by Jan McDonald
The steel doors opened with the soft whooshing sound and they stepped inside what was, in fact, an air-lock. The high-tech ritual of entry recurred and they found themselves in what appeared to be a hospital ward.
Mike was stunned – he was as shocked as Lane and Beckett and turned on Roman.
“What the hell …? Why have I never been here before? What in God’s name are you keeping from me? What else is there?” He was furious and it was apparent in the volume and tone of his voice.
Roman held up a hand in an appeasing gesture. “I’m sorry, Mike. But you will see. It’s very personal; I’m only sharing this with you now because … well, because I can’t help wondering … well, you’ll see. Come with me.”
A white-coated doctor came up to them and greeted Roman warmly.
Roman took his hand. “How is she today, Kurt?”
Kurt Bauer spoke with a faint German accent. “She is peaceful – much the same.” He smiled the physicians’ smile – reassuring, but tempered with uncertainty – and extended his hand, inviting them to follow him.
In a room to the side they were faced with a plate glass window looking onto a beautiful young woman lying in a bed connected to a ventilator and a bank of machinery that would be at home in any intensive care unit anywhere in the world. On one side of her bed an army of syringes kept her constantly medicated and sedated, whilst an IV in her arm kept her nourished. Her luxuriant dark hair spilled over her pillow, framing her delicate features. A nurse in white scrubs was attending to one of the syringes.
Mike’s anger dissolved into compassion.
Lane was first to speak, the doctor in her coming to the fore. “Who is she?”
There was an almost undetectable tremor in Roman’s voice – almost undetectable. “She is my daughter; her name is Lowell and she is eighteen years old. She has been here like this for the last five years.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Mike asked softly.
“Ah, well now, in any other company I would say that she had something that most people would understand – but to you, to you I will tell the truth. Lowell is a lycanthrope.”
Mike took several moments to process the information, but Lane and Beckett were there the instant that Roman had finished speaking.
Lane moved closer to the glass window and leaned against it, her palms on the window. Beckett’s hostility had completely vanished. “We have experienced this. There is a lycanthrope that we know of, living in Wales. He came to us for help, which we gave him to a certain extent, but unfortunately the help we gave him was limited and shamanic in nature – we were too late.”
“Jude Mason,” Lane whispered, her mind going back to the classically handsome ex-soldier and her friend, the Native American medicine-man, Jo Timberwolf. She was brought from her reverie by a barrage of questions from Beckett.
“Why is she like this? What happened to her? And what relevance does this have to Darius – he’s vampire, not lycanthrope!”
Roman turned away, “Let’s leave her in peace. Come with me and I’ll explain.”
Mike got there. “Lycanthrope? You mean …”
“A werewolf … yes.” From Beckett.
“You know one? Living in Wales?” Mike was still processing.
Beckett put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “You have dealt with your ghosts, fallen angels and demons and, from what you tell me, you have met Lucifer himself. You know that I’m a vampire and so is Lane – and now Darius. Is it so much of a strain on your credulity?”
“No. No, it’s not that. Just not what I expected. Wales? Really?”
They followed Roman into a comfortable sitting room, furnished with coffee machines and leather armchairs.
“This is the doctors’ rest-room,” he explained. “Please, have a seat.” He continued when they were all settled. “Lowell’s condition is, I’m afraid, hereditary.” He raised a hand at the alarm on Mike’s face. “My name is no accident, it was given to my ancestors because of what they were – lycanthrope. Not all of them – it skips a generation or two every now and then. I am free of the condition but I choose to keep my name as a reminder of my duty to my family. When Lowell first showed signs of the condition I hired the best physicians I could find that had open minds and a yearning for research. I found Kurt in the Ludwig Maximillian University in Munich. He is a brilliant geneticist, and that too, it appears, is hereditary – though his ancestor did some terrible things with his talents. You asked me, what is the relevance? I heard you say that until now, you believed that the vampire condition was the result of a virus and that you had had some limited success with anti-virus serum. Now you believe it is genetic. Kurt is working on the principle that bad genes can be switched off. After all, Lowell, as with most lycanthropes – those that were born that way anyway – was perfectly normal until puberty or just after.”
Lane was thoughtful. “Gene silencing,” she said. “It’s in its infancy.”
Roman nodded. “Yes. But we must have hope. At the end of this corridor is the most up-to-date laboratory where Kurt works tirelessly to find the right gene and switch it off.”
“In the meantime, you keep her in that state?” Mike was appalled.
Roman looked grave. “Oh yes. You see, the alternative is even more horrific.”
He picked up a remote control and switched on a television and DVD player. Without warning, the screen was filled with a tortured face – a face that was neither human nor wolf. Gone was the sleeping beauty; instead was the howling beast.
“Oh God!” Mike exclaimed.
Before anyone could add anything further, Kurt appeared in the doorway, his face grave. “You should see this, Roman.”
He took the remote control from Roman’s hand and switched channels. On the screen were stills from security cameras. One screen showed Raven lying on the floor next to an empty bed. The second showed the open front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: LAFAYETTE
Lafayette was thoughtful; his dilemma was simple – did he disobey his instructions from the First One – now known as Jean-Baptiste Vincent and ‘living’ in the affluent Garden District of New Orleans – and wake him from the Long Sleep? Or did he respond to Mihai’s apparently urgent need to contact him?
Lafayette knew more of Mihai by reputation rather than personal contact, even though they had met occasionally, and his instincts told him that if Mihai said he needed Jean-Baptiste, he really did. On the other hand, Jean-Baptiste Vincent was the First One and common sense told Lafayette not to piss him off.
New Orleans had its fair share of vampires – most of them living peacefully alongside humans and feeding at the safe-house, New Orleans’ ‘Sanctuary’, situated behind and under Mamma Beth’s Bar and Grill on the edge of the Quarter, and some of them had even developed a taste for the blood of the alligators in the bayou – no accounting for taste in Lafayette’s eyes – but there was a small minority that over-stepped the boundary, and then there were those who were just plain bad.
He pulled on the ever-present cigar and took a swig of rum. This was going to be a two-cigar-three-rum-problem. He was under no illusion that Mihai was going to be watching him, tracking him, and if he wasn’t careful to cloak his mind as best he could, the ancient would be reading him.
Jean-Baptiste had been in the Long Sleep for years and had fostered the belief that he had in fact perished at the turn of the millennia. Lafayette had no idea why, but he had been chosen by the First One to guard his secret and his home and to care for his sleeping place. Lafayette was the only one to know his whereabouts.
Mihai hadn’t told Lafayette why he needed Jean-Baptiste but, in his experience, when the ancients wanted a get-together there was some heavy shit going down. But if he questioned Mihai, it would reveal the fact that he knew something and wasn’t saying – and that wouldn’t be good for his health.
The end of the third rum gave him his answer – if in doubt, do nothing.
All of this had made him hungry. He had fed wel
l only three days ago and his donor was out of town, so it would have to be the Sanctuary, after which he would bide a spell in Mamma Beth’s, where the music was loud and cheerful and the company colourful. There was usually a parade of some description happening in the Quarter, and Lafayette wasted no opportunity to paint his face into the white, grinning skull of Baron Samedi and don his top hat. Tonight would be no exception, especially as he would be feeling in the mood after feeding.
He thought briefly of consulting the Loa – the voodoo spirits – for help, but dismissed it in favour of Plan A : the Sanctuary and Mamma Beth’s.
Bourbon Street was buzzing, as it always was; a hive of activity of tourists, local shopkeepers and barkeepers, jazz bands and solo street performers. Lafayette adored it. Complete in the persona of Baron Samedi, he sauntered – no, swaggered – down Bourbon, into Orleans Street, past O’Briens and several jazz clubs, towards Royal.
Mamma Beth’s wasn’t going to disappoint; he could already hear the loud Cajun music and the laughter and noise of its feisty crowd – all of it adding to his hunger. He picked up his pace, unwilling to use his vampire abilities and almost materialise and draw attention to himself.
A few blocks from the safe-house, he was brought up abruptly by piercing screams and the acrid smell of smoke. People were running towards him in panic and out of the night came the sound of approaching sirens. He moved with vampire-speed then, rushing towards the burning bar, desperate to see if he could help.
Mamma Beth’s was being evacuated and a fire-truck was just arriving to quell the flames; they would save the bar but, behind it and underneath, vampires lay slaughtered along with volunteers and donors – the New Orleans ‘Sanctuary’ was a blackened shell. There was nothing he could do for the murdered of his kind or any other that had been inside; all he could do now was to leave. As he did so, he caught sight of a vampire that he had met before: Constantin Tepes, a cousin and loyal thug of Vasile Tepes.
He ran to the riverfront and, reluctant to enter the foyer of The Westin dressed as he was, he took himself to the back of the building and began to ascend the fire-escape, all the while probing for an indication as to Mihai’s location within. He found him on the top floor and entered through a window onto the corridor.
Mihai had sensed his approach, and opened the door of his suite and stood back. “Come in, Lafayette. I see we are both too late to stop this vile crusade, so I am guessing you have reconsidered my request?”
Lafayette nodded. “Yes,” he said. “The war has come to our city and Jean-Baptiste will want to know about it.”
“As I suspected, he is still alive. He is in the Long Sleep, I take it?”
Lafayette nodded miserably.
“Where is he? I think it better if I go alone, that way I can explain how I forced his location from you – and I could have – and you will be blameless in my disturbing him. Know this, there is more at stake than the war. An ancient evil is about to be brought back into play and I need Jean-Baptiste with me. If you want my advice, you’ll get out of here and go far, far away. Take what you can and go, my friend; an ocean of blood of the Created is about to be spilled.”
Lafayette appeared defiant at first but then, sensing Mihai’s utter determination, he nodded his understanding and acceptance.
“He has a house in the Garden District. I’ll show you.”
They moved out of the Quarter at vampire speed towards the affluent Garden District, with its criss-crossing streets of colonial style houses, some large, some not so large, some brick-fronted, some stucco, all denoting wealth of yesterday and some of today. The streets were lined with avenues of crepe myrtle trees and Lafayette eventually stopped outside one of the larger homes on a corner plot. The garden was filled with camellias and other exotic flowering-shrubs. Wrap-around verandas on the ground floor, mirrored upstairs balconies and the windows were hung with heavy drapes, all of which were closed. The whole was well-maintained and Mihai couldn’t help but wonder who was responsible for its upkeep; surely not Lafayette? But then, the tiny tourist-trap shop selling mass-produced voodoo tat on Bourbon would hardly support him so, yes, Lafayette had to be responsible. Mihai let it go.
Lafayette pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the heavy front door with an appropriately hefty key.
Inside, the house was in darkness and everywhere was still. Mihai could sense Lafayette’s nervousness – it wasn’t wise to wake a vampire from the Long Sleep, especially an ancient – but he dismissed it. He took several moments to appreciate the interior of the house in its faded beauty; everywhere was period furniture, carpets and drapes – a far cry from the monastery cell where Lane had laid in her deep vampire sleep.
“Where?” he demanded.
Lafayette nodded to the wide, sweeping staircase to the upper floor, but before he could reply, they both froze. The air was heavy with the scent of blood and death.
Mihai was at the top of the stairs before even Lafayette could track his movement and, following the scent, he threw open a beautifully carved door.
The room reeked of violence: sprawled across the floor were two bodies whose death had been less than subtle – both of them had their throats ripped out with the savagery of a wild beast.
Jean-Baptiste Vincent was awake and feeding.
And he was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: DAVINA
Lucy’s turning had surprised Vasile Tepes; it had been quiet and without incident. He could only assume that Lucy had been a Latent vampire – it was occasionally that way with Latents – and that technically, she wasn’t one of the Created, despite his having turned her. It’s what he told himself anyway.
He had been right in his appraisal of her, she was indeed, a stunning creature. Together they had left his mountain home and gone into the night to hunt their prey. It’s how he liked it best – in the night, in the dark. Taking his food that way made him despise the Sanctuaries even more. This was how a vampire was supposed to feed – violently and from the vein – and not, as the Council would have it, almost apologetically and from simpering donors or, even worse, a plastic bag!
Lucy had found a savage side of herself that she previously would have spurned as she had gorged herself on her first victim and left him dead in a ravine. Vasile smiled as she took her second kill – a farm labourer living in a shack on the mountain-side. What a creature; he had made the right choice for his companion, and that night he had promised her everything – well, almost everything.
For now, he had cloaked his inner secrets; his sanctuary overlooking the ruins of his ancestral home and his ancestor, lying in the vault below them. One day, when he knew he had her absolute loyalty, he would share those secrets.
She was exhausted after her first night and was sleeping soundly as Vasile took her pendant into his sanctuary. Only half of the story it may be, but there was enough in it to tell him of its origins and its maker – Mihai Rabinescu. Vasile’s vampire gifts were honed to perfection and his skill in psychometry – the ability to read an object simply by touch – was impressive, even for a vampire.
He settled into his chair, the pendant clasped in his hand and his eyes closed, ready to delve deeper into the history of the seal.
He could ‘see’ its other half – a mirror image of what he held – making the image whole in his vision; two dragons facing away from each other and a chalice in the centre. It was a version of the seal of the Order of the Dragon.
He saw, in his vision, the Blood Chalice being removed from the fountain in Tirgoviste and the tall, lean vampire that had the audacity to do so – the First One. Only he would have had the temerity to challenge Vlad’s authority. Well, he was dead and when Vlad was brought back by the power of the Blood Chalice there would be nobody to stand against the House of Tepes. Vlad would be grateful to him for his care over the centuries and for his search for the chalice – a search that was coming to an end; he could feel it.
Deeper into the pendant he went, watching images
of its creation; Mihai was indeed a skilled craftsman. He ‘saw’ the seal finished and admired and then handed over to the monks at the monastery on Snagov Island by Mihai. And then he felt a sharp pain as he felt the seal being severed in two – and then darkness as the half he held lay in the grave next to Vlad’s. He ‘saw’ the grave-goods excavated and taken to the museum in Bucharest. Then he watched as those artefacts were stolen and ended up on the black market where Lucy’s grandfather had purchased the seal and had it made into the pendant that she had worn since her eighteenth birthday.
He went deeper still into the very metal, searching for its twin; searching for a clue as to its location. But it had been cloaked by the skills of the vampire who had ordered its creation – the First One. Only he would have the power to conceal it in this way from other vampires, especially one as skilled as Vasile.
He tried to contain his anger; it would only serve to block him. He opened his eyes as he became aware of Nicolae’s soft footfall approaching. Moments later, there was a discreet knock on the door and his servant entered. He waited for Vasile to look up at him before speaking.
“Sir, you have a visitor. Shall I say you are away from home?”
Vasile frowned and then sensed the presence. “No, Nicolae, please tell my guest I will be with her directly.”
Nicolae nodded and left in silence, leaving Vasile to curb his anger in preparation for a pleasant diversion. He sensed that Lucy was still sleeping soundly and so he could enjoy his visitor without complications. Nevertheless, he wasn’t ready for Lucy’s presence to be widely known and so he threw a veil over her room – one that would take extreme ability to penetrate.
Downstairs, in front of the massive old fireplace, Davina sat waiting for him. She had a glass of absinth in her hand and was curled up like a contented cat in front of the blazing fire; a second glass of the wormwood spirit stood on the side-table. Familiarity had made her pour the emerald liquid into two very old crystal goblets and settle back in comfort to wait for Vasile. She knew he would keep her waiting; the bastard always enjoyed making an entrance.