She stared at her opponent, the older hybrid taller than her; a more physical presence. His arms and thighs seemed to ripple beneath his taut clothing, muscle movement confirming his body was still going through the throes of transformation. Hissing as he snapped his jaws, Tamara noticed for the first time how stunted his face was when in hybrid form, McCaw’s genes predominantly vampire.
This time he didn’t fake a charge but came for her, sprinting the short distance between them in under two seconds. Tamara didn’t back away, and met the challenge head on.
Both hybrids slammed into each other, McCaw’s fangs slicing deep gouges in Tamara’s shoulder, her own enlarged canines tearing flesh from his upper body. Their blood mingled, pouring from wounds both old and new. Muscular arms locked around each other, and for a moment it might have looked as if they were demented lovers grappling in a violent embrace.
Pain flourished in Tamara’s body, spurring her anger. The sweet scent of combined bloodlines filled the church, driving a primeval urge into her emotions. Fighting for purchase on his clothed body, Tamara ripped further wounds into a meshwork on McCaw’s back. He shook his head, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, and he tore a line of tissue on her shoulder but held on.
She clamped her jaws harder to his muscled body in order to keep the scream of agony trapped in her lungs.
Shifting his weight, McCaw tried to push her clear. Tamara countered his thrust, tore her shoulder free of his teeth and crawled onto his back, sending the subordinate hybrid sprawling face first to the bloodstained floor.
Her energy flowed in the blood that poured from her body, sapping her strength.
She had to end it.
Scrambling over his prone form—McCaw struggling for purchase on the gore-coated floor, his hands and feet sliding in layers of blood—Tamara lurched towards the headless torso of the clan’s once-great leader.
Her foot knocked into something and she stumbled, losing her balance. At first she thought McCaw had caught her, snagged her foot, but glancing down she realized she’d tripped over the head of Simon Cain. The commander’s eyes were still open, his jaw dropped as if death had frozen his countenance into an expression of intense shock.
A roar from behind alerted her to the fact McCaw had regained his footing and was coming at her again.
Body slick with sweat and coated with blood, Tamara reached up to Cain’s propped cadaver.
The aroma of the man’s arterial blood filled her nostrils, its stench stronger here where it coated the felled hybrid.
Footfalls slapped in the splattered blood, the wooden floor vibrating under her as McCaw charged, closing the distance with vampiric speed.
Tamara reached out, tore the saber from Cain’s grip and swung the blade.
A vibration shuddered in the sword’s hilt; just a glimmer of impact.
Whether through luck or some other form of divine intervention, Tamara’s instinctive blow was precise.
Retaining a snarl on grotesque features, McCaw’s head spiraled away from his shoulders and thudded into one of the tall, decorative windows leaving a large splatter of blood on the glass. His torso smacked into the wall beside her, crimson liquid flooding over the tattered remnants of his neck.
For a short moment Tamara sat on the floor of the church’s altar, the decapitated bodies of two tyrannical hybrids on either side. She panted with exertion, shock numbing her senses for a while. Deep cuts throbbed with agonized pulses across her back, the gouged flesh at her shoulder burning with pain.
A stunned silence descended upon the gathered hybrids, having watched a woman raised in a mortal environment defeat two pure-bred hybrids.
Wincing in pain she dragged her body up the church’s blood-stained wall and staggered to the center of the altar. Forcing a renewal of energy into her torn body, she gripped the sword tight and stared at the mass before her.
Altering her hybrid form just enough that she could talk, Tamara shouted: “Does anyone else wish to challenge my dominance?”
If the crowd rushed her she’d have no chance, and figured that if such a thing were to happen she’d accept her quick and violent death with a clear conscience. She’d defeated Simon Cain with her bare hands; the crowd now knew how dangerous she was.
No one moved. A murmur extended from the back, some hybrids glanced at each other as if determining who would make the first move, but none made to attack.
Her relief almost took the strength from her legs but Tamara held her stance.
“Then I offer you my command, if you offer me your allegiance.”
It started as a faint rumble that seemed to emanate from the back of the church, yet before long spread through the congregation to the front row of pews and out into the streets around the building. It didn’t become a cheer from the moment it formed, but once acceptance that they had a new leader finished its ripple through the crowd, applause and shouts of support reached a crescendo.
Tamara held her bloodied sword aloft and reveled in their support, unabashed by her nakedness, overwhelmed by the relief of survival.
A new sound filtered through the joyous chant, a shout of anger, the murmured voices of hybrids not taking too kindly to being shoved aside. Mumbling in annoyance the congregation parted, and a diminutive hybrid forced his way to the front. He stopped at the altar and surprised astonishment creased his features. He glanced first at Tamara and her naked blood-soaked form then cast his gaze over the headless corpses of his former leaders.
With a shake of his head as if to dispel disbelief and accept the scene before him, the slight-built hybrid knelt before his new commander.
“Your highness; I’m afraid I have distressing news.”
What now? Tamara asked him to stand, saw an expression of fear push aside the confusion and take control of the man’s face once more.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I think it’s best I show you, your highness. Follow me.”
Instead of leading her back through the crowded throng to the streets, the hybrid strode past her and headed for a small doorway set into the whitewashed church wall. After a short moment of hesitation, Tamara turned and followed.
A gray darkness settled beyond the door, the uneven stone steps of a spiral staircase leading upwards into the partial gloom. The church of St. Oswald had a tower, she remembered, and the hybrid was taking her to the building’s highest point.
She scrambled after the smaller hybrid, her sword scraping nosily across the tower walls. At the top of the spiral staircase a small wooden platform offered a podium on which to stand and look out of each window in the elongated square spire.
“Look, your highness, out there,” the hybrid said, pointing to one of the windows. “This is serious.”
Pushing him aside Tamara pressed her face to the glass.
Terrified shock snatched her breath and trapped it within her lungs.
When air finally left her, it exited in a blast of panic.
ELEVEN
Alpbach
Tyrol Provence, Austria
All four windows of the parish church’s tower offered spectacular views of Alpbach Valley. The north and south panes revealed the valley sides, encrusted with pine forests, rugged gray stone visible through breaks in the trees. The valley meandered away to the east, the staggered contours of peaks forming a horizon with the deep azure blanket of a cloudless sky. The foothills leading to the plateau upon which Alpbach is built were layered with lush grass interspersed with rows of trees, houses, chalets and hotels.
Tamara staggered at the sight before her along the valley to the east, but not because of its breathtaking scenery.
The areas of grassland usually visible were concealed under a crowded mass; rows upon rows of warriors grouped together like an ancient Roman army preparing for battle. Her hybrid eyesight was good enough that she could easily distinguish which of the gathering were werewolves and which of them were vampires. Stoic like sentries, each of them dressed in combat leathers a
nd a long trench coat, the vampire Eliminators awaited their orders with a silent determination. The lycanthropes had stripped naked, already having shed the confinement of clothing, ready to transform into feral monsters. A number of werewolves stood in a line that stretched along the front of the crowding combatants, jerking on leashes as they struggled to control the untamed desire of tethered animals: wolves snarled and pulled against their restraints, barking as if each canine had been overcome with rabies.
“Oh my god,” Tamara whispered. “How did they find us?”
She moved away from that window and pushed her face against the one looking north. Houses and hotels stretched to her left, yet straight ahead, about three hundred meters from the church, a sporadic coating of pine trees failed to hide her enemies gathered in shade thrown down by the forest. These warriors had wolves too, the animals turning and snapping in a frantic desire to be unleashed.
Moving to the next window, gazing to the west, Tamara stared across the rooftops of Alpbach’s deserted hamlet to a line of trees about five hundred meters away. The stretch of woodland followed the course of a stream, the area overflowing with vampires so much that the creatures spilled from the trees onto the green field that sloped towards the village.
“They’re everywhere,” the smaller hybrid said as he stepped aside to allow Tamara access to the south facing window. “They’ve got us surrounded.”
The main road into Alpbach headed south towards the thoroughfare that traveled the length of the valley. Extensive forests bordered the highway, and in its gloomy depths she could easily make out the impatient movement of naked werewolves amid the statuesque figures of vampires.
Damn that fucking Simon Cain all the way to hell! The fool had brought her here, drugged and incapacitated, and now she was faced with this precarious situation; and not just her but the entire clan.
“They’ve not made contact,” the hybrid said. “They’ve not offered us the choice to surrender.”
“Surrender?” Tamara said, pushing away from the window. She hurried across the platform to the staircase. “They won’t allow us to surrender you fool! They’re going to kill us all.”
Tamara scrambled down the steps, panic pushing breath from her in shallow gasps. Adrenalin kicked in, dampening the pain from her wounds. She had to deploy her troops, had no other option; they’d have to defend their position or fight their way out.
“Shit,” Tamara whispered, fighting to control the rising fear. “How the hell did they ever find us?”
* * *
The murmur of water caressing submerged rocks whispered from the stream, and the rustle of leaves became the rhythm to which foliage danced with the wind. The serenity of this location, its beauty and warmness, was a false portent for the slaughter soon to come.
The calm before the storm, Markus mused.
He looked to his right and admired his wife; the tight leather combat outfit defining her athletic figure perfectly. She preferred not to wear a long coat like many of the other vampires, claiming it obstructed her in battle. Gripping her sword with one hand, she clutched a coiled whip with the other. She’d tied her long hair into a ponytail, her face exposed in a look that added more beauty to already gorgeous features. Markus offered a silent prayer to the dead Elders that she would be protected during the fight.
Markus didn’t want her to join him in battle but she insisted. Such a beautiful, fair maiden, Ilanna was also a cold-hearted killer when she needed to be.
A sense of eager impatience rippled through the Eliminators crowding at his back. The moment of conflict was upon them and the vampires were keen to get on with things. Sometimes waiting for the battle cry became harder than fighting for your life.
There were no werewolves in Markus’s contingent of troops. He forbade it, had no desire to accompany lycanthropes side-by-side into battle. He relished slicing through the hybrid mass gathered in the small town, but if he happened across a werewolf standing in his path Markus wondered if he’d have the discipline to contain his age-old hatred and not decapitate the feral creature where it stood.
Glancing further to his right, down the sloping hill to the valley basin, he spotted Anton’s group huddled in the trees near the main highway. The superior Eliminator and his soldiers stood like regimental statues, patiently waiting for the final order to be given. It made Markus proud. The werewolves among the pines paced back and forth, slapping each other in the chest and giving high-fives. Uncoordinated, undisciplined animals, Markus thought.
Halfway up the northern foothills Trace commanded a group of lycanthropes strengthened by vampire numbers, and Markus eyed the dog handlers as they struggled to control the wolves they’d brought with them. Instead of sweeping into town and dispatching their enemy with a callous, precise swiftness, the lycanthropes seemed intent on creating a bloodbath. Wild wolves and bloodthirsty werewolves would make for a gore fest.
Isaac had gathered on the other side of Alpbach, but Markus couldn’t detect the Alpha-Male’s army from where he stood. It baffled him as to how Isaac had obtained the information that the hybrid clan had gathered here, a fact that made Markus trust the lycanthrope even less. It seemed the pack knew too much about everything, a situation that caused an uncomfortable sense of nervous tension to flood his bones.
The sound of commotion drifted through the inert summer air, wafting up the valley from the heart of Alpbach. The hybrids had been alerted to their presence but that mattered not. This wasn’t a covert operation where surprise was of the essence. They’d intended on walking into town, in full view of the gathered hybrids, and slaughter every last one without a twinge of regret.
Panicked figures hurried through the village streets, taking defensive positions in buildings and gardens. Initial estimates were between three and four thousand crossbreeds packed into the town. With almost six thousand vampires and werewolves—and at least a hundred wolves—surrounding the sleepy hamlet Markus had little doubt about the battle’s outcome.
Only a miracle would save the half-breeds now.
* * *
Fingernails slid noiselessly from under skin that reddened with the change, keratin hardening further as her nails sharpened into claws. Deanna scraped talons across the rough bark of a pine tree, her gaze fixed on the village no less than three hundred meters from the tree line.
Simon Cain was down there; maybe now she could avenge her parents’ deaths.
Despite spending a year as a lycanthrope, getting used to her new identity and place within the pack, the memories of her old life remained strong and detailed. Even now the nightmares continued to plague her, images as real as the day she’d discovered Mom and Dad, visions of their torn bodies and Cain’s horrific, divested body. Not even the wolf within could swamp her desire for revenge; maybe the lycanthrope she’d become made that need for retribution all the stronger.
She wasn’t running anymore; now she would stand up and fight.
Shifting her gaze from the village Deanna studied the naked form of Trace standing ten yards to her right. Muscular and bronzed, his skin ran slick with sweat. She eyed his buttocks and imaged what they looked like last night; taut and dimpled each time he thrust into her. Although shade from the trees cast a shadow over his back, Deanna could make out the red lines her nails had made in his skin as she’d urged the superior werewolf to fuck her harder. All those years as a human hiding from a failed teenaged relationship, all those years of deceit as she’d given her body to females in the hope she could hide her fear of commitment, only to fall into the bed of a dominant supernatural creature and give herself fully to the beast within.
Dampness coated her inner thighs and Deanna had to tear her gaze away from the werewolf. This wasn’t the time to indulge in lustful fantasies. Looking back down the slope into town, she watched hybrids scatter from the church and disperse into the village.
The wolves tethered to their masters noticed the movement too and snarled with a deeper enthusiasm. Feet sliding on the forest flo
or, the handlers struggled to keep the animals subdued.
In a way she understood the wolves’ impatience. Stepping away from the tree she willed the change to remain dormant for a few minutes longer, until Isaac gave the call for battle, but found it almost impossible to dilute the sensation. Over the last twelve months she’d become more accustomed to the metamorphosis, but pain surged through her body regardless as her limbs snapped in a premature transformation. No one else around her had altered; the vampires present shot a glance of disgust in her direction as if they expected her to show more restraint.
She likened this moment to riding the crest of a shuddering orgasm: a point when anticipation was to be savored for as long as possible yet what little self-control still remained was about to be swamped by natural instinct.
A groan rumbled in her throat.
Deanna staggered against the tree as her body surrendered to the beast.
* * *
Like the steady drone of heavy machinery the panicked cries of hybrids filtered from the hamlet. Isaac stood patiently, brilliant sun warming his naked flesh, lazy mountain air disturbed by the whine and growling of agitated wolves.
Lycanthropes prowled among ranks of stationary vampires, thirsting for the battle to come.
Deserted houses stretched along the small road to his left, the properties already searched. Through obvious stupidity the hybrids had failed to station lookouts along any road leading into Alpbach or in any house bordering the town’s outskirts. Whatever meeting or entertainment they’d been indulging in at the church had been enjoyed by all and left the gates wide open for Isaac’s gathering armies to position their troops and surround the hapless crossbreeds.
The speed at which both the pack and the coven deployed their troops to this remote valley in Austria had impressed him. No more than five hours had passed since Max relayed the information he’d obtained, and already they were moments away from claiming a final, famous victory. With so many men at his disposal, werewolves and vampires, those loyal wolves from Germany and the Balkan states, Isaac felt certain this afternoon’s conflict would be violent and short-lived.
The Last Stand -- Blood War Trilogy Book III Page 11