by Nancy Holder
Dantalion, damn you. Did you hold out on me?
Solomon and Dantalion had been partners in the hybrid project. Dantalion had invented the hybridizing process, and there was no vampire scientist more inventive and brilliant than he. Solomon had funded Dantalion’s research, so long as it produced results. But those accursed men with their black crosses had invaded Dantalion’s lab, and Dantalion had followed procedure, calling for help and rigging the place to blow. Then Solomon had had him killed, rather than chance the black crosses successfully capturing him.
“Amazing,” Kilburn said in a strained voice.
Dying, Solomon thought angrily, but he smiled at the president with his long fangs. “It is,” he said.
“Kill you,” the hybrid ground out in an English accent, grunting as it tried to advance on the two men.
“My God,” Kilburn said.
“Used to be the Hunter of London. Those days are over, eh, mate?” Solomon affected a cockney accent.
“Bastard,” the hybrid said. “We’ll rise . . .”
Solomon snickered. “What do you think you are, a zombie?”
They left soon after that. The president was properly shaken. These humans should never forget that vampires were their superiors in every way.
Exuding confidence, Solomon acted as if he had everything under control until he flew back to his movie studio in Los Angeles. There he unleashed his foul mood on his most recent assistant. First he yelled at her for an hour, then he drank her down.
Afterward he went to see Paul Leitner, the father of Jennifer Leitner, the renegade Hunter. Solomon wanted Jenn gone. But he wanted Antonio de la Cruz, the “good” vampire who ran with her, even more. De la Cruz was a threat, and an error. He needed to be taken out—after Solomon figured out how Antonio could touch crosses and live inside a church.
“There are just so many loose ends,” he said to Leitner, whom he kept in a room on the movie lot. Seated on the couch, the man looked back at him with a dazed expression. Probably descending into madness. “It’s really hard to rule the world, you know?”
Leitner said nothing. Of course he didn’t know.
Rolling his eyes, Solomon left Leitner there and went down three flights of stairs into his secret refuge. Like the elevator in Washington, it was reinforced with steel and all kinds of laser-blasting security. It was the darkest room Solomon had ever been in, and it used to refresh him.
Now it was just another source of irritation, as it was where he’d imprisoned a seventeen-year-old fortune-teller from Budapest. Katalin had presented herself willingly, explaining that she had cast the runes and seen that the vampires were going to prevail over mankind. For a while her magicks had proved useful, both alerting him to the treacherous schemes of his underlings and promising him glory and triumph if he made all the right moves. But lately she’d gone dry, and he was beginning to wonder if she’d outlived her usefulness.
She was sitting in a burgundy chair, reading. When she saw him, she put her e-reader down, smoothed her filmy, long-sleeved top over her jeans, and got to her feet. As she walked to him, the bells on her ankle bracelets tinkled.
“Solomon, you’re back.” He had to restrain himself from slapping her for saying something so stupidly obvious. His nerves were on edge, and if she didn’t give him some news this time . . .
“Cast them,” he said, gesturing to the ebony box on the table beside the chair.
She folded her arms and looked very sad. “I don’t need to. I can feel them. Dark forces, all around you.” She rounded her shoulders as if she were afraid he would punish her for giving him bad news.
“You keep saying that. What are these dark forces? Who are they? What can I do to stop them?”
She gave her head a tiny shake. “I don’t know.”
“Then find out,” he said.
She looked down at her hands. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve thrown the runes a hundred times.”
He could feel the fear rolling off her. She was terrified. For him? Of him?
With the failure of the supersoldiers fresh on his mind, he crossed the room with lightning speed, grabbed her hair, and yanked back her head.
“Then throw them a thousand,” he ordered, and sat back to watch.
CHAPTER THREE
And now you see our plans at last
We have come so far so fast
We are the lords of all that breathes
Where once we played the part of thieves
Men will cry and women scream
A hell on earth, a demon’s dream
Your children drained, your maidens, too
Years of hiding now are through
TOLEDO, SPAIN
THE SALAMANCA HUNTERS MINUS SKYE; ESTHER AND LESLIE LEITNER
Holgar sniffed the air and felt his hackles rise. Something was wrong. He had gone to the open-air market in Toledo’s main square to take a message to one of Father Juan’s contacts and to pick up some groceries for dinner. He had given the note to the fishmonger and then gotten some shrimp.
But as he began to make his way from the white-tented stall, he kept catching the movement of shadows from the corner of his eye. It was broad daylight. It couldn’t be Cursed Ones, so who was it?
Holgar tried to look casual, like any other shopper, but knew he stood out. He was very tall, very husky, and very Danish. He had volunteered for the assignment. The chance to get outside had been too good to pass up. He was going mad sitting around in the monastery. But he was beginning to realize that he had been foolish to go. Father Juan should have sent someone who would blend in better.
He turned a couple of corners, trying to get downwind of whatever was following him. The marketplace itself, though, proved a huge distraction. It was difficult to smell anything over the aromas of meat, fruit, and sweat. But still he had to try. A werewolf’s sense of smell was his keenest attribute, and one he relied on heavily.
Another flash of movement. He whipped around, but no one stood out in the busy crowd. Then something threw itself at him.
He ducked. Razor-tipped claws sliced the air just above his head. He dropped to the ground and rolled. But when he looked up, the wolf that had swiped at him was nowhere to be seen.
Holgar swore and stood slowly, warily. He was surrounded by noise and stench, and he couldn’t track his assailant.
A man walked by. As he passed, Holgar caught the faintest scent of wolf. Holgar jumped to the side, but from the throng a silver knife flashed, slicing open his shirt and jabbing into his side. Holgar howled in pain, then felt all eyes turn toward him. Although the vampires had made themselves known to the world, the werewolves had not. Panic flared. There were at least two assailants after him, but if he continued to draw attention with his werewolf howling, the crowd might decide he was a madman who needed to be apprehended.
He turned and hurried in the direction of the monastery as fast as he dared. Once on the road he began to trot, and to pant in pain. Howling, gasping; for helvede—damn it—was he going to change? Holgar had yet to transform except on the full moon. He hadn’t been old enough, mature enough to change at will. But the tingling sensation that signaled the change gathered in his wound.
He could feel the other werewolves following him, and now he could smell them too. Three separate scents. He loped, scanning the hillside for a place to make a stand or ambush them.
A bend in the road offered him the only opportunity he was likely to get. Heart racing, he crouched behind an oleander bush and waited.
The man with the knife came first. He was bushy-headed, blond, and muscular, like him. Likely a Dane. Holgar swept the man’s feet out from under him, leaped on top of him, and wrenched away his knife. Holgar hissed as the silver cut his palm.
“What do you want?” Holgar yelled at him in Danish.
“To kill you, traitor!” The man struggled to throw him off.
“I’m not a traitor,” Holgar said, displaying aggression by lowering his head and baring his teeth. The ti
ngling sensation was suddenly overwhelmed by incredible pain. Silver poisoning?
“You kill your own kind,” the man insisted, raising his chin defiantly as he glared into Holgar’s blue eyes.
“I defended myself,” Holgar said, mind racing. The man wasn’t a member of Holgar’s pack back in Denmark, so why did he care?
Something slammed hard against Holgar’s back, throwing him to the ground. The knife skidded out of his hand, and massive jaws fastened onto his shoulder, missing his throat as he twisted.
Adrenaline racing through his body, Holgar threw off the wolf; then he reached for the knife. His fingers grasped it and he spun around, just in time to plunge it into the heart of the werewolf. The wolf fell on top of him with a scream. A roar of shock escaped Holgar. It was Nils Hansen, someone he’d been friends with since they were cubs.
“Nils,” he whispered, “what were you doing?”
Holgar couldn’t wait for an answer. The silver was tainting his blood, pushing through his veins and arteries. It wouldn’t kill him, but it could incapacitate him, and Jenn had said that they were leaving the monastery that night. He had to get help.
Just inside the monastery’s arched walls, Father Juan intercepted Holgar and quickly ushered him into a small room where everyone was already gathered. Antonio sat apart. The vampire lifted his head up as Holgar entered, and Jenn ran to Holgar’s side.
“What happened?” Jenn asked.
Holgar grimaced at his bloody shirt, then made a face at Jenn. “Got stabbed. Not badly, though.”
“Careful, wolfie. Sucker might think you’re dinner,” Jamie said.
Holgar had a mind to make Jamie dinner. He shook himself of the thought.
“I was attacked by three werewolves. It was revenge for the wolves I killed in the battle at Salamanca.”
“They attacked you in broad daylight?” Jenn asked, as Father Juan pulled the shirt away from the wound so that he could examine it. Holgar sucked in his breath, and Jenn touched his hand in sympathy.
“Motivated,” Antonio said.
“Sloppy,” Jamie drawled.
“They took advantage of the market crowd. I killed one,” Holgar said. “The other two took off.”
The new girl, Sade, hugged her arms around herself and started rocking. Holgar wished they wouldn’t take her with them. She was too fragile. No good in a fight.
“Let’s circle back to that in a minute,” Jenn said, looking worried. “We’re meeting because Greg and Project Crusade have made a new headquarters for themselves in Budapest.”
“They’ve moved out of the U.S.?” Jamie asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Apparently,” Jenn replied, fussing over Holgar. With a pang he thought of Skye. If she’d been there, she’d perform a healing spell, and chide him for putting himself in danger. “I’d leave too. Solomon’s putting Americans into camps.”
“Concentration camps,” Antonio added, and Father Juan nodded.
“As with World War Two,” Father Juan said. “Antonio’s war.”
“It was hell on earth.” Antonio’s voice lowered. “Hitler tortured those people horribly. Starved them. Gassed them. The Cursed Ones are just as bad. We must stop them.” Then he raised his chin. “I fought in that war, but this war is my war now.”
“Por supuesto.” Father Juan inclined his head in Antonio’s direction. “Forgive my words. Sade,” he said gently, “there are some bandages and ointment in a black bag in my room. Could you get them for me?”
Sade stopped rocking and hurried out of the room. So maybe she could be helpful after all.
“Solomon’s putting people in camps all over the world,” Jamie countered, sliding his glance at Jenn. “Not just your U.S. of A. In case you haven’t noticed.”
“I noticed,” Jenn said. “I only meant—”
“You don’t need to explain,” Holgar cut in, irritated with Jamie’s nitpicking. “You’re our leader.”
“Alpha bitch,” Jamie retorted, and Holgar growled menacingly. “Just kidding,” the Irishman added, even though it was obvious that he wasn’t.
“We need to find out what the black crosses are up to,” Antonio said. “What they know. What they’re doing.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. We need to send someone to Budapest,” Jenn said.
“I’ll go,” Holgar volunteered. It seemed like the logical choice. “If I’m gone, the werewolves should follow and leave you alone.”
Jenn shook her head. “No. Noah should go. Greg’s only seen him once, and that was at night.”
“I’ll do it,” Noah said. “It won’t be a problem that he’s seen me. This time, he won’t.”
“Good, because that way we can focus on what is a problem,” Jenn said, her voice grim.
Jamie lit a cigarette.
* * *
Antonio’s heart bled for Jenn. He would have given anything to comfort her as a man would comfort the woman he loved. But though Jenn had grown from a naive, self-deprecating girl into a strong woman, he had not changed. He wasn’t a man.
As Antonio fretted, Jenn spent the next half hour laying out how they would get Noah to Budapest. They also talked about Holgar’s attackers.
Then Jenn brought up Antonio’s grandsire: Lucifer, who had sired Sergio. Aurora had called out his name during the battle of Salamanca. Lucifer was truly the Devil, and if they had to go up against him, they would be damned.
Antonio couldn’t concentrate. All he could do was stare at the gentle curve of Jenn’s lips, the way they shaped each word, and the wisps of her dark auburn hair.
At last the meeting was over. Holgar’s eyes were glassy, and Antonio wondered how badly the stab wound was affecting him. They were all to pack, grab a quick nap, and get some food before leaving the monastery that night. All except for Noah, who would be leaving immediately for Hungary.
As the others filed out, Antonio lingered, staring at Jenn. She loved him, despite what he was. Why couldn’t that be enough?
It’s not a question of enough, he thought. I have promised myself to someone else. To God.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
It was a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t okay. But he needed to say something, anything.
Jenn gave him a pained smile. He reached out to touch her cheek, but caught himself. He could see the blood rise to her cheeks, and desire swept through him.
Then he forced himself to turn. He had barely any control over his dark urges. And he had rededicated himself to the priesthood. She was the woman he loved, a child of God in need of saving, a savior who could change the world. But only one thing mattered.
She was forbidden fruit.
EPPING FOREST, ENGLAND
SKYE
Vampires favored cities, where they could find plenty of warm bodies and sheltering buildings. The majority of them shunned the lonely and isolated places of the world. Which was exactly why witches had sought those places out. After her sister’s wedding, Skye’s entire coven had gone underground to avoid being caught up in the war against the vampires.
Her family had moved deep into the heart of Epping Forest, where they maintained a tiny cottage previously used only for lunar celebrations and private family rituals. Skye knew that was where they would be, unless something had happened to them.
Skye doggedly made her way through the brush, catching sight of a will-o’-the-wisp—a flicker of light. These flickers were said by some to be the burning coal carried by a minion of Satan as he lured the curious to their doom. In Skye’s family’s faith, the lights were sent by the Goddess to aid the lost.
“Help me now, Lady,” Skye murmured, as she reached a familiar stand of oaks.
One of Skye’s cousins lived on the outskirts of the forest. The cottage’s sloped roof was visible, and Skye followed a trail that was more memory than a physical landmark, until at last she was standing at the front door.
She stared for a moment at the old planks, her heart skipping a beat, as she wondered if sh
e had come to the wrong place. A simple brass handle hung where there’d once been a silver door knocker in the shape of the crescent moon.
She squared her shoulders and forced herself to knock anyway. Regardless of who lived there, she was still badly in need of food and water. She prayed that the occupants would be willing to help.
An ultraviolet porch light clicked on. The light wasn’t something she could see, but Skye could feel it. The bulb was a relic from the first years after the Cursed Ones went public. People had rushed to buy them, thinking that the UV would harm vampires as the sun would.
They hadn’t worked. No one was really sure what the sun’s light did. But the more superstitious had hung on to their lights, swearing that the UV kept vampires at bay.
The door opened just a crack, and a blue eye stared out at her. Skye tried to smile, hoping that it would somehow compensate for being streaked with blood.
The door slammed shut.
“Please, I need your—,” Skye began.
The chain clinked and the door swung open. Skye’s twenty-four-year-old cousin Summer anxiously regarded her. Skye moved to throw her arms around her, but Summer tensed and took a step back.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Blessed be,” Skye said, struggling to hide her disappointment at the lack of traditional witchly greeting—of any greeting, for that matter.
“You can’t come in,” her cousin said, stubbornly setting her jaw.
Skye blinked, fighting to hold back tears. “You can see that I’m hurt.”