by Craig Zerf
‘Really,’ said Tag. ‘You think?’
Em pointed. ‘There’s a whole bunch of them. They’re coming this way.’
‘They tend to travel in packs of ten or more,’ said Sylvian. ‘Avoid eye contact. It can be seen as a challenge. Let me talk.’
The pack approached and one of the larger Dog-men stepped forward. He wore ragged cotton trousers, a leather vest and no shoes. The rest were dressed similarly, both males and females.
‘What you want, blood-man?’ The leader asked, his voice a choppy mix of slurs and growls.
‘Just passing through, Jarrod,’ responded Sylvian. ‘No worries.’
‘Always worries when you here,’ snapped Jarrod. He stared at the others in the group. Then he stepped forward, walking closer to Troy. He stopped. Sniffed.
Troy didn’t move and kept his eyes down.
Jarrod sniffed again and then he growled and prodded at the young Werewolf. But before his finger could touch him, Troy grabbed the dog-mans wrist. Hard.
‘No,’ he said quietly. And then he smiled, allowing his fangs to grow slightly as he did so. ‘Bad dog.’
Jarrod held Troy’s gaze for a second or so then a small whine escaped from his lips and he looked at the floor.
Troy rubbed Jarrod’s head and nodded.
‘How can we help you?’ Asked the dog-man. His posture had changed from the aggressive swagger that he had been adopting to one of servitude. Things were simple in the dog-peoples hierarchy. Basically – the big dog eats first.
And in the scheme of things there was no bigger, or badder, dog than Troy.
‘We seek others like me,’ said Troy.
Jarrod shook his head. ‘They are forbidden. No Wolves, no Bloodsuckers.’ The dog-man stared intently at the floor, avoiding eye contact.
‘Still,’ said Troy. ‘There are two here. Somewhere. And you know of them.’
‘We may not speak of them,’ mumbled Jarrod. ‘They will become angry.’
‘You may tell me of them,’ urged Troy. ‘I have news for them. From their pack leader.’
Jarrod stood silently, his body language transmitting his discomfort.
‘Hey, dog-boy,’ said Tag. ‘Spit it out or so help me I will shoot you in the face.’
Jarrod growled but didn’t look at Tag, not wanting to take the big man up on his threat. He pointed. ‘There. Six hundred yards. Black door in house. Many cat-no-like plants outside. Door only open for Wolf-people. Magik lock. The other Wolf-mans are there.’
Troy nodded to Jarrod and then the group followed the dog-mans instructions, stopping outside a black door that was almost overgrown with Rosemary, Lavender and Citronella plants.
Troy reached for the door handle and the door clicked open before he even touched it.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Follow me. Be ready, sounds like these boys don’t take kindly to visitors.’
Tag drew his weapons and Emily stopped thinking pale blue and let her inner carnivore take over.
‘More bloody steps,’ complained Tag as they proceeded down yet another vast array of spiral stairs.
The stairway was lit sporadically with dim natural gas torches that spluttered and waned, giving off a faint yellow flame. At the bottom was another door. Troy pushed it open and stepped out.
He was immediately attacked, a massive Wolf striking him from the side and barreling him to the floor. Both Tag and Em jumped through the doorway and, before Tag could get off a shot, Emily had launched herself at the second Wolf, battering him to the ground with a lighting series of kicks and punches, each one landing so solidly that you could feel the concussion in the air.
Troy had morphed into Wolf-man mode and had the other Wolf on the floor, his foot on the Wolf’s neck, his claws fully extended, his lips pulled back in a snarl, exposing his three inch long canines.
‘Enough,’ he growled.
The two strange Wolves stopped struggling and turned back into their human form. Both Troy and Em allowed them to stand.
‘Who are you?’ Asked the one Werewolf. He was the older looking of the two. Over six foot, well muscled, gray beard and hair. The usual golden eyes. The other Wolf, obviously the junior of the pair, also sported a beard and long hair, both a vibrant copper-red. He looked to be in his late twenties. Of course that meant nothing and it was more likely that both were well over a hundred years old.
Troy allowed himself to resume his full human mode and he held out his hand to show them the signet ring. ‘I am Troy and I come with direct orders from the Omega.’
‘I am Parker,’ said the older Wolf. ‘This is Samuel. What does the Omega want?’
‘The Potestatum,’ answered Troy.
Both Wolves stood silent for a while. Eventually Parker spoke. ‘She is Vampire. Also, I think,’ he pointed at Sylvian. ‘So is he.’
‘So?’ Enquired Troy.
‘The Omega would never relinquish the Potestatum to a bloodsucker. Why would he create a Daywalker when that is what we have being trying to prevent for so many hundreds of years.’
‘It is not for you, or I, to assume the thoughts of the Omega. It is ours to do as he commands.’
‘I have felt no command,’ argued Parker. ‘If the Omega wanted me to know I would know. It is that simple. His thoughts are Pack.’
‘I have his seal,’ argued Troy.
Parker shook his head. ‘His thoughts are Pack. I have felt nothing. You are lying.’
Tag pointed his machine pistols at the senior Wolf. But Parker merely shook his head. ‘Shoot me if you must, it will do you no good.’
Tag swiveled slightly and changed his aim to Samuel. ‘Decision time, youngster,’ he said. ‘Enjoy a long a fruitful life or die right now.’ He thumbed the hammer back. ‘You got three seconds. One, two…’
‘We don’t have it,’ blurted the younger Wolf.
Parker growled at Samuel and Troy cuffed the older Wolf across the head hard enough to drop him to his knees.
‘Where is it then?’ Asked Troy.
‘Cluj,’ replied Samuel. ‘A few days ago. We released it to a lone Wolf who took it to Cluj. We felt the Omegas call. That is how we know that you lie.’
‘Lone Wolf?’ Asked Troy.
‘The Wolf whose death shall bring judgment.’
‘Crap,’ snapped Troy. ‘He’s a myth. Doesn’t exist.’
Both Parker and Samuel shook their heads. ‘I swear, Wolfman,’ said Parker. ‘He was here. We knew him by his frosty fur and incredible age. Also, the Omega knew him thus so did we.’
‘What are they going on about?’ Asked Tag.
‘The ancient one,’ answered Troy. ‘The oldest of all WereWolves. He is known by many names: The Wolf of the Spear. The Wolf whose death shall bring judgment. You may have heard of him by his name, Methuselah.’
‘The son of Enoch,’ said Emily. ‘From the bible.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Troy. ‘Allegedly he has lived since those ancient times. I have always thought him a legend.’
Again the two other WereWolves shook their heads. ‘To meet him is to believe,’ whispered Parker. ‘He took the Potestatum and left for Cluj. He said that you would arrive soon but he did not tell us of the Vampires and the big angry man. He merely said a young Wolfman would come and we were to do with him as we would.’
‘And what would you do with me?’ Asked Troy.
Parker thought for a while before he spoke. ‘Truly? I know that you lie but I sense no bad in you. Your honor shines like a beacon. I am confused. But my heart tells me to trust you. We shall show you a secret way to the surface and we shall not attempt to hinder you.’
‘Thank you, brother,’ answered Troy.
Parker nodded. ‘Come, follow us.’
Chapter 19
Muller waited for the door to open and, as it did, he kicked it as hard as he could. The security chain shattered and the door struck the old lady and threw her back into the entrance hall, sending her sprawling to the floor.
He pushed his
way into the room followed closely by Otto. Both had their forearms drawn. Muller’s pointed at the old lady while Otto covered the rest of the room.
‘Don’t move,’ shouted Muller. ‘Where are they?’
The old lady said nothing, staring at the Knight of the church with undisguised hatred.
‘Talk, woman,’ urged Muller. ‘I can see that you aren’t one of them so how can you support them? They are pure evil.’
‘You know nothing,’ she replied. ‘Now get out of my masters house, you pig.’
‘Otto, tie her up and put her in one of the upstairs rooms. Gag her, make sure that she can breathe properly but ensure that she can’t make a noise.’
Muller waited for Otto to return, closing the front door while he did. He also cleared up the broken pieces of security chain that had fallen to the floor. Then he used his sleeve to buff off the boot mark on the outside of the door, leaving no evidence of his forced entry.
His informant had been correct. The three of them had surveilled the house since yesterday, noting the groups arrival in a blacked out limo. Also noting that all of the shutters and drapes remained firmly closed until after sundown.
Then they had watched them depart using a taxi. It was immediately apparent to Muller that they were Vampires. The girl in particular stood out like a flame amongst flowers, her aura one of danger and, oddly, despair. But it was not Muller’s job to wonder the whys; it was his job to kill. And he was good at it.
They had waited for an hour and then Muller had dismissed his informer. He had then forcibly entered the dwelling and now all they had to do was wait and dispatch the evil ones upon their return.
Sometimes the most simple of plans were the best.
Otto came jogging down the stairs and nodded. ‘Done.’
‘Good. Let’s stand behind that door,’ said Muller, pointing at an inter-leading door that led to a small study as opposed to the rest of the house. ‘When they come in, wait for my signal and then we take them out. Remember, we want at least a couple alive to question first.’
The two Knights of the church stood silently and waited, disciplined enough not to get bored or complacent. They both ensured that they stretched every now and then, rolling their necks and alternately tensing and relaxing their muscles to keep from stiffening up.
A little less than an hour after sunset they heard a car pull up outside. Doors opened and shut. The sound of footsteps. The front door clicked. Both Muller and Otto waited, forearms drawn. Tense as piano wire.
The group of four entered, closed the door behind them and filed past the room that Muller and Otto were hiding in.
Muller waited until the last of them had walked by and then he kicked the door open. A large Caribbean man spun around, drawing his weapon as he did so. Muller pulled the trigger of his MP7 and put a burst of 4.6mm hardened steel penetrator rounds through the man’s chest, dropping him to the floor in a spray of blood and gore.
Then both he and Otto covered the other three.
‘Don’t move,’ shouted Muller. ‘These are silver plated rounds. One burst and you will experience the true death. So keep your hands where I can see them, turn around and walk slowly down the corridor and into the sitting room where we can talk.
The three said nothing, simply turning and walking where they had been instructed to. Muller and Otto followed them into the large sitting room and bade them sit down which they did.
Muller took a deep breath and, as he was about to talk he heard the thump of a body hitting the floor and felt the cold steel of a blade against his throat.
‘Change of plans, my man,’ whispered someone in his ear. ‘Now drop the weapon or I slice your throat open so wide that you swallow the top of your head.
Muller dropped his MP7 and then turned slowly to see the huge Caribbean standing behind him, his shirt a red ragged mess of holes.
‘How the…? That’s impossible,’ he managed.
Tag chuckled. ‘Man, the amount of times I’ve said that self-same thing,’ he said as he drew his massive sidearm. ‘Now down on your knees before I shoot your ass. Troy, tie that other dude up before he come around, he looks like trouble.’
Troy ripped one of the drape tie-backs off and walked over to restrain Otto. But as he did so the big Knight stood up and launched himself at the Wolfman, swinging a huge overhand right punch at Troy’s head.
Troy watched the blow coming like it was in slow motion. Then he tilted his head to one side, allowing Otto’s fist to sail by whilst he stepped in and slammed his open palm into the Knights chest with a sound like an ax chopping wood. The big man went down like he had been shot with a tranquilizing dart. Troy wasted no time securely binding Otto arms and then tying them to his legs so that he was totally immobilized.
Muller looked puzzled, he had never before seen Otto dispatched with such casual ease. Also, normally Vamps would use their fangs and talons on a fight, wreaking terminal damage, as opposed to an open palm strike that was obviously intended to incapacitate without doing too much overt harm.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Asked Sylvian who had not yet bothered to get out of his hair.
‘I could ask the same of you,’ countered Muller.
The Bloodborn nodded. ‘You could. Do you no good though. Let’s face it, you have broken into my house, well, a friend’s house, attempted to kill one of my guests and…where is madam Cortnay?’
‘Upstairs,’ said Muller.
‘If you have hurt her,’ said Sylvian. ‘I swear, you will wish that you were dead.’
Muller shook his head. ‘She is tied up, gagged, but we have not caused her any harm.’
Sylvian gestured to Troy who ran upstairs to check on the old lady. He returned within a minute. ‘She is fine,’ he informed the Bloodborn. ‘Tough old bird. I left her in the kitchen making some coffee for herself.’
The Frenchman nodded. ‘Now talk to me,’ he said to Muller.
Muller thought for a few seconds and then concluded that he could lose nothing by simply telling the truth. ‘I am Wachmeister Dietz Muller of the Sedes Sacrorum. The man that you have tied up is my assistant, Otto Reynaud.’
‘I have heard of you, sergeant,’ admitted Sylvian. ‘As I have heard of Reynard the Blasphemer whom I was told was in the Vatican cells.’
‘How could a Vampire be privy to such knowledge?’ Asked Muller.
‘When he is not a Vampire,’ countered Sylvian. ‘I am le grand duc de Bourgogne, Sylvian Baptiste, Ordre des chevaliers du Saint-Esprit.’
‘The Bloodborn,’ whispered Muller.
Sylvian smiled. ‘Ah, good, you have heard of me.’
Muller nodded. ‘A myth. A man born of a Vampire, not turned. Not a drinker of blood but still a creature of the night, hell-bent on revenging himself on the creatures that cursed him. It is said that you have brought the true death to over ten thousand bloodsuckers.’
Sylvian rocked his hand back and forth. ‘Perhaps that is an exaggeration, but I have done my fair share.’
‘Then why do you conspire with the enemy?’
‘All is not as it seems, Knight,’ said Sylvian. ‘The young man here is probably as far from a Vampire as one could possibly get. Meet Troy. He is a Werewolf.’
Troy nodded. ‘Hi.’
‘And this splendid specimen here is Tagareg. It’s not actually his real name and we call him Tag for short. Not sure what he is but it seems as though it’s pretty much impossible to kill the fellow.’
Tag grunted. ‘Not that you didn’t give it a good bash.’
Muller pointed at Emily. ‘She is a Vampire,’ he said. ‘No ifs, buts or maybes. Her evil is like a blanket of darkness over this room.’
Tag stepped forward and slapped Muller across his face, driving him to the floor. ‘Shut it,’ he said. ‘You don’t get to talk about the girly that way. She ain’t no evil. She be good.’
‘Okay, Tag,’ said Sylvian. ‘Calm down. The good Knight doesn’t know the whole story so I think that we should enlighte
n him. Muller,’ he continued. ‘If we wake your friend up and untie him will he behave?’
Muller nodded. If I tell him to.’
‘Troy, can you do the honors?’ Asked Sylvian.
The young Wolf untied Otto and then slapped him lightly on the cheeks. The big Knight shook his head. ‘What the hell?’
‘Hey, Otto,’ said Muller. ‘Looks like we might have misread this situation. This here is Sylvian Baptiste.’
‘The Bloodborn?’
‘The same,’ confirmed Sylvian.’
‘He’s going to explain a few things to us,’ continued Muller. ‘So behave. Okay?’
Otto nodded.
And Sylvian told them the story from the beginning, starting at Emily’s eighteenth birthday up until the visit to the hidden city of Romeen.
Chapter 20
Nathan had tasked hundreds of Vampires and literally thousands of familiars to finding the Potestatum.
And like any far reaching investigation it was turning up a lot of false leads. But they all had to be followed up.
His new assistant, a female familiar called Penelope with a degree in statistics and a bent towards designer clothing and pale makeup, was bringing him up to date with the search so far.
‘We have a total of four hundred artifacts in the stores. Three hundred and seventeen have been checked by the elders. Four have shown magical properties but, obviously, none is the Potestatum. We have also spread our net to include all imports and exports from and to Europe, particularly any that have been conducted under-the-wire as it were. We figured that anyone who is illegally importing ancient artifacts may be hiding something, or at least protecting something.’
She flicked through her iPad and angled it so that Nathan could see. ‘Private airports such as these.’ She showed him photos. Grainy, taken at night. Private planes being unloaded with non-descript boxes. ‘As well as this I have instructed our people to keep a track on the whereabouts and doings of all of the major antique dealers.’
She kept flicking through the photos of airports, train stations, freight yards. Nathan suspected that the slide show was more an attempt to prove that she was doing something than to actually impart any information. After all, one private airfield is much like another. Who cared who was unloading what? It was the contents of the cases that he was interested in, not the process of moving the goods. Something else niggled at him. Irritated him. Probably the lack of progress. He tried to put a finger on it but, after a few seconds he gave up.