by Greg Cox
Flanked by a trio of heavily armed Death Dealers, Kahn patrolled the grounds of the estate, whose high iron gates no longer seemed quite impervious enough. He strode across the lawn toward a perimeter guard marching beside the front gate.
There was a rustling in the shadows, and three large Rottweilers came bounding across the grass. The fearsome attack dogs enthusiastically greeted Kahn, who doled out a round of affectionate pats to each of the eager canines. Saliva dripped from their powerful jaws.
“Hey, guys.” Kahn could not help noting the similarities between the drooling guard dogs and the coven’s lycanthropic enemies. The Rottweilers were arguably closer kin to werewolves than vampires, yet he had no doubts about the loyalty of these canine sentinels. Besides, he thought, trained vampire bats are simply not practical.
“Any luck?” he asked the guard, a vampire named Mason.
The other man shook his head. “We’ve made the rounds twice. And believe me, the dogs would have been all over it if anything had even got near that fence.”
Kahn nodded, trusting Mason’s judgment. He was a Death Dealer, one of Kahn’s own, not a member of Soren’s heavy-handed security force. If Mason said there were no lycans lurking about, Kahn believed him.
Nonetheless, he still felt uneasy. He checked his watch, scowling at what it revealed. “Amelia should have arrived by now,” he observed, his deep voice filled with concern. He turned to the troika of Death Dealers accompanying him. “I want you three to slip off the property and find out what’s keeping her.”
He stroked his chin unhappily. In theory, Soren was personally seeing to Amelia’s safety, yet Kahn found himself increasingly uncomfortable with that notion. Something’s not right here, he thought once again. I haven’t felt this worried since Lucian was alive.
The Lady Amelia no longer looked quite so immaculate. Beaten and bloody, she sprawled prostrate on the floor of the dining car, her bruised cheek pressed against the blood-slick floor. Loose strands of raven-black hair fell across her face, while her once-stylish gown lay in shreds and tatters on her scratched and brutalized form. The noxious stench of the werewolves’ matted fur befouled the air, mixing with the deplorable tang of spilled immortal blood.
Her immortal mind struggled to cope with the enormity of the disaster. How had this atrocity come to pass? Where were the Death Dealers from Ordoghaz? Her own defenders lay in pieces around her, their sundered bodies torn apart by the werewolves’ maddened claws and teeth. Even now she heard the loathsome beasts feasting on the lifeless flesh and bones of her council. Only the strength and resilience of an Elder had kept her alive so far, yet now she faced the very real possibility that her eternal existence was finally coming to an end.
No! She rebelled, unwilling to accept extinction after so many centuries of life and power. She laboriously lifted her head from the floor, ignoring the pain that racked her ravaged body. She mustered all her strength for one last desperate attempt at escape. I must get away! I must survive!
A massive paw slammed into her skull, pinning her to the ground. Jagged claws dug into her scalp as a snarling werewolf bent low to growl menacingly in her ear. The beast’s hot, putrid breath panted against her like a blast furnace, causing her stomach to turn. Placing her palms against the sticky red floor, Amelia tried to overcome the pressure of the werewolf’s heavy paw, but it was no use; she was too weak to resist.
This cannot be! her thoughts protested in vain. I am an immortal, an Elder… I cannot die at the hands of an unclean animal!
Bootsteps rang on the floor of the train, drawing near her. Twisting her head, she raised her eyes enough to see a tall black man in a brown leather jacket walking calmly toward her. Unlike his lupine compatriots, this particular lycan had retained his human guise; his shaved skull was as hairless as the werewolves’ were hirsute. Amelia surmised that the newcomer was the alpha-male in charge of this blasphemous ambush.
A gleaming metal case was clutched in the lycan’s hands. Without comment, he placed the case down on the floor and flipped open the lid. He reached inside and removed a set of empty hypodermic syringes. The hollow needles at the tip of the syringes were at least three centimeters long.
Amelia’s white, inhuman eyes widened in fear at the sight of the vicious apparatus. Not my blood! she thought hysterically. In the name of the Ancestor, don’t take my blood!
Raze smirked.
The squad car rocketed through a squalid, graffiti-ridden district of Budapest. The amber glow of the moonlight competed with the harsh white illumination of the street lamps. The police car’s siren wailed relentlessly, clearing a path through the late-night traffic. Wherever they were going, they were heading there fast.
In the back seat, separated from the two uniformed police officers by a steel-mesh partition, Michael was getting sicker by the moment. His forehead felt as if it were on fire, and his whole body throbbed unbearably. A cold, sweaty film glued his dirty T-shirt to his skin. His mouth felt as dry as the Kalahari. Jesus Christ, this just keeps getting worse. What the hell is wrong with me?
He wanted to think that the two cops were driving him straight to a hospital, but that didn’t seem too likely; he hadn’t gotten the impression that the men were overly concerned with his welfare. He wondered if they were really police officers at all. It was a crazy thought, but he figured that at this point, he was entitled to be a little paranoid.
A drop of blood splattered on the knee of his muddy pants, and he raised a hand to his upper lip. His fingers came away red and sticky.
Shit. Now his nose was bleeding.
Michael stared out the rolled-up windows of the squad car, watching morosely as the brightly lighted sidewalks and buildings zipped by. They were heading northeast, it appeared, following the route of the city’s oldest subway line, built more than a hundred years ago. Right now the car was passing through the busy red-light district around Matyas Square. Michael saw throngs of local hookers brazenly plying their trade beneath the street lamps, heedless of the police car zooming past their ranks. Although illegal, prostitution was more or less tolerated in some of the city’s less respectable neighborhoods.
Michael’s defeated gaze drifted upward to the cloudy night sky. Suddenly, before he knew what was happening, the full moon slid from behind a bank of angry storm clouds.
The glowing white disk provoked an immediate response. Michael’s brown eyes dilated, shrinking down to tiny black pinpricks. His heart pounded so loudly that his ears were filled with what sounded like the unchecked turbulence of a never-ending hurricane. His guts twisted inside him, extracting a tortured moan from his cracked and bleeding lips. His stomach felt as if it were being turned inside out.
Up front, the two cops traded a look before glancing back at their anguished prisoner. Concern flickered over their surly faces, as if they were afraid Michael was going to throw up all over the back seat.
“Hey, Taylor,” one of the cops said. He was the longhaired one who was riding shotgun. “Maybe we should pull over and dose him?”
The driver peered at Michael via the rear-view mirror. “Nah,” he muttered to his partner, whose name Michael had gathered was Pierce. “He’ll be all right.”
Taylor spoke directly to Michael. “Come on, man, hang tough.” He turned his eyes back toward the road. “We’re almost there.”
Almost where? Michael wondered, but all that escaped his lips was another queasy moan. Every muscle in his body spasmed beyond his control. The pounding in his ears increased exponentially. His vision wavered, the color fading from his sight as the world turned into a gray, monochromatic blur. At the same time, his sense of smell heightened intensely, so that the rancid filth of the streets outside overwhelmed him. He choked on the sickening stench and clutched at his stomach. Omigod, he thought, grimacing. How can anyone feel this bad and not be dying?
“Yeah, I know,” Taylor said, responding to Michael’s groans. He looked back at Michael through the sturdy metal grate. Michael thought he heard a
hint of sympathy in the driver’s gruff voice. “First time’s a bitch, hurts like hell. But after a while, you’ll be able to control it, change whenever you want. Moon won’t make a shit bit of difference.”
Change? The word somehow penetrated his throbbing brain. Was that what this was, the first stage of his transformation into a bona fide werewolf? No! Michael thought in horror, never mind the convulsions racking his aching body. It can’t be true. It’s not possible!
Unable to speak, he groaned even louder. Taylor shook his head in disgust, then turned up the radio. Blaring gypsy rock filled the squad car.
A violent spasm rocked Michael from head to toe. His back arched in agony, as though he were undergoing a jolt of electroshock therapy. He bit down hard on his lower lip, missing his tongue by only a fraction of an inch. His heart pounded like a war drum beneath his breast, even as the cartilage around it began to crackle and crunch. Abused tendons twisted and snaked, causing blood-wet bones to shift position painfully.
His entire skeletal structure started to reshape itself. Horrified, Michael pulled up his T-shirt and watched, mesmerized despite his torment, as his ribs snapped and cracked before his eyes, cascading like piano keys beneath his palpitating skin. Holy fuck! he thought. In eight-plus years of medical training, including several grisly stints in the casualty ward, he had never witnessed anything so astounding or grotesque. Human tissue was not supposed to act like this, dammit!
A wave of dizziness came over him. Michael clutched at the edge of the seat like a drunk teenager with a humongous case of the bed-spins. He held on for dear life as the hideous metamorphosis accelerated its pace.
Pulsing blue-black veins traversed the whites of his eyes, spreading like tropical vines until Michael’s sensitive brown orbs took on an unnatural cobalt hue. Wild patterns of mottled splotches bloomed across his face and neck like broken capillaries, darkening his skin. Pale, bloodless flesh acquired a coarse gray tone.
Michael’s gums smarted as, starting with his canines, his teeth grew sharper and more pronounced. Soon he could not even close his mouth because of the bear trap of serrated fangs jutting from his jaws. He needed a bigger mouth…
Ordinary human fingernails grew at a preternatural rate, becoming hooked yellow claws that tore right into the fabric of the seat. Scuffed vinyl ripped apart loudly.
The tearing noises caught Pierce’s attention. The longhaired cop twisted in his seat, turning to inspect Michael through the steel-mesh divider. “Holy shit!” he blurted.
“He’s changing right here in the fucking car! Pull over! Pull over!”
Caught in the throes of the transformation, Michael kicked out wildly at the metal screen between him and the two supposed police officers. Boom! The ringing metallic impact briefly overpowered the rock music blaring from the car radio.
At the wheel, Taylor whirled around quickly, shocked to find himself face-to-face with Michael, who was now well on his way to becoming a full-fledged werewolf. Glowing blue eyes peered out from beneath a sloping brow, while his nose had devolved into a bestial snout with flaring black nostrils. Jagged canines and incisors protruded from a snout-like, prognathous jaw. Foam dripped from his chin as he bared his newborn fangs and let loose with a ferocious roar.
Caught by surprise, the driver lost control of the car, which swerved sharply to the right, making an unplanned turn into a grimy, cobblestoned alley, whose brick walls appeared to rush precipitously at the oncoming car. Taylor slammed on the brakes, and the cop car screeched to a halt, throwing its passengers forward abruptly. Michael’s thrashing body thudded against the metal divider, denting the thick steel grating.
Unfazed by the vehicle’s sudden stop, the berserk American tried to smash his way out of the squad car. He kicked savagely at one of the side windows, and a spider web of cracks fractured the glass. One more good kick, and the window was history.
Panicked, Pierce and Taylor leaped out of the car. “Get the kit!” Taylor yelled at his partner, while he hurried to subdue their unruly prisoner. “Pronto!”
Standing outside the car, Pierce bent over the passenger seat and hurriedly rummaged through the glove compartment. He tugged out an unmarked nylon case and unzipped its seal. Inside were several fully loaded syringes. Pierce grabbed one and slid the tip between his teeth before biting down on the protective cap. With a twist of his head, he wrenched the cap from the needle, then spit it out onto the dirty floor of the alley.
Meanwhile, Taylor yanked open the back door of the squad car and grabbed Michael’s arms and legs. Using his full weight, he struggled to hold the half-transformed human down. Michael had not yet achieved the mass and dimensions of a full werewolf; otherwise the grunting cop would not have stood a chance, not without shedding his own mortal semblance. “Do it!” he bellowed impatiently at Pierce. “Stick him! Stick him!”
The shouted commands meant nothing to Michael, whose intellect had all but vanished beneath a tidal wave of primal rage and abandon. All he cared about now was breaking free from the suffocating confines of the squad car. He could smell the anxiety of the two frantic policemen, and the provocative scent only served to madden him further.
Fighting back, he seized Taylor by the jaw, then viciously slammed the cop’s head against the metal door frame. Thwack! Taylor staggered backward, clutching his battered skull. Momentarily stunned, the red-haired policeman dropped to his knees outside the car. Purple rage darkened his grimacing countenance as he gnashed his teeth and glared murderously at the uncooperative prisoner inside the car.
But before Michael could take advantage of Taylor’s momentary incapacitation, the second cop surged forward, syringe in hand. Michael felt a sharp pain below his chin as Pierce stabbed the tip of the hypo into his neck. Pierce pushed the plunger home, and a sudden burning sensation spread through Michael’s jugular vein out to the rest of his body.
He threw back his head and howled in agony.
Chapter Twenty-five
Kraven nervously approached the plexiglass barrier surrounding the recovery chamber. Through the transparent wall, he spied Viktor standing expectantly, his silken robe drawn about his towering figure. The continuing infusions of fresh blood had obviously agreed with the Elder; Kraven was chagrined to see how much Viktor’s previously emaciated frame had fleshed out. The Elder was looking more and more like his old self, which did not sit well with his designated regent.
How in blazes can I wrest control of the coven from such a being, even with Lucian’s help? Kraven railed inwardly at the sheer inequity of his situation. Damn you, Selene! Why couldn’t you have left Viktor in the earth where he belonged?
“I sent for Selene, not you,” Viktor stated, in a voice not nearly so dry and raspy as before.
Kraven bowed his head in genuflection. “She has defied your orders and fled the mansion, my lord.”
Fury flashed across Viktor’s gaunt, angular countenance. “Your incompetence is becoming most taxing.”
“It’s not my fault!” Kraven protested. “She’s become crazed, obsessed!” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “She thinks I’m at the core of some ridiculous conspiracy.”
“And here’s my proof!” a defiant voice rang out.
By the gods, no! The blood drained from Kraven’s face as Selene strode past him, gripping a middle-aged lycan by the throat. Kraven thought he recognized the man as one of Lucian’s underlings.
Selene threw the lycan in front of Lucian and roughly forced him to his knees. The prisoner was braised and bloody, his shabby garments riddled with gory bullet wounds. Kraven had no doubt that Selene herself had inflicted the damage on this miserable specimen of the lycan breed.
But why had she brought the creature here? What sort of proof was she talking about?
D-shaped steel anchors snapped out of the floor. Heavy iron chains rasped across the polished stone tiles. Adamantine shackles clanged shut, and Singe found himself on his hands and knees, cuffed and shackled, like a terrified peasant groveling for me
rcy before his king.
His red-streaked eyes still held a glint of rebellion. You can subdue my body but not my mind, he thought fiercely. Lucian is my true liege and patron, not any bloodsucking parasite!
The refrigerated crypt was uncomfortably cold. Singe shivered within his shackles, while his misused body ached from dozens of untreated wounds and injuries. Even though Selene had removed several bullets from Singe back at the safe house, the better to keep her prisoner alive, he could still feel the remaining silver slowly infiltrating his veins and arteries, poisoning him by degrees.
Peering upward furtively, he took stock of his dire circumstances. He was trapped in the crypt with no fewer than three powerful vampires, each of them regarding him without mercy. The Elder behind the clear plastic barrier was obviously Viktor; Lucian had informed Singe via cell phone of the Elder’s unexpected resurrection, which had complicated their plans to no small degree. Despite his defiant attitude, the Austrian lycanthrope could not help feeling uneasy in the presence of such a primordial and puissant entity. From his research, he knew only too well of the preternatural capabilities of this immortal; Viktor was, at most, only one or two steps removed from the very source of the vampiric bloodline, which made him dangerous indeed.
The other male vampire disturbed him less. Singe recognized Kraven from the scheming regent’s covert meetings with Lucian. At the moment, Kraven looked distinctly uneasy. Singe could see in the vampire’s eyes that Kraven desperately wanted to flee the crypt yet felt compelled to stay and try to bluff it out.
I can’t blame him for being nervous, Singe thought, enjoying the arrogant vampire’s discomfort. Not with the secrets he has to hide.
And then, of course, there was Selene…
“Tell them!” she commanded him harshly. “I want you to tell them exactly what you told me.”
Singe hesitated, reluctant to sacrifice his usefulness by immediately divulging all he knew. Perhaps there was some way to play these vampires against each other?