartan in appearance, dedicated exclusively to the art of war. Sparring mats, along with a soundproofed firing range, occupied most of the spacious garret, while the dense stone walls supported rack after rack of exotic stabbing weapons and firearms. Silver glinted from every lethal edge and surface.
Besides her own private quarters, the well-armed attic was one of the few places within the mansion where Selene felt truly comfortable. It was a place for warriors.
“I’ll definitely have to run a few tests,” Kahn stated, holding up a glowing bullet with a pair of forceps. Tinted safety glasses allowed him to examine the luminous projectile close up. “But it’s definitely an irradiated fluid of some sort.”
Concern and curiosity alike registered on the sharp, intelligent features of the Death Dealers’ daunting commander and weapons master. An imposing vampire of African descent, Kahn was dressed entirely in black. His leather fighting gear matched Selene’s, minus the streaks of blood and muck. He spoke English with a thick Cockney accent that he had acquired during a long stint as a slave on a merchant vessel.
Kahn was centuries old, his origins shrouded in mystery. Some said that he had once fought beside the great Shaka himself, while others speculated that the enigmatic Death Dealer had been trained as an adept in the martial arts before being initiated into vampirism. All Selene knew for sure—all she needed to know—was that Kahn’s commitment to the war was as unshakable as her own. Unlike the immortal dilettantes Selene had encountered downstairs in the salon, Kahn was all business.
He set the bullet down on his workbench, next to the disassembled pieces of Trix’s pistol. The overhead lights glinted off the ebony surface of Kahn’s shaved skull.
Selene raised a hand to shield her eyes from the stinging radiance of the captured bullet. “Ultraviolet ammunition,” she marveled aloud.
“Daylight, harnessed as a weapon,” Kahn concurred, removing his tinted glasses. “And from what you’ve described, extremely effective.”
Selene winced inwardly at the thought of Rigel’s fiery demise. She still could see the corrosive beams of light exploding from his ravaged body. At least he didn’t suffer long, she thought by way of bitter solace. He perished within seconds.
Kraven, on the other hand, could not have been less interested or impressed. “You expect me to believe that a mangy animal came up with a bullet specifically engineered to kill vampires?”
Looking distinctly bored, he stood alongside the workbench with Kahn and Selene. He wore a dark cotton tunic with a brocade collar beneath a smart black jacket. Polished gemstones flashed from the silver settings of his rings. As usual, his blasé attitude dismayed Selene. She had long suspected that Kraven had once served as a Death Dealer, only to advance his own position within the coven; in a hierarchy based largely on seniority, a reputation as a war hero provided an efficient shortcut to the upper echelons of vampire society. Slaying the infamous Lucian had made Kraven’s name, and, at least as far as Selene was concerned, he had been coasting on that triumph ever since. To her perpetual dismay, the vampire regent had zero patience for anything that interfered with his hedonistic amusements, which clearly included this impromptu gathering.
A few me
ters away, lounging against an antique weapons cabinet packed with silver daggers and scimitars, two of Kraven’s nubile handmaidens dutifully tittered at his remarks. The servant girls’ presence at the debriefing irked Selene; she had nothing against the frivolous filles de chambre, who could hardly be blamed for their immaturity, but they had no business at a serious war conference. Surely Kraven could have done without his worshipers for at least the length of the meeting?
“No, I’m betting it’s military,” Kahn replied, addressing Kraven’s sarcastic query. He nodded at the glowing UV projectile. “Some kind of high-tech tracer round.”
Selene found herself growing increasingly impatient. “I don’t care where they got these things,” she declared, not wanting to lose sight of the larger issue. “Rigel is dead, and Nathaniel could still be out there. We should gather the Death Dealers and head back down there in force.”
It wasn’t even midnight yet, she observed. There were still plenty of hours before sunrise.
“Out of the question,” Kraven said bluntly. “Not now. Not for a random incursion.” He shook his head at the sheer absurdity of the notion. “The Awakening is only a few days off, and this house is in a state of unrest as it is.”
Selene couldn’t believe her ears. “Random? They opened fire on us in full view of the public.” That alone, she reflected, violated the unspoken rules governing the long twilight struggle between the vampires and the lycans. “And from the commotion I heard down in that tunnel there—”
“You said yourself that you didn’t actually see anything,” Kraven interrupted her. He crossed his arms over his chest, challenging her to contradict him.
Selene took a deep breath, making an effort to hold onto her temper. Like it or not, Viktor had placed Kraven in charge of the coven, on the basis of his historic victory in the mountains of Moldavia; this was no time for them to squabble like rival siblings.
“I know what I heard,” she insisted coolly, “and I know what my gut tells me. And I’m warning you that there could be dozens of lycans down there in the subway tunnels. Who knows, maybe even hundreds.”
A hush fell over the attic at Selene’s ominous pronouncement. Even the two giggling servant girls shut up and paid attention, appalled at the very notion of a lycan horde dwelling practically underneath their noses. Kraven shifted uncomfortably for a moment, before assuming a look of amused disbelief.
“We’ve hunted them to the brink of extinction,” he stated flatly. A condescending grin slid across his face.
Even Kahn seemed to doubt Selene’s claims. “Kraven’s right,” he assured her. “There hasn’t been a den of that magnitude for centuries… not since the days of Lucian.”
Or so we’ve always believed, Selene thought gloomily. “I know that, Kahn.” She couldn’t fault him for his skepticism. “But I’d rather have you prove me wrong by checking it out.”
Kahn nodded, seeing her point. He turned to Kraven, seeking the other vampire’s okay.
Kraven, in turn, glanced impatiently at his watch. He heaved a weary sigh. “Very well,” he conceded. “Have your men tighten up security around here. I’ll have Soren assemble a search team.”
Soren was Kraven’s personal pit bull, reporting directly to him. Selene had always considered Soren more of a thug than a soldier, lacking the discipline and commitment of a true Death Dealer. The simmering rivalry between the Dealers and Soren’s goon squad had endured almost as long as the war itself. “I want to lead the team myself,” she declared.
“Absolutely not,” Kraven said. “Soren will handle it.”
Selene looked to Kahn, hoping that the seasoned commander would insist that a Death Dealer take charge of the investigation, but the African vampire declined to challenge Kraven’s decree. He must think this not worth fighting over, she realized, disappointed by Kahn’s apparent lack of faith in her instincts.
Perhaps emboldened by Kahn’s silence, Kraven couldn’t resist gloating a bit. “Hundreds, really,” he scoffed, shaking his head in his most patronizing manner.
Selene stood her ground. “Viktor would have believed me,” she announced icily, before turning her back on Kraven and storming out the door. If only Viktor were truly among us once more! she thought anxiously, her fixed expression concealing a growing sense of apprehension. How can it be that our safety and future depend on an insufferable egotist like Kraven?
The target of her contempt was rendered speechless by Selene’s brazen impertinence. How dare she walk out on me like this? Kraven thought, seething with indignation. And to invoke the name of Viktor, no less! I am the lord of the manor now, not our slumbering sire!
His face flushed with blood not his own, Kraven glared at Selene’s retreating form. Kahn diplomatically refrained from commenting on the female Death Dealer’s abrupt departure; nonetheless, Kraven felt both slighted and humiliated. His brain searched frantically for some withering witticism to help him save face.
To his surprise, one of the hovering servant girls came slinking up to him, laying a hand gently on his arm. “I would never dream of treating you like that,” she cooed seductively, brushing a finger up and down his arm, an obvious invitation for anything he might desire.
Kraven glanced down at the clinging vampiress. In fact, he had all but forgotten about the two underlings’ presence, but now he took a closer look at the simpering maidservant at his side. She was a slim, blond thing, with violet eyes and a sylphlike figure that was scarcely hidden by her sequined black frock and long black gloves. A lacy black choker encircled her neck, offering veiled glimpses of her jugular.
What is her name again? Kraven pondered absently; he had dim memories of initiating her at a nightclub in Piccadilly less than thirty years ago. Ah, yes… Erika.
She pressed her tender form against him, basking in his attention. Her adoring eyes promised him absolute devotion and obedience, in both body and soul.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” he informed her bluntly, his dismissive tone striking the lovestruck vampiress like a slap across her face. To think that she has the audacity to offer me the blind allegiance that is already mine by right! His wounded pride took some comfort in the crushed and chastened expression on the silly tart’s face. At least I can still put someone in her place around here, he thought bitterly.
He coolly detached her arm from his. “Now, run along and make sure that Selene is dressed and ready for the arrival of our very important guests.”
Erika crept away meekly, choking back a heartbroken sob. Kraven watched her slip submissively down the stairs, accompanied by her less presumptuous sister in servitude. If only Selene could be so obliging, he thought wistfully.
In every respect.
Chapter Six
Hidden away several stories below the dojo, in the mansion’s deepest subbasement, the viewing room was, appropriately enough, quiet as a tomb. Marble benches lined the narrow chamber, facing what appeared to be a blank stone wall. A single large mirror adorned the polished granite. The high vaulted ceiling gave the room the feel of some somber Gothic cathedral.
Selene shivered as she entered the chamber. By design, the air-conditioned viewing room was kept at a temperature uncomfortably cool even for the undead. Her footsteps echoed hollowly in the sepulchral hush as she strolled up to the mirror and stared pensively at her reflection. Her expressionless face belied the turbulent thoughts and anxieties roiling inside her.
Everything is happening too fast, she worried. Two vampires dead, on the very eve of the Awakening…
An electronic buzz greeted her arrival, and the seemingly opaque mirror instantly turned transparent, revealing a security booth on the other side of the glass. A single vampire, whose name was Duncan, manned the booth. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Selene nodded in assent.
Knowing why she was there, Duncan hit a button on his control panel. The remainder of the “stone” wall split in half, sliding away to expose a thick plexiglass window underneath. Selene stepped forward and peered thro
ugh the glass at the shadowy chamber beyond.
Darkly lit and cavernous, the crypt was the slowly beating heart of Ordoghaz. Polished granite steps led down into a sunken area that was easily visible from the viewing room. At the center of this lower tier, housed within a concentric pattern of interwoven Celtic circles, were three shining bronze hatches embedded in the floor. Each circular hatch had been ornately engraved with a single letter: A for Amelia, M for Marcus, V for Viktor.
Selene stared at the latter hatch with anguished eyes. She leaned against the plexiglass barrier separating her from her sire’s tomb. Her cool breath steamed the even more frigid glass.
How I wish I could awaken you, my lord, she thought forlornly. I am much in need of your strength and wisdom.
We all are.
The lengthy corridor was lined with marble busts, commemorating many of the coven’s greatest warriors and leaders. This effort to immortalize the great and near great was a tad superfluous, given that the individuals being honored were already blessed with eternal life, but even vampires can have egos.
And hurt feelings.
Erika stormed down the empty hallway, biting down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood. The other servant girl, Dominique, had scurried away on another errand, but Erika barely noticed her associate’s departure. Her bruised heart still ached from Kraven’s casual disregard. His harsh, indifferent tone rang in her ears.
How could he just dismiss me like that? she agonized. Doesn’t he know that I would do anything for him?
If she were honest with herself, Erika would have to admit that her attraction to Kraven was only partly inspired by the aristocratic vampire’s undeniable good looks and charisma. His lofty position in the coven appealed to her just as much as his irresistible physique and features. As a relative newcomer to the coven, less than a mortal lifetime old, Erika was stuck at the bottom of the vampiric pecking order, and she could think of no faster way to climb the ladder than by attaching herself to the most powerful nosferatu in all of Europe. Although born human, unlike the pure-blooded Elders, Kraven was still a vampire to be reckoned with, and Erika had spent many a long day, sequestered away from the sun in the modest servants’ quarters she shared with four or five other vampire newbies, fantasizing about reigning over the manor as Kraven’s royal consort.
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