by Greg Cox
That glorious night could not come too soon.
But if Kraven was not responsible for the ambush at Statue Park, who was? Lucian was troubled by the notion of a genuine third party intruding into the ancient conflict just as he stood at the brink of his ultimate triumph. It was almost as though, against all reason, Brother Ambrose had risen from the grave after all these centuries, striking out at werewolf and vampire alike, much as he had in days of yore.
Is that what we’re dealing with? he wondered. Not the insane monk per se but his contemporary equivalent? Some sort of self-appointed monster hunter? Lucian scowled at the thought. The last thing he needed right now was some delusional mortal gumming up the works. I need to nip this crisis in the bud before it endangers all my plans.
“Very well,” he told Kraven, moderating his tone somewhat. “I believe you when you say this is not your doing. But make no mistake: we must get to the bottom of this mystery as swiftly as possible.” He paused to consider his options. “I assume the Death Dealers are investigating the attack?”
Kraven nodded. The color returned to his face as he realized that he had escaped Lucian’s wrath. “Of course. Selene is obsessed, as usual, with finding the killer.”
“Good,” Lucian declared. With luck, this Selene would dispose of the problem for him, but just in case, he needed to be kept in the loop. “You must report their findings to me as soon as they’re available. Keep me informed on the progress of the investigation.”
In the meantime, he thought, I can pursue my own avenues of inquiry. One way or another, the enigmatic killer needed to be eliminated. I can afford no loose cannons at this point in my long campaign.
“Yes. Right,” Kraven agreed readily. “I’ll make sure Selene tells me everything she learns.” A worried look came over his face as, now that he was no longer the immediate target of Lucian’s suspicions, he began to grasp the larger implications of the situation. “You don’t think this could interfere with our plans, do you? What if this assassin knows what we’re up to?” Panic kindled in his eyes. “The Council will have my head if they learn that you’re still alive and that I’ve been conspiring with you to depose the Elders!”
Lucian sighed inwardly. He often wished he had chosen a less faint-hearted partner all those centuries ago. This was hardly the first time Kraven’s unsteady nerves had required calming.
“I think it highly unlikely,” he assured the anxious vampire, “that this wild card is privy to our plans. Chances are, he or she is merely a well-armed human out to rid the world of vampires and werewolves and the like.” He chuckled disdainfully, for Kraven’s benefit. “You know the type… they usually get themselves killed in no time.”
Kraven seemed to relax a bit. “You really think so?”
“Of course,” Lucian lied. In truth, he would not rest easy until he had determined the true identity and motives of the Statue Park assailant. “Just keep your wits about you, and everything will proceed as planned.”
I hope, he added silently.
Their business concluded, at least as far as he was concerned, Lucian opened the door and stepped back out into the night, where Miklos and Soren continued to glower at each other in stony silence. He stepped toward his own vehicle, then heard Kraven call after him.
“Hold on,” the vampire said indignantly. Kraven emerged from the car and crossed the alley. “There’s one more thing. Selene knows that your agents have been dealing with Florescu. If I were you, I’d find another supplier.”
In fact, Lucian had already deduced as much from the Death Dealers’ presence at Statue Park. Still, he was reluctant to break off all contact with Florescu; for better or for worse, the human arms merchant had the best merchandise. We’ll just have to be a lot more careful in our dealings with him.
He opened his mouth to reply, only to start in surprise as his keen ears detected the muffled report of a silenced rifle. A second later, before Lucian could utter a word of warning, Miklos went down, a bloody hole exploding in the side of his head. Reddish steam issued from the wound, proof that a silver bullet was frying the bodyguard’s brain.
Speak of the devil! Lucian thought furiously. He knew at once that their unknown enemy had struck again.
“What the hell?” Kraven exclaimed as Soren grabbed the other vampire’s shoulders and shoved him toward their waiting limo. Lucian drew his own weapon, a Glock automatic pistol, from beneath his leather jacket and searched for the source of the fatal shot. A muzzle flared atop the nearby overpass, pinpointing the location of the sniper, and Lucian felt a sudden burning pain in his kneecap. He looked down to see blood streaming down his leg. Silver sizzled inside his knee like molten lava.
Foolishly, he turned to Kraven and Soren for assistance. “Help me!” he called out. “I’ve been hit!”
The fleeing vampires ignored his pleas. A third shot winged Kraven in the arm, and Soren flung his injured leader into the back of the limo. Without so much as a glance in Lucian’s direction, Soren dived behind the wheel of his car. The limo peeled rubber out of the alley, leaving Lucian behind.
Bloodsucking bastards! he thought venomously as he watched Kraven’s limousine disappear into the night. Soren had deserted him again, just as he had at the keep eight hundred years ago. Lucian resisted the temptation to waste precious bullets by firing at the retreating vehicle. They’ll pay for this—once the Corvinus strain has made me invincible!
But first he had to survive the sniper’s assault. Gritting his fangs against the pain in his leg, he limped toward his own parked limousine. Instinctively, he tried to transform into a werewolf, but the damnable silver blocked the Change. Given a few minutes to focus his thoughts, he could attempt to expel the bullet from his body through sheer concentration, but time was not on his side; he could hardly expect the sniper to leave him alone while he healed himself. Extracting the bullet would have to wait until he made his escape.
He fired off a round of covering fire at the overpass but had no way of knowing whether any of his wild shots hit home. Spasms of pain shot up and down his injured leg. Crossing the alley felt like hiking over the Carpathians, and he was gasping for breath by the time he grabbed onto the door of the limo, hoping against hope that Miklos had left the keys in the ignition. I need to get away, he thought. Find out who this nameless assassin is.
A sharp pain jabbed him in the side of the neck. He reached for his throat and yanked a hypodermic dart from his jugular. A foul-smelling green fluid dripped from the hollow silver needle at the tip of the dart. It smelled vaguely like the serum his own kind used to dose newly converted lycans who couldn’t yet control their transformations.
I’ve been tranked, he realized.
The drug took effect immediately. His vision blurred, and his legs grew rubbery. The Glock slipped from his fingers. He sagged against the door of the limo, trying to stay on his feet, but it was too late. Darkness closed in on him like the catacombs beneath the old monastery.
He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Seated in the backseat of the limo, Kraven whimpered in pain. Blood spilled from his arm, and he pressed down on the wound with his other hand, trying to stanch the flow. “Damnation!” he cursed, even though the silver bullet was hardly likely to kill him. “This hurts like hell!”
“Hold on, regent,” Soren urged him from the driver’s seat. “There will be painkillers back at the mansion.”
“No!” Kraven cried out in alarm. “We can’t go back to Ordoghaz, not yet. How the devil will I explain getting shot while meeting with two lycans… with Lucian, of all creatures?” Kraven shuddered at the thought; the pain in his arm was nothing to the sufferings he would endure should his collusion with the infamous lycan warrior be exposed. “Head for the nearest safe house!”
Yes, he thought, that’s the right move. The coven kept a number of safe houses throughout the city, hidden away in various inconspicuous locations. They were mostly used by the Death Dealers for stakeouts and interrogations, but
they also provided emergency refuges for any vampires who found themselves stranded in the city too near sunrise. There would be quantities of cloned blood on store and first-aid supplies.
His mind raced frantically, looking for a way to salvage this disaster. Don’t panic, he ordered himself. I can still turn this around. Nobody needs to know what I was doing tonight.
Soren arrived quickly at the closest, most convenient safe house: a broken-down brownstone in a rundown corner of Pest, not far from the city’s notorious red-light district. Decades of smog and soot had blackened every centimeter of the building’s dingy exterior. Steel-shuttered windows and spray-painted graffiti made it appear the ugly pile of bricks had been deserted for some time. Kraven hoped to hell that Soren had the right address.
After parking the limo at the curb, Soren helped Kraven out of the vehicle. A group of junkies loitered on the steps of the old brownstone, but Soren chased them away with a snarl and a flash of his fangs. Crack vials shattered beneath Soren’s boots as he assisted Kraven up the steps and snapped apart the padlock sealing the front door. He held the door open while Kraven staggered inside.
Rats scurried away in a hurry as the two vampires invaded the unlit foyer. Kraven’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, and he found himself at the foot of a winding series of stairs that led to the upper floors of the building. Trash was strewn about the scuffed vinyl floor of the lobby: protective coloration, disguising the building’s true nature.
“The interrogation room is on the sixth floor,” Soren informed him. Kraven trusted Soren to know such things, which were quite outside his own interests.
“Of course they are,” he said sourly, eyeing the daunting climb ahead. “I don’t suppose there’s a working elevator?”
“I’m afraid not,” Soren said.
Naturally, he groused silently.
Cradling his wounded arm, which had already stopped bleeding, Kraven let Soren help him up the endless stairs. The dilapidated steps creaked alarmingly, and every step sent a fresh jolt of agony through his arm, but at last, they reached the sixth-floor landing. Kraven watched impatiently as Soren shouldered open a door to the left of the staircase. The loyal henchman flicked on a light switch as Kraven stepped through the door.
Fluorescent lights came on, exposing a sparsely furnished room that looked positively spartan compared with Kraven’s lush accommodations back at the mansion. Instead of antique beds and sofas, there were only a few sturdy metal chairs and tables, weapon racks on the walls, and several neatly stacked crates of ammunition. Cracked plaster walls were unadorned, save for a single bulletin board bearing the mug shots of various known lycans and their associates. Closed-circuit TV screens monitored the lobby, stairs, and corridor outside. Sealed metal shutters kept out both sunlight and prying eyes. Chains and shackles hung from the ceiling or were affixed to the metal chairs, the better to contain unwilling occupants. The bare wooden floor was speckled with dried lycan blood.
Typical Death Dealer decor, Kraven thought uncharitably. All business, just like Selene. He had been trying to entice the gorgeous Death Dealer into his bed for centuries now, but her single-minded fixation on the war had always gotten in the way. I imagine she’d feel right at home here.
He planted himself in an uncomfortable steel chair while Soren hustled up some supplies. A large silver refrigerator hummed away in one corner of the room, next to a wooden ammunition crate. Soren yanked open the door of the fridge, exposing several packets of refrigerated blood. He hastily retrieved a couple of packets and handed them over to Kraven. “These will help you to heal,” he said.
The translucent plastic packets were cold to the touch. A stamped label on the bags identified them as products of Ziodex Industries, a major biopharmaceuticals firm that just happened to be owned entirely by Viktor and his estate. Ziodex provided the coven with a substantial stream of income, along with copious amounts of cloned human blood.
Kraven tore open the seal on the first bag and gulped down its contents. The refrigerated blood would have been better warm, but this was no time to be a connoisseur. The rich, salty liquid did wonders for his constitution; he could feel the shock and trauma of the gunshot wound ebbing away as the blood restored him. The silver bullet still ached beneath his skin, but it was nothing he couldn’t endure for a few minutes more.
At least he could think clearly again.
“We’re going to have to burn this shirt,” he instructed Soren, “and clean up the backseat of the limo, too.” He drained the second bag of blood and gestured for a third; this one he placed against his wounded arm, letting the chill of the blood numb the pain somewhat. “In fact, we should arrange to dispose of the limo as soon as possible. If there’s one thing our kind are good at finding, it’s bloodstains.”
Soren produced a first-aid kit from a storage locker. He used a scalpel to cut away the sleeve of Kraven’s Armani jacket, then went to work on the black silk shirt underneath. Kraven winced at the sight of his expensive wardrobe going under the knife but reminded himself that there was plenty more where that came from; one of the perks of running the coven was an almost unlimited clothing allowance.
“Perhaps,” Soren suggested, “we ought to tell the Death Dealers something of the attack, so that they are aware that the assassin has acted again.”
These raids must have Soren worried, Kraven thought, if he wants to cooperate with the Death Dealers. While Viktor and Marcus were entombed and Amelia occupied in America, Kraven had allowed Soren to form his own internal security force, which often butted heads with Kahn and his Death Dealers. Their rivalry was a deep one, which was one of Soren’s primary motives in joining Kraven’s plot to overthrow the Elders. Kraven had promised to disband the Death Dealers once he took over the coven and established his historic truce with Lucian. Soren should know better than to invite the Death Dealers’ scrutiny, especially now.
“How am I to explain why our attacker used silver bullets?” Kraven asked him. “And what if the sniper’s primary target turns out to be Lucian after all? How to explain our presence at the attack?” He shook his head. “No, it’s too risky. There are too many questions we don’t want asked. Selene and the others will have to track down this maniac without news of this latest incident.”
Fortunately, he had faith in Selene’s determination and abilities. Intent on avenging Diego’s death, she would not rest until she liquidated the unknown assassin. Certainly, he mused, that woman knows how to hold a grudge. She still hasn’t forgiven the lycans for slaughtering her mortal family all those centuries ago.
Or so she believed. The truth, as Kraven knew full well, was rather more complicated.
“Excuse me, regent,” Soren declared. He pressed the tip of a hypodermic needle against Kraven’s bare bicep. “This will help with the pain.”
The injection stung momentarily, but Kraven soon felt its analgesic effect. Even still, he flinched as Soren put down the syringe and approached him again with the scalpel. Removing the bullet from his flesh was not going to be pleasant, especially since the open wound had already healed over.
“What became of Lucian, I wonder?” Soren said, perhaps to distract Kraven from the bloody business ahead. “Do you think he survived?”
The suggestion that Lucian might have actually died came as a shock to Kraven. He had been so intent on his own survival that the thought only now occurred to him that, when last seen, Lucian had been left to face the sniper’s bullets alone. Can it be, he wondered in amazement, that Lucian is truly dead at last?
In truth, the prospect of Lucian’s bloody demise filled him with mixed feelings. On the one hand, Lucian’s support was key to his entire conspiracy against the Elders. It was the lycans who were, with Kraven’s covert assistance, to assassinate Amelia upon her return to Budapest, providing Kraven with the opportunity to seize control of the coven while the other Elders still slumbered in their tombs. And it was to be my groundbreaking peace treaty with Lucian, he recalled, that would cement my
place as the undisputed ruler of both the Old and New World covens. With Lucian dead, my dreams of supplanting the Elders—and taking Selene as my royal consort—will be much more difficult to attain.
On the other hand, Kraven had to admit that it would be a relief to be out from beneath Lucian’s oppressive shadow after all these years. He had never truly trusted the scheming lycan, who often failed to show Kraven the deference he deserved. If Lucian is dead, he realized, I will no longer have to live in fear of the other vampires discovering that he is still alive.
Kraven bit down on his lip as Soren’s scalpel sliced deeply into his flesh. He tasted his own cold blood upon his tongue.
In theory, of course, Lucian had already “died” centuries ago. Has this mysterious assassin, Kraven thought, done in reality what I only claimed to do?
Kill Lucian?
Then
A.D. 1202
Chapter Fourteen
CASTLE CORVINUS
Lucian hurried down the corridor toward the chapel, glancing back over his shoulder to make certain he was not being followed. Excitement warred with apprehension in his heart and soul as he wondered at the note he had received via Grushenka, summoning him again to the chapel for the first time in weeks. He and Sonja had not dared to meet in their trysting spot since Soren had surprised them there more than a month ago. Why now? he pondered. What can be so urgent?
He paused before the door of the chapel. Could this be a trap of some kind? No, he reassured himself, he would know Sonja’s delicate handwriting anywhere. The note had manifestly come from his beloved. Moreover, it was early morning on a sunny April day. Soren and Viktor would surely be asleep in their respective chambers.