by Greg Cox
I must be prepared, Kraven thought hastily, before it is too late.
To his surprise, he found the servant girl—Erika—waiting for him in the stately viewing chamber outside the crypt. The rest of the nattering handmaidens had fled the vicinity, no doubt spooked by Viktor’s unsettling resurrection, yet Erika had stayed behind, perched tensely on the edge of a carved marble bench. She sprang dutifully to her feet as Kraven exited the crypt.
“My lord!”
After keeping all his fears and resentments bottled up during his grueling audience with Viktor, Kraven welcomed the opportunity to vent his emotions to someone considerably less intimidating than Viktor. This doting scullion was so insignificant in the scheme of things that he could speak freely in front of her. It was like talking to an empty room, really.
“That bitch has betrayed me!” he ranted, spewing the worst of his bile at Selene and her lycan paramour. He stomped away from the crypt’s soundproofed walls, putting a healthy distance between himself and the ghastly revenant now residing in the recovery area. “Now Viktor knows everything she has been obsessing about!”
But how much did Selene truly know or suspect?
Drawing near him, Erika winced at his heated denunciation of Selene. She clearly disliked seeing his passion directed at another vampiress, no matter how bitter his disposition. Meekly tentatively, she reached out to comfort him. Her tiny hands lit softly on his arm.
Irritated, he shoved her away roughly. Stupid tart! he fumed. The last thing he needed now was some lovesick menial fawning over him. His eternal life was at risk!
Choking back a sob, Erika stumbled away from him, her pale vampiric face flushing red with shame and embarrassment. The obvious depth of her heartache penetrated Kraven’s brooding preoccupation, spurring him to reconsider the servant girl’s advances. Perhaps he should not be so fast to toss away such a fervent devotee?
“Wait!” he called after her.
Erika froze as though thunderstruck. Her violet eyes were wet as she turned to look back at him. Crimson tears streaked her cheeks.
For the first time in nearly thirty years, Kraven really looked at Erika, inspecting her flaxen hair, silky skin, and lissome figure. Bare white shoulders and an enticing throat offered a preview of the creamy delights beneath her tarty black frock. She was a tasty morsel, he had to admit, if not quite the irresistible goddess that Selene was.
He strode across the floor to where the transfixed maid stood quaking, her slender hands cupped over her lips, as if she were afraid to give voice to the riotous emotions roiling her soul. She all but melted as Kraven dropped his hands onto her bare shoulders and gazed down into her eyes.
“Are you to be trusted?” he asked.
She nodded, beaming back at him. Her adoring eyes and radiant expression told him everything he needed to know.
His wish was her command.
The broken-down old brownstone, located in one of central Pest’s less picturesque corners, was an ugly, unprepossessing pile of bricks, clearly erected sometime after the war, when the city was still under Soviet control. Decades of smog and soot had blackened every inch of the building’s dingy exterior, while the steel-shuttered windows and spray-painted graffiti made it clear that the brownstone had been abandoned for some time.
Or so it appeared.
“This is one of the places we use for interrogations,” Selene explained as she pulled up to the curb. The rain finally had let up for a time, but the streets and sidewalks were still wet. Greasy puddles reflected the gibbous moon shining down through the low-rise neighborhood buildings.
After parking the sedan in an adjacent alley, away from sight, she got out and led Michael up the slippery steps of the building, where she unlocked the padlock holding the front door shut. They stepped inside the murky foyer, and Michael heard rats scuttle away in a hurry, surprised by the brownstone’s late-night visitors. Selene switched on a flashlight, perhaps as a concession to Michael’s merely human vision, and swept the trash-strewn lobby with its cool white beam. A dilapidated staircase led upstairs, and Selene confidently ascended the creaking steps, pointing the way with the flashlight.
Michael followed her numbly, his exploding brain still trying to cope with the mind-boggling revelations Selene had imparted to him earlier. He had spent much of the subsequent drive in silence, in fact, struggling to decide how much, if anything, to believe of the whole wild story. Werewolves and vampires… oh my God, he thought.
The really scary part was that, against every fiber of his modern, rational, twenty-first-century being, he actually was coming around to the preposterous idea that, just maybe, Selene was telling the truth. In which case, he was in the deepest shit imaginable.
“So, what do you do?” he asked her warily as they climbed the stairs, floor by wearying floor. His much abused and depleted body strained against gravity with every step. “Kill people, drink their blood?”
Selene shook her head. “We haven’t needed to feed on humans for hundreds of years.” Unlike Michael, she sounded unaffected by the exhausting climb. “It draws needless attention.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and she unlocked a heavy wooden door on the sixth floor. She stepped inside and switched on a light, then gestured for Michael to follow her. He did so, for lack of any better idea.
Enter freely and of your own will, he thought, recalling a line from Dracula. He had read the book years ago, in high school, but had never expected to find himself living it. Step into my lair…
Fluorescent lights, coming on one by one, exposed a small, Spartan room equipped with minimal furnishings. There were no beds or sofas, just several sturdy metal chairs, weapons racks on the walls, and neatly stacked boxes of ammunition. The walls and floor were bare and unadorned, except for an out-of-date calendar pinned to one of the walls. Some sort of safe house, Michael realized, even though, up until now, his only knowledge of such things had come strictly from spy novels and movies.
Selene flicked a switch on the wall, producing a short electronic buzz. A set of rusty metal shutters slid downward to reveal an open window looking down on the street below. She approached the window cautiously, then risked a searching glance outside before nodding grimly to herself.
All’s clear, Michael guessed. He tried not to think about the idea that, if her story were to be believed, Selene was looking out for werewolves.
A small portable refrigerator hummed in one corner of the room, next to a wooden ammunition crate. Selene stepped away from the window and opened the tiny fridge. Michael spotted what looked like several dozen frozen packets of whole blood. Emergency medical supplies, he wondered queasily, or dinner?
Selene snatched a packet from the fridge and casually tossed it toward Michael. To his amazement, he actually caught it, despite feeling like death warmed over.
The frozen blood was cold to the touch, like an icepack. Michael resisted an urge to press it against his aching forehead, instead inspecting the logo printed on the plastic packet. “Ziodex Industries,” he read out loud.
He recognized the name. Ziodex was a big deal in the global biopharmaceuticals industry. Karolyi Hospital stocked plenty of Ziodex’s products.
“We own it,” Selene stated, explaining, among other things, what paid for the upkeep on that expensive mansion of hers. “First, synthetic plasma. Now that. Once it’s approved, it will be our newest cash crop.”
Michael flipped over the packet and read the label on the back. His bloodshot eyes bulged in shock as he realized what he was holding.
“Cloned blood,” he whispered, unsure whether to be impressed or appalled. As a medical student, he had known that there had been some research and development along these lines, but he’d had no idea that Ziodex was so far ahead of the field. “Wait a second,” he protested, as a point of confusion occurred to him. “You said before that… vampires”—he stumbled awkwardly over the word—“haven’t needed to feed on humans for centuries. Surely, you weren’t cloning bloo
d a hundred years ago?”
“Of course not,” Selene said. To his relief, she didn’t help herself to a refreshing pint of plasma; that would probably be more than he could take right now. “We subsisted on cattle blood for ages, by the Elders’ decree. Preying on human stock was immoral, as well as dangerous. We had no desire to attract the pitchforks—and wooden stakes—of an outraged populace.” She reclaimed the thawing packet from Michael and popped it back into the freezer. “Synthetic plasma and cloned human blood are relatively new innovations.”
Michael didn’t have the nerve to ask her whether cloned blood tasted the same as the regular kind. “So vampires don’t really drink blood anymore?”
In a weird sort of way, that was almost disillusioning, like finding out that Lizzie Borden didn’t really hack her parents to pieces.
Selene hesitated before answering, then assumed a somewhat defensive tone. “Well, we don’t need to drain humans for sustenance, but some vampires still like to drink real blood occasionally, for pleasure.” She avoided his eyes, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “From each other, that is, and certain human… donors.”
“Willing donors?” Michael pressed.
“In theory,” she said darkly. Michael got the distinct impression that some vampires were more scrupulous about their recreational dining than others. He thought he knew what kind of vampire Selene was, but his hand rose protectively toward his throat nonetheless. At the same time, part of him still couldn’t believe that he was genuinely taking part in a serious discussion about the eating habits of vampires.
I mean, c’mon… vampires?
An awkward silence fell over the room. Michael’s rubbery legs reminded him just how sick and tired he was, and he dropped mercifully into the nearest heavy-duty titanium chair, which felt hard and durable enough to seat a full-grown gorilla—or perhaps a monster-sized werewolf. His shell-shocked gaze drifted absently about the room, eventually falling on a massive steel table resting nearby. A tray of silver surgical instruments sat atop the table, covered by a grayish-white layer of dust and cobwebs.
“What are those for?” he asked. The doctor in him was scandalized by the distinctly less than sterile condition of the scalpels and pliers and such, many of which showed signs of rust, dried blood, or some grisly combination thereof. Do vampires not have to worry about infection? he wondered, reluctantly employing the V-word again.
“Lycans are allergic to silver,” Selene informed him. She drew out one of her pistols and placed it on the table beside the tray of instruments. “We have to get our bullets out quickly, or they end up dying on us during questioning.”
There was nothing apologetic about her tone; if anything, she seemed much more comfortable discussing interrogation techniques than she had been when divulging the seamier underside of the vampiric lifestyle.
Michael stared at her, aghast. He tried and failed to imagine this exquisite beauty brutally interrogating a captive werewolf. “What happens to them afterward?”
“We put the bullets back in,” she said with a shrug.
Lucian and Singe made their way down a crumbling passageway far beneath the sleeping city. The lycan scientist disliked leaving his underground laboratory, but Lucian had insisted that Singe accompany him as Lucian checked on the preparations for tomorrow night’s historic operation. In any event, Singe conceded to himself, there was little else he could do until the human, Michael Corvin, was successfully retrieved. The grand experiment was essentially on hold.
“It may be wise,” Lucian commented, “to keep a closer eye on our bloodthirsty cousins.”
Singe realized that Lucian was referring to the vampires. Unlike the less enlightened members of their pack, Singe was aware of the profound genetic link between the lycanthropes and their undead foes. Both breeds shared a common origin, now shrouded by centuries of conflict and superstition.
“I’ll have Raze see to it immediately,” he assured Lucian. A little extra surveillance couldn’t hurt, especially with all that was at stake, and Raze had recovered sufficiently from his injuries to undertake such a mission.
Lucian slowed to a stop and placed a hand on Singe’s scrawny shoulder. The metallic pendant on Lucian’s chest caught the light from the sputtering fluorescents overhead. Singe had never seen his leader without his gilded talisman. A curious affectation, the old scientist thought, but one he had never chosen to question. Odd that so knowledgeable and visionary a being would flaunt such an archaic trinket.
“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to place my faith in you, my friend,” Lucian said. “Time is running short, and I need to rely on the sharpest wits at my disposal.”
Singe repressed an impatient sigh. I’m a scientist, he protested silently. I belong in my lab! But who was he to challenge his master’s instructions? If not for Lucian, he would have died of leukemia generations ago.
“As you wish,” he agreed.
Chapter Twenty
Michael sat uncomfortably in the steel chair, exhausted but unable to sleep. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, and his guts felt tangled into a knot. Invisible bugs crawled over every inch of his body, causing him to scratch uselessly at his arms and legs. The moonlight coming through the window hurt his eyes, but he found himself unable to look away from it for long. Is it true? he wondered, despite years of rigorous scientific training. Is Selene right? Am I turning into a werewolf?
It was insane, ridiculous even to consider for an instant, and yet… why did he still hear that unearthly howl echoing inside his skull?
He looked over at Selene, afraid to ask her what his debilitating symptoms might mean. The leather-clad Englishwoman stood vigilantly by the open window, keeping watch over the silent street outside. Her fingers rested on the grip of her automatic pistol, as if she couldn’t wait to find a target for her silver bullets.
“Why do you hate them so much?” he asked her.
Selene frowned and shifted position so that her back was to him. From her body language and from what he glimpsed of her expression, there was no way in hell she wanted to have this conversation with him right now.
“Can’t you just answer the question?” he persisted. If she were going to condemn him for becoming a werewolf, he at least wanted to know why. Am I going to become your next target, he agonized, once whatever happens… happens?
He waited tensely, but no response was forthcoming. He stared helplessly at the glossy leather contours of her back, until he was certain she was giving him the brush-off. “Fine,” he muttered sourly, turning his gaze to the bare wooden timbers of the floor. A dark brown smudge discolored the floor beneath where he was sitting. Dried blood from the victim of some past interrogation?
“They tore my family to pieces,” she whispered slowly, breaking the silence. She spoke so faintly that at first Michael wasn’t sure that he heard her. “Fed on them…”
She turned away from the window, locking eyes with Michael. In those enigmatic chestnut orbs, he thought he discerned years of unhealed grief and sorrow. Old pain colored her voice.
“They took everything from me,” she said.
Kraven reclined on a red velvet divan, lost in thought. Where was Selene now, and what was she doing with that lycan trash? According to Soren, she had fled the mansion with this Corvin character while Kraven had been occupied with Viktor down in the crypt. She could be anywhere by now, he groused unhappily. Somehow he doubted that she would return to the mansion before sunrise.
He disliked having such a loose cannon in play less than twenty-four hours before his ultimate bid for power. Viktor risen, Selene missing, Lucian discontented… nothing was going according to plan!
It still can work, he thought desperately, striving to reassure himself. I just need to be strong and not give in, not with victory so near…
The door swung open, and Erika entered the suite. About time, he thought. He had dispatched her to notify the household staff of Viktor’s resurrection, the better to prevent pernicious rumo
rs and gossip from spreading unchecked throughout the manor. By way of damage control, he had claimed credit for the Elder’s awakening, instructing Erika to spread the story that he had been acting under top-secret directives from Amelia herself, for reasons privy only to the two of them. With luck, this improvised fabrication would leave the impression that he was still fully in command of events, at least until it no longer mattered.
Soon, he promised himself, my authority will be beyond question.
He sat up straight on the divan. “Good, you’re here,” he addressed the tardy maidservant. Erika had been gone for at least fifteen minutes or so; from the looks of it, she had taken the time to touch up her makeup and let down her hair. “Now, I need you to keep what I’m about to tell you under the strictest confi—”
Erika surprised him by reaching out and pressing a finger against his lips. Her violet eyes looked into his.
“It can wait,” she whispered huskily.
With a sexy smirk, she reached back and undid the clasps of her lacy black frock. The garment slid to the floor, exposing a sylphlike female form that had not aged a day since that fateful night in Piccadilly twenty-seven years ago. Her bare feet stepped free of the discarded dress, bringing her undraped flesh within a finger’s reach of her seated sire.
Kraven was taken aback, to say the least. This was not exactly what he’d had in mind when he had told the eager maidservant to report back to him. He’d intended only to instruct her to monitor Viktor’s activities in the recovery room, under the guise of tending to the Elder’s comfort, and keep him informed of Viktor’s every action and utterance.
Then again, he reflected, weighing his options, what the hell? His dark eyes greedily devoured the blond vampiress’ enticing nakedness. Despite the weighty concerns troubling his mind, he felt his undead body responding to her generously displayed feminine charms. Why not? he reasoned. He needed every minion he could muster right now, and if this was what it took to secure the girl’s absolute allegiance… well, there were worse ways to pass the hours before sunrise.