Curse of Souls (Warrior of Souls Book 1)

by S Mays

  “No intention? This guy makes Varulf look like a puppy. No offense, Varulf.”

  “I’m going, Izzy,” Sverre said. His voice was firm.

  “I’d like to go with you, but I sorta like living. After this haul, I plan on livin’ pretty well, too. But maybe Bilford, here, can send in some Order troops with you,” she said.

  Bilford shook his head. “No, the deal was for Sverre to go alone. I can’t risk my granddaughter’s life, but perhaps our werewolf friend, here, will let us know where the vampire lord’s base of operations is…?”

  “No. I will not give that information to the likes of you, wizard. I have no love of you or your organization. No matter if my own life or those of my pack are at risk, I won’t help you,” Varulf growled.

  “I wish we had more time to investigate your abilities and your new weaponry, my boy. I don’t think you will be able to use it just yet, but I’ve been wrong about you in the past. I’m ashamed for what I have done. I let one of our greatest enemies gain the upper hand over us, and I have the feeling I’m sending you to a fate worse than death,” Bilford admitted.

  Sverre walked over to the elderly man and clasped both Bilford’s shoulders tightly, an earnest look of admiration on his face.

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Bilford,” he said, chuckling. “If things don’t work out, I want you to take care of Chewy for me. Hopefully, I won’t return as some kind of zombie or vampire underling or something like that, because those guys are really pretty lame as far as monsters go.”

  Bilford’s dismal expression disappeared as he burst into laughter. “I’ve never met anyone who is as detached from the seriousness of a situation as you are. I don’t know if it results from what dwells within you or if you are simply a very odd individual.”

  “Bilford, no matter what you’ve done, or what the Order has done, I think you are one of the good guys. There’s something rotten within this organization, and it’s going to take guys like you to fix it. I don’t know if I agree anymore with what the Order stands for, but maybe people like you and Jessica can change it. I’ve seen some things that make me think the Order isn’t as pure and holy as it presents itself to be, and I’m not even talking about the traitors within the organization.”

  “You know, these recent years have left me with some doubts myself. I’m honored you have such faith in me, my boy. I don’t know how many years I have left in me, but I hope I can make a difference in that time,” Bilford confided.

  Sverre then turned to the young woman to his right. “Izzy, we haven’t known each other long, but I can at least say it’s been one hell of a time. I don’t know how you do the things you do, but you’ve opened my eyes to —” Sverre started to say, but he was interrupted when she grabbed him by the back of his head and pulled him in for a kiss. “Mmphh!” he sputtered before giving in.

  Once she released him, she said, “And I’ve known a lot of wisecracking wannabe bad-asses in my time, but you might be the weirdest one. I think you’re a pretty good guy too. I…I wish I could go with you, but I’ve got my own business to finish up. If by some miracle you make it out alive, you come look me up. I think we’d be an unstoppable team.”

  Sverre turned to Hoss and Valkyrie. “Thanks for risking yourselves for me. I didn’t expect that from people I’d just met.”

  Hoss explained, “It doesn’t matter if I had known you for fifty years or five minutes. Once you are an Underworlder, you are part of the family for life. You proved your worth when you risked yourself for me and mine.” Valkyrie nodded her agreement, smiling. Her wounds had closed completely, but blood still smeared her armor and face.

  “Boy, it is time to go. My pack may need me,” Varulf interrupted. With one final look, Sverre waved goodbye to his companions and left.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MARV smoked and sparked at the neck and shoulders, where its head and arms used to be. “Aww, you guys killed MARV!” Sverre complained.

  “It sought to stop us, so it had to be disabled,” Varulf said.

  Sverre looked at the robot’s four mangled arms on the ground. Two of them held the rifles the robot had carried on its back.

  “I bet Drake is going to be pissed,” Sverre commented, eyeing the dismantled robot.

  “It is of no concern to me,” the werewolf said, striding past the wreckage.

  Varulf’s aircraft looked to be even more advanced than the one Drake had assigned to them. “Doesn’t anyone drive a car anymore?” Sverre joked.

  “The vampire lord’s technology is unrivaled, even by the Order. We of clan Cen’Ful rarely use the weaponry he has at his disposal. It is cowardly to fight your enemies from afar. Fang and claw are the only honorable forms of combat for a wolf. We usually shun transport such as this, but it was required that we use it in this situation.”

  The two werewolves accompanying Varulf shifted into their human forms and climbed into the aircraft. One was a man of medium build with dark hair. He might have been in his early thirties. The other was slightly fat and balding, maybe in his forties. He looked like he had seen a lot of battles. Varulf remained in his wolf form. The aircraft’s suspension visibly compressed as he entered. He sat in the center of the rear seat. Sverre and the other two squeezed onto the other bench seat.

  “Don’t like to leave yourself vulnerable?” Sverre probed.

  “This is my only form now. The weak pink simian form no longer applies to me. You are beginning to annoy me again, boy,” Varulf said.

  Sverre wondered what he meant by “only form.”

  The jet quickly climbed vertically, then began its ascent at a dizzyingly steep incline. Sverre grabbed the seatbelt harness to prevent himself from being tossed into Varulf’s lap. The change in altitude resulted in a building discomfort in his ears. Working his jaw around, he removed the pressure building up in his sinuses. Neither of his seat companions were bothered by the pressure change, or at least they gave no indication if they were. Once the ascent began to level out, Varulf nodded to the chubby man to Sverre’s right. He unhooked his harness and deftly climbed into the cockpit. The aircraft jerked unexpectedly several times, as if hitting severe turbulence, then changed course.

  “We will go to our village first to assess the situation. Then we will take you to Dragos.”

  The trip was uneventful, made more so by the fact that the werewolves did not speak. Sverre attempted to make small talk, but neither of the men acknowledged his greetings. Wisely, he chose to leave Varulf alone. He supposed it was because he was technically their prisoner, but they didn’t have to be jerks about it. He craned his head to see the landscape far below changing to the rugged mountains of Tennessee. That meant they were getting close.

  Ten minutes later, the craft began its descent into the rocky Smoky Mountains. The irony dawned on him that he had finally reached the destination he had sought months ago, but as a prisoner of the ones he had sworn to destroy.

  “Our village is well-protected by the rocky hillsides of this area, which prevents aircraft from landing. Unfortunately, that means we’ll have to run to the village. The trek is several miles through thick underbrush. You will come with us. I do not trust you by yourself with the pilot. However, you will slow us down tremendously, so you will hold on to me as we travel,” Varulf explained.

  “You want me to ride you?” Sverre asked, incredulous.

  The large werewolf snarled. “No one ‘rides’ me. You will hang around my neck. I suggest you use that strength you displayed back when we fought, or you may fly off into a tree. I would hate to have to return your corpse to Dragos.”

  The man in the cockpit remained with the aircraft, keeping the pilot under strict observation. Sverre, Varulf, and the third soldier exited the craft. “Olavi will stay with the pilot. You, Abraham, and I will go to the village. Do not interfere with our business, or I will break both of your arms,” Varulf warned.

  Sverre swallowed hard before jumping up onto Varulf’s back. Varulf’s densely muscled fo
rm was like grappling a mobile granite statue.

  “Much harder!” Varulf bellowed, grabbing Sverre’s arm. Sverre tightened his grip until he thought he might choke the beast. Varulf did not flinch or show any sign of discomfort.

  “We go,” he shouted. His foot impacted the ground with such force that it left a footprint three inches deep in the hard dirt. Despite his bone-crushing grip, Sverre was almost dislodged immediately, but managed to stay attached.

  The two werewolves burst through the forest with the speed of true wolves, tearing through small brush, leaping over large obstacles, and rebounding off and up trees for short distances. Their speed was incredible. Sverre had to lock his legs around Varulf to keep them from slamming against the wood and rock throughout the forest. He turned his head down to avoid being smacked in the face by branches, essentially molding himself to Varulf’s body. His arms began to get tired after ten minutes.

  Fortunately, they reached their destination only moments later. He couldn’t believe they had traveled that distance on foot through a forest in such a short period. An ATV or motorcycle would have been slower.

  Varulf shrugged, throwing Sverre from his back onto the hard ground. Rubbing his rear, Sverre slowly got to his feet, ready to start issuing a string of complaints, but upon observing Varulf’s demeanor, he thought better of it.

  The large werewolf padded off to the village, his nose leading him. He changed direction sporadically, following the invisible scent trails left earlier in the day. Observing footprints, blood splatters, and other indicators, he recreated the events that had transpired hours earlier.

  Huts and other structures lay in ruins. Trampled vegetation was evident all around. Sverre walked through the area, keeping his distance from Varulf and Abraham, worried he might do something to anger them. There was evidence of struggles and resultant injuries in some areas. The true mystery was the state of the buildings.

  There was not much left of them. They appeared to be hundreds of years old. Only a few scraps of wood and cloth remained. Varulf stooped to dig a claw into the decayed wood.

  “It is called Agent Black, a chemical that rots away matter in a short period. It is most effective on inorganic material or dead cells. The Order uses it to clean up after themselves,” the large wolf said, standing again to survey the village.

  A wooden beam cracked, crashing to the ground. The decomposition had slowed, but continued. By morning, the village he and his kin had worked so hard to create over the past years would be nothing but a memory.

  “Most left of their own accord. A few fought. I do not understand. The Order does not show mercy. This was not an attack.”

  “Maybe they were captured and taken to a holding facility?” Sverre suggested.

  Varulf’s eyes narrowed. “My pack would not allow that. They would have fought to the last child.”

  “Sire!” Abraham shouted from near the edge of the village. Sverre and Varulf turned to see another figure emerge from the forest.

  “Janir,” Varulf muttered with contempt. The strongest members of the pack were trained as warriors. The weaker and smaller ones were trained as scouts. Janir was the weakest, most cowardly, and smallest of all of the males of the pack. A wolf runt. He was loyal, but always returned from hunts and missions full of excuses and disappointment.

  “I-I ran. I’m sorry, I... they didn’t…” Janir rambled in fear, his eyes darting around the village. His fur was caked with mud and leaves from the forest. A loud crack echoed across the village from Varulf’s backhanded slap. Janir focused and looked up at Varulf as if seeing the giant for the first time.

  “I’m sorry, sire. I…” he started to say, stopping when Varulf’s hand reared back again.

  “Report, scout!” Varulf boomed. The command steadied the shaken young man.

  “Sire, I was out hunting for game when I saw three large troop transports fly overhead toward the village. I thought the Order had finally come for us, as we had feared. I raced back to the village, but I was many miles away. By the time I arrived back, most of the pack had been loaded into the transports. The soldiers may have been under the control of Mr. Davies. I did not see him personally, but his scent lingered on some of the men.”

  “Why did the village leave with them? Why wasn’t I informed of this?” Varulf demanded.

  “I do not know. Tarja led the evacuation. Thuur and Nico attempted to put a stop to it. There was a ferocious fight between them and some of the pack and the armored soldiers. They…were murdered on Tarja’s command.”

  “What?” Varulf bellowed. “Tarja…did this?”

  “I-I am ashamed. I followed them to their ships, but I did not know what to do. I could not attack my fellow pack members or Lady Tarja,” Janir said, his voice trembling.

  Varulf looked down upon the young shaken wolf. His first thought was to knock the young wolf across the clearing or to rip his heart out. Yet his pack was gone, his village in ruin. This wolf remained and was loyal. Despite all of his talk of peace and compassion that he preached to others, his mind still told him to kill and maim, even those he should embrace. He shook his head in shame.

  Clasping his huge hand on Janir’s shoulder with an audible thud, he nodded. “You did the correct thing. This information is valuable. Why would Tarja lead the pack away with Davies while I was gone? I can think of only one man who will have answers.”

  “The Master,” Abraham offered.

  “We will take the boy to Dragos and demand answers. I suspect we will find Tarja there,” Varulf said, turning to head back to the ship. “Janir, join us on our quest for vengeance. Someone will pay for this treachery.”

  “I live to serve pack Cen’Ful!” Janir yelled, getting to his feet. He slapped his arm against his chest in salute. The insecurity and panic he had displayed earlier were gone. Now that Varulf was here, he had renewed purpose.

  “Get on, human. We go to Dragos,” Varulf commanded.

  Sverre massaged his aching arms. “Not again!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  This marked the third camera that she had destroyed. Plastic pieces floated in inch-deep water that filled the cell from the overflowing toilet, which was plugged with a sheet. The cell was built from ancient, thick stones that were not native to America. Expensive furniture accurate to the era during which the castle was constructed decorated the room. A few hundred years ago, the room might have been considered luxurious. The large metal door betrayed the illusion of nobility. A metal slat in the door slammed open.

  “Under Lord Dalca’s orders, you are our guest here. However, we’ve been given permission to punish you if you continue this behavior!” the minor vampire outside screamed through the opening. It sounded as if he had had enough trouble with the guest of this particular cell.

  Jessica sat in the center of her cell, legs folded, her hands resting upright. The index fingers and thumbs from each hand joined together. Eyes closed, she did not respond to the guard’s threat.

  “Did you hear me, Stalker? Don’t ignore me, human!”

  The sliding panel closed. Keys jingled. Jessica smiled. It had taken several days to build up enough energy to enhance her body to this level. Now it was time to put it to use.

  The door slammed open. Two minor vampires in black uniforms rushed into the room, stun guns and batons at the ready. They were both in fantastic physical condition. Most vampires only turned humans who were appealing to the eye while young and in their prime. It seemed Dragos was no exception.

  Enhanced strength, durability, and reflexes resulted from being made into a vampire. Even a minor vampire was twice as strong as most humans. If the subject was already strong or fast, the effect was multiplied. There was one major flaw with this “survival of the fittest” policy. Most attractive people with great power loathed to have their authority challenged and tended to think of themselves as invulnerable. Such overconfidence often led to their undoing.

  “Lord Dalca tol’ us to leave you be unless you attempte
d to escape. I’m gettin’ tired o’ this shit you’re pullin’,” the shorter vampire said, speaking with a cockney accent.

  The other vampire elbowed past his short partner. “Guess what? Looks to me and Johnny here like you’re trying to escape. Guess we are going to have to do something about that, eh?”

  Jessica jumped to her feet in one swift motion. “You morons are quite correct. I am attempting to escape.”

  The two young vampires looked at each other, then turned to Jessica, snarling. The vampire on the left fired his stun gun. Four probes at the ends of long metal filaments raced toward Jessica. Slamming her foot down, a cascade of water erupted beneath her as she launched herself into the air with tremendous force. The chi she had stockpiled over the past few days put her on par with her two opponents, but their fighting skills were leagues below hers. Landing on top of the dresser, she cracked a knowing grin when the electrical current hit the water. Both vampires jerked and spasmed in pain, unable to control their bodies.

  She kicked off of the wall, sending herself hurtling at the one with the unfired gun. She landed on his shoulders, wrapping her legs around his head. The battery in the other man’s stun gun had exhausted its reserves; the electricity in the water faded. There was about two seconds before they both recovered. She grabbed the man’s head between her legs in an iron grip, then twisted. An audible crunch erupted from the vampire’s neck. She rode its body down to the floor, turning to face her second opponent.

  At her feet, the vampire she had attacked remained immobile. His spinal cord was severed at the neck. Depending upon when he was turned, he might recover from even that injury, but it would take a blood infusion and a day’s rest to do so. He was out of this fight, regardless.

  She ducked the baton of the second vampire at the last second, slamming her fist into his ribs at the same instant. He grimaced, surprised that a human woman had the power to cause him pain. He launched a flurry of blows at her, which she avoided or blocked, depending on whether it was his hand or the baton that was being used. He noticed her movements were slowing. He smiled, surmising that she was running out of energy quickly. He was barely winded. She telegraphed a kick, resulting in his grabbing her foot. He heaved, causing her to stumble backward. The water that was part of her original plan was now hindering her movement. She slipped, falling into the water. In an instant, he was on top of her, restraining her arms.