Breed: Slayer

by Sandra Seymour

Mad Scientists

  I’M SHAKEN BY the experience enough to make no further attempts to wander the compound, for now. I must remember not to underestimate Faruk, and to be subtler when he is around.

  I ignore the cold stone bed in my cell and stand by the door. This cell is designed to hold a trueblood vampire; or more likely a dhampir like me, based on the hole in the floor. There’s no point in forcing my way out right now, but I spend a few minutes testing its strength just in case it becomes necessary later. I hope it won’t be. I reckon I could weaken the door enough to get out, but the effort would take so much out of me, I wouldn’t be much use afterward. I start chipping at the stone around the hinge side with my nails, just in case. It’s something to do.

  While I work on the stone, I wonder how they intend to kill me, and whether I can get Libby out before it happens. I’m not going to let them turn her into one of them knowing how she feels about that. I wouldn’t put it past them to make her watch me die, just for fun. I have no illusions about Falk’s intent. He may have granted me a stay of execution, but that is what he has planned for me.

  Thinking about Libby reminds me of Falk’s reference to her. Why would he call her a witch? What does he mean? Neither Libby nor Howard has ever suggested that she’s anything other than human. She’s never shown any sign of having any powers. It doesn’t make sense.

  Nothing much makes sense. I still haven’t forgotten about Father Patrick and the dead reporter, Dillon’s jumbled visions, or the fact Sam and The Breed are unlikely to simply overlook this incident and carry on as normal, but those concerns are pushed to the back of my mind. I have a whole new set of questions to worry about now.

  Is Quidel the friend Howard referred to who sent Vlad to him? That would explain why he seems to be the only one not surprised to see him after all these years. Are we in Romania? That’s my guess, but if this is the heart of the vampire nation, why are there so few truebloods here? Why so many humans? Is this a military base, run by humans and vampires? In which case, why are the human authorities allowing the kind of experimentation that is going on? And who is Princess Lilleth? Why won’t she intervene on behalf of, what did he call it, a Strigoi? Did he mean Howard, Libby, or me?

  I keep running the same questions over and over in my mind, but I’m not getting any closer to answers. I have withdrawn so far into myself, I’m startled when the iron door swings open. The dim, purple light in the lab burns my eyes, and I am stiff and cold. I must have been here hours.

  HOWARD WAITS WITH a three-strong vampire guard. He holds out his hand to me and I move forward. He puts a protective arm behind my back and we walk in silence deep into the lab. Down one wall are large cabinets, filled with bags of blood, saline solutions and other liquids, plus various bottles and jars. Three rows of long benches are scattered with the paraphernalia of various experiments; Bunsen burners, microscopes, and other less familiar equipment, though all of it looks out-dated. There are several seats which could be dentist’s chairs, except for the arm and leg restraints. The metal tables remind me of a morgue.

  Tilda is standing beside a cage, where a mouse sits in the centre.

  “Vlad?” I ask Howard and he nods.

  “Max gave birth during the day. She had a litter of four, but one died. The other three are healthy and well, though it is too early to tell yet how they will turn out. It will be at least a week before I can begin working with them.”

  Tilda turns towards him. Her eyes narrow but she forces a smile. It brings no warmth to her face, and makes its escape after only the briefest appearance.

  “Howard darling, come here,” she doesn’t wait and moves to him, giving him a big hug. She steps back and forces the same smile at me. If anything, this one is even colder and less enduring than the last. “And you must be Maxine Laska.”

  “Tornicasa,” I correct her automatically, and then remember what Falk said. “As you are Tornicasa it falls to me to decide your fate.” Howard called him grandfather, and she called him father. Tilda must be Falk’s pet, and Howard’s sire; or should that be mare? I have to hide a smile at the comparison of this stunning woman to a horse. So, this is the vampire my father abandoned for my mother and me. Finally, something is starting to make sense. Okay, so it’s a small piece in an insane picture, but it’s a start. It gives me something to pin the other pieces on.

  I can imagine it must have been a blow to her pride, losing Howard to Libby. Libby may have a homely warmth to her look, like me, but she really doesn’t hold a candle to this woman.

  Tilda looks to be in her late thirties, even though I know to have turned Howard she must be over three hundred. She is effortlessly beautiful, with that free flowing hair, and the palest icy blue eyes matching her flawless porcelain skin. She is taller than me, around five nine, and slender, but with generous breasts beneath the low-cut, cornflower, flowing dress she is wearing; for Howard’s benefit, no doubt.

  I wonder if she gave birth to a child, long lost to time now, in her human years. That would account for the habitual downward turn to her mouth, giving her a pouting, petulant look. Somehow, even that slight flaw doesn’t detract from her allure, adding an air of childlike vulnerability that would make most men fall over themselves to protect her.

  “Really. Howard, whatever were you thinking?” She doesn’t wait for an answer though, and turns back to the mouse again instead.

  I look past her to the back wall of the lab. Various sized cages are arranged along it, from little larger than the mouse cage, right up to three or four around eight feet tall, about six feet deep, by four feet wide. There are humans in them; insipid, hairless, and red-eyed creatures. They all have dark circles under their eyes, and some have fangs. I shudder. Obviously, they see humans as nothing more than animals to be tested on. A vision of the couple from the cafe arguing over house prices reduced to this floods my mind, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I clench my jaw and flex my hands as my blood begins to rush.

  Tilda notices and follows my gaze.

  “You disapprove.” It’s not a question. She looks from me to Howard, and raises her eyebrows. “I know you haven’t given up your research,” she continues speaking to him as if I were not there, her interest and amusement in me nothing more than a passing whim. “What have you been using? Mice?”

  She laughs as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks down.

  “Oh, really Howard, and what do you expect to learn from them?”

  “Modern science and medicine have progressed, Tilda,” Howard’s words are sharp. “None of this,” he gestures around the lab, “is necessary anymore.”

  “Necessary, Howard?” Tilda’s eyes narrow and she turns on him. Her face looks like a marble statue contorted in rage. Now I see how easily Howard could have chosen Libby over this monster.

  “Who are you to decide what is necessary to our survival? You abandoned us years ago, remember? If you were not so well thought of by Quidel, you would all be dead already, and I would have been able to do nothing to save you. I would have lost you again.”

  Howard hangs his head, unable to meet her glare. She tosses her head and storms out of the lab. Her dress and hair float out behind her. What a drama queen.

  As she leaves, she passes Falk on his way in. I have time to take in his appearance properly for the first time, and I have to admit, he is impressive.

  HE STANDS A good head over Tilda. He must be at least six foot five, and he strides purposefully. His choice of clothes could be better. He must be too old for those ridiculous leather trousers and the black high-collared open neck shirt by now?

  Still, for a great-grandfather, he carries it off well. His skin is creamy, like Howard’s, but his colouring is otherwise darker. His black hair is quite long but slicked back to his head, giving it an oily, painted-on effect. At least he doesn’t have the widow’s peak, though; that would make him look like a classical vampire stereotype. I could just imagine him in the long, black cloak, flashes of crimso
n lining accentuating his stride.

  He looks from Tilda to Howard and coughs out a single, “Ha!” His face hardens when he looks at me, and that stereotype is suddenly too close for comfort.

  “Ah, the prodigal son.” Falk folds his hands in front of his body, and looks at Howard for what seems like an age before he speaks again.

  “Quidel tells me you use her blood in your experiments, and that she may be of use to us yet. He also tells me your search for a cure has turned up some interesting results; results which could be of benefit to us. Our scientists are working through your notes as we speak, but they need more blood.”

  He nods towards me and four lab technicians, all vampires, move in to grab me. He isn’t interested in getting my consent first. I shrug them off. Surely, he doesn’t imagine four lousy vampires are enough to subdue me?

  Howard splutters, “You are insane. Do you realise the danger? To us, not just to them? You will kill us all, you fool.”

  Falk snarls and moves in a blur. In an instant, he has Howard pinned to a wall, his fangs pressing into Howard’s neck, before he regains control. He releases his grip on Howard and steps back, but not enough for Howard to stand straight.

  “Then you must help us. It is your research, after all. You have a greater understanding of the dangers. You can guide us through the pitfalls.” Falk speaks imperiously. He doesn’t expect to be contradicted.

  “No,” Howard’s reply is barely audible.

  “As you wish,” Falk’s surprise registers in the raising of his eyebrows, but he turns and waves an arm at me with no further comment.

  The four vampires close in on me. A few more join them, running in from the back of the lab. The new ones are carrying steel rings on poles. One jumps on my back, and two more grab my arms. I pull my arms free and reach behind me, grabbing the ears of the one on my back. I haul him off, and propel him across the lab in a single motion. He flies through the air and lands on a bench. He skitters across the top of it, like a stone on the surface of a pond, breaking a few glass jars and vials along the way, before sliding off the end of it head first, his feet sticking up over the edge.

  As I straighten up I feel the steel rope tighten around my neck and reach up to rip it off. Then the ropes tighten around my wrists. I shriek as a jolt of electricity runs through me and I fall to my knees.

  “But you should consider it would be better for her if you were involved.”

  Falk is looking at Howard, as I glare up at him. He peers down at me as if I were a rabid dog.

  Howard turns to me, his brows knit above his nose, and I shake my head. The restraints may pose an unexpected challenge, but I reckon I could force my way out of them if I had to. Another wave of pain shoots through me. I grit my teeth and refuse to scream. My body starts to spasm but my lips stay firmly closed. When the pain subsides, I shake my head again. It’s bad, but I’ve felt worse.

  Howard looks from me to Falk.

  “No.”

  Falk simply shrugs and turns to walk away.

  “Have it your way.”

  Howard makes as if to move towards me, but I shake my head. He stops and I nod towards the door. I don’t want him to witness anything that might happen next. He takes a few steps, pauses, and looks back at me. He opens his mouth to speak but, changing his mind, he bites the side of his lip and his head tips to one side. He looks from the door back to me, but when I nod again, he turns and leaves.

  THE VAMPIRE SCIENTISTS start civilly enough, with lasers like the one Doctor Chan used. Then, when they realise just how quickly I heal, and that it will be a long process to get the blood they need, they resort to more drastic measures. I’m not about to help them, since Howard didn’t seem to like their plans.

  Using the electric collar and cuffs, they force me into one of the chairs. They fasten the iron restraints, which I learn when I try to break out of them also deliver a hefty charge. I wish I’d forced the point when they only had the ropes on me. I don’t think I can get out of these, at least while they’re pumping juice. The shock has given me a throbbing headache, and they have some inventive ways of keeping my veins open; mostly involving lasers, clamps, and various kinds of acid.

  When they move from dripping acid onto my skin to an intravenous solution, I feel like I’m burning from the inside. These bastards are determined and sadistic. They might just find a way to kill me. To fend off a rising sense of panic, I fall back on bravado and start taunting them.

  “Is that all you got?” I yell at one, but he calmly ignores me. Still, apparently, it is all they have, because nothing else they do comes close to the burning fire in my veins. After the first few minutes my body adjusts so it’s more uncomfortable than painful, so long as I don’t try to move and touch the iron restraints.

  It’s taken them a couple of hours to collect as many pints of blood, when a short skinny one walks in to collect it.

  He looks at the blood, then at one of the others and they look from the blood to the drip they have pumping acid into me. They are communicating telepathically. After a few moments, the skinny one shakes his head.

  “It’s no good, the blood will be contaminated, you must start again,” he shrugs and walks out.

  The other one sighs and removes the drip. My relief is short-lived, though, as after that things turn nasty. They stop trying to take blood from the vein and just start slicing my arms and legs, using scalpels fashioned from trueblood fingernails, collecting what they can in vials before the wounds heal and they slice again. The next few hours are agony.

  When the pain gets too much, I try to leave my body, only to find the electric collar is blocking my ability to project. Even worse, even though it’s a simple circuit, I can’t disable it while the current is passing through me, and they are not turning it off, taking no chances.

  Eventually their shift ends, and they drag me back to the cell behind the iron door. I fall into a stupor exhausted, and am unaware of time passing. I hear screams and feel the abject terror of human victims. Thinking they should consider themselves lucky - what the scientists are doing to them is nothing compared to what they did to me - I block them out. I don’t need to share in their suffering and misery; I have enough of my own. My neck is sore, and even without the current passing through me, I can’t detach my spirit to find out what’s going on. I’m truly trapped in this wretched cell.

  MY HEAD SWIMS, and the images Dillon showed me resurface. It starts out predictably enough with slayers and vampires hacking each other to pieces, and a few humans getting caught in the crossfire. As the humans become more numerous, I notice some of them with cross symbols on their chests. They look like the cross Father Patrick wore around his neck. Paladins? Others wear the Sacred Heart, which I recognise because it’s like the one Libby wears. Mixed in with the images of violence are snatches of TV announcements made by various world leaders. I wish I had taken more interest in human politics. Although their faces seem vaguely familiar, I couldn’t tell you which one belonged to which country, except for the obviously Chinese military leader, and the Pope.

  As the explosions and piles of bodies grow more extreme, so the symbols become more pronounced. A third group, all bearded, wear a symbol that looks like a cross, but with three bars, a shorter one above a longer one at the top of the upright, and a third at the bottom, slanted. I’ve seen that symbol before, in another vision, or a dream.

  Still more symbols appear, and I understand what Dillon was trying to show me. The fallout from the spat between The Breed and The Coven seems to be setting off a chain of events leading to a religious war among the humans. We’re talking crusades revisited here, and somehow Father Patrick is at the heart of it.

  It’s only when the vision of the bearded cleric lighting the pyre resurfaces I realise where I’ve seen the strange cross symbol before, and that some of these visions are new. They haven’t all come from Dillon. I dreamed about the burning witch, just before the vampires arrived, didn’t I? I felt the flames. Maybe Dillon sa
w something in my mind that I didn’t know was there, and triggered my own visions. Any doubts I had about these being premonitions are gone.

  As the images fade and I come back to the present, my head clears. I can scan the compound. It’s still daytime, and there are only humans around. None of them seem to be thinking about anything that helps me understand what is going on, though.

  EVENTUALLY, MOST OF the humans leave the base, replaced by the undead night shift. Dusk must be falling. I still can’t figure out why the human authorities would allow vampires the run of a military installation, but obviously, there are some advantages. Like twenty-four hour operations with limited heating and lighting requirements.

  The thought makes me shiver, realising just how cold this stone cell is. That sets off a spasm in my stomach; I haven’t eaten in two and a half days, and I threw up my last meal. My throat is parched, and even trying to swallow is painful. I think about food, trying to generate enough saliva to get rid of the dry, grating sensation, but that just makes the pain in my gut more intense. I’m getting lightheaded and cast my mind outward again to distract myself.

  A conversation between a vampire and a captive human catches my attention.

  “You must have known it would come to this, witch. You could never have held on to him forever, human as you are.”

  “Please just leave, Matilda.”

  “What, and deny myself the pleasure of seeing for myself the incomparable beauty of Libby Laska, daughter of the Strigele again?” Tilda’s hostility is obvious, even without the benefit of vision. “No, I think not. Look at you, the younger woman. Your charms are long faded. Do you imagine he will choose you over me again this time?”

  Libby laughs, a gentle laugh, apparently bearing her rival no malice.

  “Ah, Tilly, I never could compete with your looks, even in my younger days. There was no beauty on my side to tempt him. Perhaps, Strigoi, it was your coldness that drove him from you?”