Nothing waited ahead of them. Urgency had never been more vital.
“Come on,” he whispered, and pulled her forward.
Glancing up, through the heavy bodies of pine trees, he glimpsed the gray backdrop of a cloudless night, its canvas spotted with random stars from distant constellations and backlit by the subtle glow of a three-quarter moon.
Nearly there; the summit was in reach.
He dragged her faster, determination pushing him forward.
The crash of disturbed woodland surrounded them, the sound no longer the echo of their hurried escape.
The forest aroma darkened immeasurably into the unwelcome stench of sweat-coated fur and dribbling saliva.
A previously unheard growl morphed into a thunderous roar.
The bestial figure exploded from the shadows as if the forest had spat it from its belly; a massive wolfish silhouette slamming into his girlfriend as he pulled her through the foliage.
Her cry of surprise became curtailed, yet he screamed her name in one drawn-out syllable of terror.
The transformation overwhelmed him, cracking his bones, flooding his muscles, empowering his frame. He grew, and his eyesight lightened, showing him a vision he wished he had not witnessed.
A monstrous werewolf tangled with his girlfriend, the heavy body of a thick tree preventing them from rolling down the hillside. She tried to fight back but the creature overwhelmed her within seconds. Talons raked her torso, slicing flesh into strips, spilling intestines onto the forest floor—discarding their fetus into the warm summer soil.
He bellowed his anger and lunged for the lycanthrope.
Two more came from the darkness, one from each side, razor-sharp claws gouging slits in his skin. Pain erupted from his body in an anguished wail.
Collapsing under their onslaught, the last thing he saw was his girlfriend’s severed head staring at him through the darkness.
* * *
Outskirts of Munich,
Germany
Two hours later and one hundred-thirty kilometers away Max sat in his laboratory located deep underground and stared at images replaying on a television monitor. Memories stuttered across the screen in full color and told him everything he needed to know.
In the middle of the room, the male hybrid captured in the Austrian valley slumped forward in a renovated electric chair, fragments of his skull scattered across the concrete floor, electrodes fused to brain tissue. Occasionally the creature flinched in pain but Max paid no attention. His interest remained fixed on the fluctuating images before him.
The process had taken longer than he’d hoped, as the specimen in the chair seemed to be at least one hundred-forty years old, causing Max to sit through a succession of mundane thought processes and recollections. Only now had the contents of its stored memory reached the immediate history and Max recorded this information with a smile stretched over his gaunt face.
Mesmerized by the visual data, Max absentmindedly chewed on a section of the hybrid’s severed scalp.
His undead heart pushed eternal blood through his veins in a thundering flow of heightened excitement. At last they’d discovered the whereabouts of the remaining members of the hybrid chain of command; and not just them, but it seemed all the hybrids still loyal to the war. The pack would have to move fast, but this could be a huge clear out; quite possibly the battle that would bring one side of this ungodly war to a shuddering climax.
The technology he’d invented had helped slaughter countless vampires over the centuries; it had played a major role in tracking down and eliminating almost all known hybrids on every continent with the exception of Europe. Now it had located the last of their kind. He could quite easily sit for hours and bathe in his own glory, but Max knew the pack’s leaders had to be told.
Tossing aside the dry section of hybrid skin, Max picked up an out-dated analogue telephone and made the most important phone call of his immortal life.
TEN
Alpbach
Tyrol Provence, Austria
During summer the picturesque village of Alpbach is often swamped by more than twenty thousand tourists eager to sample the wooded trails meandering over the valley’s mountain ranges. Located on a raised plateau on the sunniest side of the gorge, the hamlet basked in late afternoon heat streaming through a cloudless sky. Once named the most beautiful village in Austria, Alpbach was abloom with color: the balconies of its hotels and chalets streamed with flowers, almost every building in the village decked in a varied and colorful display. Pine forests decorated the lower reaches of the valley’s mountains, the peaks of which pointed lazily towards the static blue sky. Usually alive with tourists, Alpbach had a quiet, deserted feel to it.
Today, there was not a mortal soul in a village that usually holds two and a half thousand residents.
Constructed in the early eighteenth century the parish church of St. Oswald remained the village’s focal point, yet there’d never been a congregation like this before. Hybrids crowded the pews, every available seat taken by those members of the clan fortunate enough to find space inside the building. Anyone who’d failed to locate a bench seat was forced to stand around the perimeter walls, the aisle between pews cluttered with onlookers. The front pews contained the higher ranking hybrids in attendance, McCaw seated near the walkway.
Standing in the makeshift pulpit like a ghost of the clergyman who once presided over his worshippers, Simon Cain gazed across the gathering before him. Four thousand hybrids were present, the crowded mass spilling out of the church’s main door and onto the surrounding roads. A twinge of poignant discontent scratched through Cain’s normally unsympathetic emotions. This is all that is left of our once great legacy; such a shame that our potential has yet to be filled.
It would only be a matter of time, however. Once these official proceedings were finished with the task of strengthening clan numbers and formulating a battle plan, a strike back at their undead foes could begin.
Cain had dreamed of this moment since his twenty-fourth birthday: a modest time back in seventeenth century Hungary when the first true hybrids gathered in counsel to begin preparation for their arrival in this eternal war. Those plans would take two centuries to come to fruition, mainly due to disagreements within The Chosen, most of those arguments instigated by Cain himself. From those early days he’d known the clan would eventually be his; that he would be the sole commander. Of course, those early images of this moment did not show how depleted and vulnerable the clan would be, but he’d arrived at this monumental juncture regardless.
In five minutes the entire clan would be his, just as he’d hoped.
He wouldn’t allow himself to consider defeat, not even with so few supporters gathered in the village. Their number would be reduced by one more this afternoon, but Cain reminded himself it was for the good of the clan.
Tamara Wyatt knelt before the altar, her naked body peppered with cuts and bruises. Shafts of refracted sunlight spilled into the church to echo off her sweat-lacquered skin. Crouched forward, head between her knees, Tamara’s arms were pulled over her back, wrists shackled by heavy chains. Verdict had been passed—she’d been sentenced to death.
A just outcome for all concerned, Cain mused.
Casting his gaze over the congregation as the drone of applause that followed his speech gently subsided, Cain eventually focused on McCaw. His lieutenant sat cross-legged, arms folded over his chest. The man stared with contempt at Tamara’s defeated form, and the beginnings of a smile cracked Cain’s stern features. McCaw would make a good assistant, would probably be a great asset to Cain’s hopes of commanding the clan for eternity. Of course, he’d have to keep the officer under a tight rein; mortal history reminded Cain of how vulnerable a sole commander was to the threat of mutiny, and the immortal realm held a more volatile edge.
McCaw glanced up to meet his stare and the lieutenant smiled in return. At least there is someone in the higher reaches of this clan who understands the importance of t
his conflict.
McCaw had a good service record in the battles that had gone before, and he’d be an invaluable part of Cain’s plan for supernatural domination.
Extending his arms, Cain silenced the hum of mumbled voices. “The time has come! Judgment has been given, the sentence passed, and now the accused must face her justice.”
He looked down upon Tamara’s cowering form, yet failed to notice a flinch of terror. Ignoring his flash of disappointment, he turned from the crowded mass and descended the three steps from the pulpit.
“The cause of death has been decided,” Cain continued, putting on a show for the gathered hybrids. Once this spectacle was over, they’d all know who ruled the clan. He would make sure he’d never be displaced. Cain reached out and curled his fingers around the superbly crafted gold hilt of a Chinese saber. “One sweep of this sword; one cut, and justice will be done.”
Striding triumphantly in front of the altar, Cain deliberately slammed his shin into Tamara’s head. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, and for one anxious moment he thought she’d passed out. He glanced at her as he turned; watched her back rise, spine jutting against taut skin as she pulled a breath into her lungs. She didn’t pant with fear, and that annoyed him further. Using the sharpened point of the saber he stabbed a tangled lock of hair and lifted it from her face.
She blinked; defeated eyes gazing solemnly at the wooden platform she was shackled to.
Cain smiled. Stay awake, my dear; I want you to see this coming.
Afternoon sunlight blazed through four tall windows to illuminate the altar, its golden effigies of Jesus glinting as if surrounded by a mystical aura. The large fresco of Christ and his disciples dominated the wall behind him, eight candles slowly burning beneath the mural. The bench seats usually occupied by the choir had been pushed back to the wall to make room for Cain’s hastily constructed pulpit and to give him space to carry out the execution. Hybrid soldiers had cleared the altar floor and Tamara knelt before the crowd; submissive and apparently intent on facing her death with a quiet air of dignity.
There’s nothing dignified about losing your head, Cain mused. He enjoyed the humorous thought, but had to contain the smile of satisfaction that threatened to form.
A subtle murmur in the crowd reminded him of their impatience.
Gripping the sword with both hands, Cain ambled forward and touched the floorboards at Tamara’s head with the tip of the blade.
This is it; this is when a new era—my era—will commence and an old one fades into history.
Cain could barely control his excitement.
“Let justice be served!” Cain bellowed, and the congregation held its breath.
* * *
Tamara held focus with quiet determination, happy that she was able to contain the choking hands of fear. The whole trial had been a farce; an exhibition played out by Cain at her expense in order for him to gain sole command of the clan. Such an outcome distressed her. Tamara’s father, Samson, had been one of the first hybrids born, one half of his crossbreed blood coming from the pack’s former Alpha-Male, Cornelius. That bloodline had been passed to her, the lifeblood of the dominant lycanthrope giving her power and brutality, the unique genes of Samson himself bestowing upon her the tremendous gift of hybrid supremacy. She’d had the opportunity to experience the somewhat tamer surroundings of the mortal world, to gain a valuable education and to understand what it meant to be compassionate and determined within the same soul. Her father had given her that gift; the reward of a full life.
Those memories of her existence in New Zealand remained strong. At times during the fifteen years she’d been fighting this eternal war she wished she could have returned to those safer, more peaceful years. That wouldn’t happen, not with Cain leading the clan. He didn’t understand compassion or forgiveness, couldn’t reason with the suggestion of forming a lasting truce and possibly working towards a prosperous and serene future for all in the supernatural world. Tamara wondered that if she ever got the chance to strive for such a thing, could she make it possible, or had this war gone on for too long. The alarming thing seemed to be that the vampires and werewolves had found a way to apply some kind of amnesty amongst themselves but that appeared to be put in place for the sole purpose of destroying every last hybrid.
Due to the warmongering of Cain and the other members of counsel, the fate of all hybrids had no doubt been sealed centuries before Tamara had even been conceived.
Regardless of today’s events, nothing could be done to alter the course of this cursed war.
Hybrids, as a collective, were doomed.
Moving her eyes only, Tamara gazed through her strands of knotted, unkempt hair, and watched as a triumphant Cain approached her crouched figure.
He planted his feet on the creaking floor boards and steadied himself in preparation of swinging the curved blade.
Not long now.
When Cain’s goons shackled her to the floor a mere three hours ago, Tamara had appeared defeated; slumping against her persecutors as they dragged her to the bindings, offering no resistance to the sharp prods of their fists or the heels of their boots. She’d allowed them to place her on her knees, vulnerable before the congregation, and had not fought against the shackles they’d fixed to her wrists.
She’d not been as incapacitated as she’d made out.
Over the years she’d learned to control her transformations at will with as much ability as one of The Chosen. Three hours ago her bones had thickened and blood flowed into her muscles: not enough to distort her body, but sufficient for her captors to place the larger sized bindings onto her arms. During Cain’s pathetic self-important lecture to the crowded hybrids, Tamara had counted down to this second, the moment of her execution, and with each passing count she’d become more relaxed than before.
While Cain listened to the rapturous applause of his unstable brethren, Tamara’s hands became relaxed—and therefore small—enough that the shackles slipped easily off her wrists.
She hadn’t moved, hadn’t even smiled, but remained on her knees looking defeated and accepting of her impending death, hoping for an opportunity in which to take her chance.
Cain cleared his throat.
Tamara watched the blade leave the wooden floor, could imagine sunlight colored by the church’s stained-glass windows reflecting off steel as Cain lifted the saber above his head, as far back as he could, guaranteeing sufficient downward thrust to ensure decapitation with one blow.
She could sense Cain’s muscles tense as the hybrid commander prepared to strike.
As a group, the congregation held its breath, waiting in anticipation for the blade to come down and sever her head from its shoulders.
She needed an element of surprise: such as now!
Tamara exploded off her knees, transforming into a powerful beast in a split second. She made little sound; clasped her left hand onto Cain’s face and opened wide enough to bite the hybrid’s entire throat. Tamara chomped hard, severed muscles, tendons and ligaments in a single bite.
Shaking her head once, Tamara tore Cain’s throat out.
She let go of the hybrid commander. Cain staggered backwards a step, blood pumping in torrents from the torn carotid artery, his clothes flushing crimson. Disbelief and shock froze his expression into a pained grimace.
Tamara spat the section of hybrid flesh onto the altar’s wooden platform. Cain didn’t make a noise, his larynx mangled in the lump of throat on the floor.
A shocked gasp rippled throughout the congregation.
Immortals can regenerate quickly, but Cain would probably bleed to death before he had a chance to grow anything back.
Reaching out, Tamara grabbed what remained of Cain’s neck, squeezed, twisted, and yanked the third to sixth vertebrae clear of the spine.
Cain’s head thudded to the floor; his torso leaned against the steps to the pulpit.
A scrape of wood on concrete attracted her attention, movement flashing in her pe
riphery vision. Remaining altered, Tamara turned to the source, and the wind escaped her lungs as McCaw slammed into her.
The impact sent both hybrids sprawling backwards, their bodies slamming into the table at the far end of the altar that housed candles on its surface. Flames extinguishing, the candles toppled from their holders and a dollop of hot wax scolded Tamara’s side as it dropped onto her bare flesh. She paid no heed to the minor pain, the agony from McCaw’s claws raking lines across her back overriding all other sensations.
The crowded mass of enthralled hybrids roared their appreciation of the fight.
McCaw’s head must have slammed into the back wall because his body slumped momentarily, allowing Tamara to push him away. He staggered to his feet and shook his head as if to throw away a curtain of stars billowing in his vision. Seizing that small window of opportunity Tamara lunged forward, fingers tipped by talons extended to his flesh, jaw open ready to lock around his throat.
McCaw sidestepped, slammed his palms against her chest and flung Tamara to one side. His skin ripped under her nails, blood warming her digits, but he made no sound. Tamara tumbled to the floor but rolled and got to her feet in one elegant movement.
The abrupt demise of Simon Cain seemed to have been forgotten by the gathered mass, as their attention fixed to the battle for hybrid supremacy playing out before them on the altar.
Faking a charge, McCaw backed away. Tamara hissed at him, hot agony flaring across her back from the wounds his claws had made. Her life fluid trailed in sticky lines down her torso, a large stream running between her buttocks. She stared into his eyes, noting they continued to hold a dazed state. The impact against the church’s far wall must have stunned him more than she’d originally thought.
He stepped to his right, faked another charge, and Tamara flung herself at him.
McCaw evaded her again but this time she managed to drag both sets of talons along his torso, opening deep gashes in his clothing, digging lacerations along his chest and abdomen. Screeching in pain McCaw staggered away from the blow.
The Last Stand -- Blood War Trilogy Book III Page 10