The Bloodline Series Box Set

by Gabriella Messina

  Sam lined up the cue ball with the 8-ball. It was going to be a tough shot. Sam circled the table once, leaning down to look at the ball positions and possible trajectories when she hit at specific angles. Again, she circled the table before finally settling in at the end and bending over. The cue ball appeared to line up perfectly with the 8-ball and the far corner pocket and, as she positioned the cue stick behind it, the tip barely a quarter of an inch away, Sam felt her first bit of apprehension, the first she’d experienced all evening. She wasn’t going to make this shot.

  Sam pulled back carefully and took the shot. The cue stick hit the cue ball and it zoomed forward, hitting the 8-ball with a clack and sending it down the table toward the corner pocket. But Sam could see as the 8-ball neared the hole that it was not going to go in, and it didn’t. Instead, the 8-ball hit the very edge of the corner pocket and ricocheted backwards towards a dead zone on the table.

  Sam barely heard the groans of the others watching. She was staring at Vincent, who now had every chance of winning the final game and claiming victory in their impromptu tournament. He was staring at the table, a furrow growing between his eyebrows and threatening to turn into an out-and-out frown. He didn’t look happy, but that may have been because she’d basically managed to leave him absolute shit on the table. To even sink the 8-ball, he might need to do a yoga pose on the edge of the pool table. Sam stifled a chuckle at that mental picture. Vincent glanced over at her, his frown remaining even as he winked at her as if to say, “Yes, I know the table layout is shit, thank you very much.”

  Vincent sighed and reached for the cue chalk... This was not going to be easy. Oh, he could sink it easily enough... the trick was going to be playing this shot without Sam seeing that he –

  A commotion by the entrance distracted him. He glanced at Sam and saw she was looking in the same direction. It would have been difficult for the average person to hear the disruption, but their enhanced hearing was picking up the volume change and the tone of the speakers. Something was going on out front. Something bad.

  Moments later, the waitress who had been keeping them supplied with drinks since the first break hurried back. She was visibly distressed, and Vincent could smell the blood on her apron. He watched Sam hurry to her side, no doubt to check her for injuries. She quickly showed the waitress the small badge she wore on a chain around her neck – Jesus, did she ever take that off? – and begin speaking to the woman in low, calming tones. “Is someone hurt? Where are they?”

  The waitress sniffed and sputtered and swallowed hard. “Outside... in the alley. I went out to smoke... and I found him there.” She dissolved into tears and Sam quickly passed her off to another waitress before heading for the entrance. Fuck, fuck, fuck... Vincent grabbed his coat, slipping into it as he followed her through the club, knowing tonight would likely not be the night he got to find out the answer to that badge question.

  18

  VINCENT MANAGED TO catch up to Sam, emerging from the club a few steps behind her. They pushed through the crowd beginning to gather at the end of the alleyway, Sam flashing her badge here and there to clear the way. Suddenly they emerged into the open, and he heard Sam gasp before she knelt down quickly beside the body.

  Vincent quickly took in the figure lying supine on the ground, the suit bloodied and disheveled, the body bent as if it had been tossed aside. Vincent’s eyes quickly scanned the wall and dumpster a few feet away. There, on the wall at about shoulder level, were the tell-tale marks of impact. Yes, this man was definitely thrown, probably how he landed here in this crumpled heap. His gaze returned to Sam and the man. She was down close, speaking to him, soothing words as if she knew him.

  Vincent could hear the sirens getting closer... He needed to get Sam out of there before the police arrived. Finding her at the scene of what was most certainly about to be a murder would not help her retain what was left of her career. He knew the demotion back to uniform had hurt her deeply, and ridiculous as it might sound, he blamed himself. Vincent crouched down beside her, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. “Sam, we have to get out of here.”

  Sam glanced at him briefly, then focused back on the man. “You’re going to be okay, Walter. Stay with me now. Help is on the way.”

  Walter Stefanovich sputtered as he struggled to speak, blood spraying up and onto his already saturated shirt. His voice was low and hoarse, and Sam had to lean in closer than she would have liked to hear him. “...Heights... woman...”

  “Was it a woman who did this?”

  Stefanovich grabbed her arm tightly, pulling himself up with his last bit of strength. “Rage... Days...of Rage...” With a final sputter, Stefanovich fell back to the ground and was still. Sam felt for a pulse, at his wrist, at his neck...

  “Sam, we need to go now.” Vincent grabbed a hold of Sam’s arm and pulled her to her feet. He pulled her along, weaving into the crowd gathered out front as police vehicles and an ambulance pulled up. Quickly, he pulled her back inside the club.

  They moved through the club, weaving around the patrons and staff that were still inside, some craning their necks to see if they could see anything outside, others talking amongst themselves about what could have happened.

  Vincent pulled Sam toward a door behind the bar that led back into the kitchen area. The dishwashers and servers inside looked somewhat startled as the pair hurried through, then disappeared through the exit into the street.

  They were at the far end of the alley, a dumpster blocking their view of the crime scene at the other end of the dark and dank passageway. It was dark enough where they were standing that they could peek around the corner of the dumpster and still remain out of sight.

  “You knew him?” Vincent asked.

  “Not really. Lenny...” Sam’s voice caught, the emotion and stress finally hitting her. Another person dead... because of her... She fought hard to hide the tears brimming in her eyes, and she would have succeeded if she hadn’t let out a little gasp for air, the kind your body forces you to make when you’re trying so hard not to cry that you kind of forget to breathe. Vincent stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her back against him. Sam nestled into his embrace quickly, the tears flowing freely.

  “I’m sorry, love.” The sentiment, and the endearment, increased the tears, and Sam continued to cry as Vincent held her, his chin nestled onto her shoulder, his mouth near her ear as he murmured comfortingly. She couldn’t really make out the words... they sounded like another language, actually... but the sound was soothing, and Sam found herself calming quickly, her breathing settling into a normal rhythm.

  “Better?”

  She sniffed and nodded. “I’m fine... Really.” Sam felt his arm muscles flex in preparation for releasing her, and she instinctively grabbed for his arms, holding them in place around her. She half-expected Vincent to pull away forcefully, but instead his embrace tightened, and his mouth moved slightly down and away from her ear, his lips barely brushing against her neck, the stubble of his beard raking deliciously along her skin. He hovered there for what seemed like both an eternity and a mere moment, and Sam closed her eyes, releasing a sigh as she enjoyed the feeling of warmth and safety his embrace gave her.

  Then Vincent squeezed her firmly and released her. “I have to go.” He glanced around the corner of the dumpster briefly. “I didn’t hear the ambulance leave.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Vincent looked back at Sam, confused. She smiled weakly. “They only use the siren if the person being transported is still alive.”

  “Right.” He nodded, looking down at the ground. “Well, I’d better go. Take care of yourself, Sam.”

  “You’re saying goodbye?”

  Vincent shrugged. “It’s what people do when they leave.”

  “Yeah, but...” Sam watched him for a moment, remembering the feel of his skin on hers, his breath on her neck... “So why does this sound like a long-term goodbye?”

  Vincent shook his head slowly, biting hi
s bottom lip before his eyes settled on her, their color darkened, their gaze soft and earnest. “You know... I wouldn’t have made that next shot.”

  Sam scoffed. “You’re a better player than that, Vincent.”

  “Yes, I am.” He paused for a moment, staring at her, his face barely containing his emotion. “And I... would not... have made that shot.” He sighed, glancing around the dumpster again before turning and walking in the opposite direction. “I’ll see ya, darlin’,” he called over his shoulder as he walked down the street, into the darkness and disappeared.

  Sam watched him go, her mind spinning with his final words. He was going to throw the game... Sam bit her lip and smiled.

  19

  CHRYSTIE STREET, NEAR DELANCEY

  The Bowery

  Sam carefully leafed through the pages of the book. THE BOOK. Even when she thought of it as a child, her grandfather’s diary-slash-scrapbook-slash-whatever had always been “THE BOOK” ... all caps, bold letters even... It was the book he was always working on, carefully writing in his scratchy cursive script, pasting in pieces of paper, clippings and other mementos of who knew what. And she didn’t know, because Ivan would never let her look in the book. Sam always felt like he wanted to show her, wanted to tell her, but couldn’t... how do you explain to a seven-year-old that she’s got the DNA of Dire Wolves flowing through her?

  After Ivan died... after the lawyers helped her settle any debts, transfer the deed for the camp up north, the lease for the apartment and the title to the old “Willy’s” jeep that was parked in a garage across the river in Jersey... After all that business had been settled, Sam remembered sitting down at the kitchen table, a glass and a nearly full bottle of wine in front of her, and she just... broke. It was the first time since everything had happened that she’d allowed herself to emote, her sobs filling the small apartment, her tears dripping on to the worn wooden table.

  It was after a good hour’s cry, and most of the bottle of wine, that Sam had wandered over to the bookshelves and touched THE BOOK for the first time. Pulling it carefully off the shelf, she carried it to the living room, placing it gently on the coffee table then opening it to the first page.

  The beginning was innocuous... Drawings from Ivan’s childhood, a few tattered photographs of what must have been family and friends in Bucharest... Then the brightness of those early pages changed, and the darkness of war and imprisonment crept in. The drawings became grayer, and sadder... the pictures more and more empty as smiling faces faded and disappeared...

  Sam had read her grandfather’s diaries after her grandmother’s death. Ivan had handed them to her one evening, telling her, “Now that we are on our own... It is best that you understand who I am, Nepoata.” Sam felt the tears welling in her eyes even as she recalled how he used to call her grand-daughter in Romanian, an Old-World endearment that had been hers since she could remember.

  Sam sighed, turning more pages. She found Grammy’s recipe for the “cough syrup,” a special mixture of herbs that helped Ivan, and now Sam, control the wolf within even when the pull of the moon became almost too much to bear. Luckily, Sam hadn’t had to use it since her initial change six months ago, but she’d become convinced the thick syrup might be useful in other ways, perhaps even as a kind of tranquilizing substance for other werewolves... She’d have to ask Vincent –

  Sam froze, staring at the writing and assortment of clippings in front of her. She hadn’t gotten to this page before...

  Across the top of the page, her grandfather’s neat printing read “Quicksilver Wolf,” and the writing below described the most remarkable, horrific tale that Sam thought she had ever read. Her grandfather’s experiences in Auschwitz-Birkenau had been on a par with many other gypsies who were imprisoned during the Second World War, but it was what happened when he was selected for a special program of experimentation at the hands of Doctor Joseph Mengele that changed Ivan, and his family, forever. Jack Hudson had filled her in on the general story, and Ben had helped her with bits and pieces of information he’d found God knows where, but this...

  Page after page, Sam read her grandfather’s scratchy writing as he detailed the experiment Mengele had performed. Once Ivan had successfully converted, and the virus was found to be stable, the mission became to analyze his blood and find the reason why. And the reason was easily found... A specific enzyme in the lining of the cells throughout Ivan’s body, which increased the integrity of the outer lining of the cells. Because of this enzyme, mercury, otherwise deadly to werewolves, did not permeate the cell walls and destabilize the cells. This inherited enzyme rendered Ivan, and his descendants capable of supporting the Lycanthropic Virus. They could live with it, control it, avoiding the eventually debilitating effects of it.

  Control was the main motivator for Mengele and the Nazis. As the experiments progressed, and the infected began to live longer and longer despite not carrying the special enzyme, and though they were still vulnerable to destruction, the need to maintain control of the werewolves became paramount. The attempt to create a “vaccine” for the werewolves, one that would stabilize their cells, began.

  Mengele administered small doses of mercury to the infected, hoping it would stimulate immunity to develop, or even that the cell wall enzyme would be stimulated. Repeatedly the infected died... horrifically. Mercury was administered at different stages of werewolf “development,” sometimes right after infection, sometimes several weeks afterward... before the first change, during the change, after the first change... and in every case the end results were the same.

  The experiments continued long after the war ended, and the camps were liberated. Mengele and others made their escapes to South America and the Middle East. Some even made it into the United States, maintaining anonymity for decades. And the work continued with no result. Until...

  Sam stared at the page as her grandfather’s handwriting spelled out a familiar name and a new pathway of experimentation. In 1992, a young doctor in London took the search for control of the Lycanthropic Virus in a new direction... a skilled surgeon, he also excelled in the lab and ventured the idea that perhaps a vaccine would provide the control of the virus that was needed. Others scoffed at him, but the young doctor soldiered on, analyzing tissue and blood samples and testing in the lab rather than on subjects.

  Nearly 15 years later, the vaccine was ready for testing on an actual infected human... And it was tested on an infected human in Dublin... Sam turned the page and froze... A grainy picture was taped to the back of the page, the writing beneath it clearly Ivan’s. Once again, he had written “Quicksilver Wolf,” but the person in the picture was... Sam felt suddenly pale as she stared into those deep rich brown eyes...

  Vincent Kremer.

  Sam quickly closed the book, shaking off the sudden fluttery feeling she had and hurried to get dressed. She needed to talk to Jack Hudson immediately.

  20

  SAM STARED AT THE SPOT... the spot... where it happened. Sure, it was daytime, and the ramp was nearly full of the vehicles of staff and visitors, but... She inhaled briefly, tasting the air, and felt a chill rush through her. The moon was three-quarter now, barely visible in the bright sun-filled sky, but still powerful, more so for her, of course. She inhaled once more, trying to find a new scent to pull her mind away from the memory... pull it away from the comfort she was beginning to take in the memory. Funny that you could reach a point where being broken into pieces and reknitted into a legendary monster could comfort you. Ah... there... Sam turned quickly toward the access door that had clicked and was opening.

  Jack Hudson stepped out, his muscular arms bare to the elbow. He was clad in scrubs, clearly on duty, but he’d said on the phone he could spare the time, though he could be called back to the ER at any time. He was frowning slightly as he neared, a look of concern on his face. “Is everything alright, Sam? You sounded upset on the phone.”

  “I’m fine, more or less.” Sam took a deep breath. “Listen, I know about the
vaccine.”

  Hudson paled slightly, unsure of what this declaration meant. “Oh?”

  “Don’t get all clammy, Jack. I’m not going to threaten your work.” Sam leaned against the wall, her arms crossed in front of her. “I want to know about Vincent. I want to know about what happened in Dublin.”

  “He won’t tell you?”

  “I didn’t ask. Tell me.”

  Hudson sighed, running a hand through his graying black hair. “I gave Vincent the vaccine while he was in intensive care. At first, it looked like it wouldn’t have an effect at all. Then, he started to recover from his injuries... rapidly... I ran his blood daily, tracking the progress of the virus, which continued to spread and assimilate into his DNA. He was most definitely changing into a werewolf, but there was a difference. I took a sample of his blood and tissue and dosed it with mercury.”

  “And nothing happened.” Sam’s eyes were wide. Vincent... was like her! He was immune! “He doesn’t know, does he?”

  Hudson shook his head. “I was never one hundred percent sure that he wouldn’t have a reaction to it. I didn’t want to chance it. He’s the only male werewolf who’s ever responded positively to the vaccine.”