01 - Underworld

by Greg Cox

  He receded into the shadows as Kahn and his soldiers swept through the crowd, searching for the disgraced regent. Fortune favored Kraven as the venerable Dmitri demanded an immediate explanation for the Death Dealers’ violent intrusion. The heated altercation gave Kraven the distraction he needed to slink surreptitiously through the crowd ahead of Kahn’s advancing search party.

  An open doorway presented itself enticingly, and Kraven scurried out of the salon with all deliberate speed. He bolted madly for the front door of the mansion, hoping with all his heart that the ride he had summoned would be there to meet him. I can’t let Kahn and his storm troopers catch up with me! he thought cowardly, knowing that Viktor would have him tortured for all eternity for his crimes against the coven. I must get away!

  No guards had been placed at the foyer, so Kraven ran unobstructed out of the mansion into the courtyard outside. His heart leaped in jubilation as a jet-black limousine came squealing to a stop right in front of the mansion’s arched stone entrance. Soren sprang out of the limo and quickly opened the door, allowing Kraven to slide briskly into the back seat.

  Thank the gods, Kraven thought. Sweaty and out of breath, he sank back against the charcoal leather cushions, exhausted by the strain of his narrow escape. Soren circled the limo and jumped in beside him, a loaded P7 pistol in his grip; the murderous janissary was ready to defend his master from whoever came after them.

  Knowing that the sooner he put Ordoghaz behind him, the better, Kraven raised his hand to signal to the driver to depart. He was reaching for the door handle to pull it shut when a strident cry came from the front entrance of the mansion.

  “My lord! Wait!”

  Erika called out urgently to Kraven as she came dashing out the door toward the limo. A worn leather jacket had been thrown over her filmy black frock, but the chill of the evening still invaded her bones. There had been no time to dress more warmly, though, not if she wanted to join Kraven in his daring escape from Ordoghaz.

  I’m coming, my love! she thought as her high heels clicked rapidly against the front steps. She didn’t know the particulars of the scandal that had obviously overtaken Kraven, nor did she much care. It was enough that he had turned to her in his hour of greatest need. He chose me… Erika! She even forgave him for his abrupt departure from the boudoir earlier; it was clear now that nothing less than a crisis of the utmost magnitude had torn him from her fervent embrace. This is my moment, she exulted. At last, she had proven that she was the only vampiress who would always be there for him.

  Her imagination soared ahead of her eager feet, picturing herself and Kraven winging away to some exotic foreign love nest where the exiled regent finally would reward her for her steadfast devotion, bestowing the plenteous bounty of his eternal affection upon her and her alone. She speculated excitedly about where their daring flight might take them. London? Paris? The Riviera?

  Already halfway around the world in her Technicolor fantasies, she arrived breathlessly at the open door of the waiting limousine. Seated in the back, Kraven looked up at her expectantly. His probing brown eyes inquired whether she had done exactly as he had instructed.

  Her triumphant face beaming in reply, Erika reached beneath her jacket and pulled out the weapon she had just stolen from Kahn’s dojo in the loft. Exactly as Kraven had described it, the prototype gun with its silver nitrate cartridges was an extremely intimidating piece of ordnance. Erika felt like a Death Dealer just holding the massive gun.

  Kraven smiled and snatched the pistol from her hand. Erika willingly relinquished the weapon, then moved to slide into the limo beside him. She saw, with a twinge of regret, that Soren was lodged in the back of the car as well. Damn! she thought. Three’s a crowd…

  Before she could enter the limo, however, Kraven slammed the door shut in her face. Erika stood frozen in shock, her jaw dropping toward the pavement as the deluxe limousine pulled away from her and took off toward the front gate. Kraven did not even give her so much as a backward glance before zooming away without her.

  Erika watched the limo’s taillights disappear into the night. She stood mutely at the edge of the driveway, stunned by the sheer enormity of Kraven’s betrayal. That’s it! she thought indignantly, fed up beyond all measure. She stamped her foot on the chiseled curb, nearly breaking the heel. I’m through with Kraven forever.

  She wondered if Viktor liked blondes…

  Selene unplugged the last of the IV tubing. A thin trickle of blood leaked from the end of its copper nozzle. She took Viktor by the arm, intending to help him rise from his chair, but he shrugged off her assistance. “I can manage,” he said gravely.

  For the first time since his resurrection, Viktor emerged from the claustrophobic confines of the recovery chamber. He stepped across the spacious crypt, pausing for a moment next to the bronze hatches that marked the individual tombs of the Elders. Selene wondered if he still planned to revive Marcus according to schedule, and it dawned on her that Amelia must be due at the mansion at any moment, if she had not arrived already.

  Hurried footsteps approached the crypt by way of the security booth. For a moment, Selene thought that Kraven had returned, and she was both amazed and affronted by his audacity. How dare he show his face before Viktor again, she fumed, after having deceived us all for years? The slayer of Lucian, indeed!

  But instead of the disgraced regent, it was Kahn who came rushing into the crypt. The veteran Death Dealer came to an abrupt halt as he laid eyes on Viktor. He bowed deeply before the Elder.

  “My lord,” he announced, “the Council members have been assassinated!”

  Selene could not believe her ears. The entire Council? She glanced quickly at Viktor and saw that the all-powerful Elder was just as horrified as she. Freshly infused blood drained from his features.

  “What of Amelia?” he asked somberly.

  Kahn stared at the floor, unable to meet his master’s eyes, but he did not shrink from delivering the awful truth. “They bled her dry.”

  Horror gave way to anger on Viktor’s regal countenance. His hollow cheeks flushed darkly red. Selene had never seen him so incensed, not even when he had condemned her to judgment several hours ago.

  For herself, Selene was rendered speechless by Kahn’s catastrophic news. As much as she had despised Kraven, she had never thought him capable of conspiring in such a crime, yet she had no doubt that the vanished regent was deeply involved in the plot that had left Amelia and the Council dead. This was a blatant attempt, she realized, to seize control of the entire vampire nation!

  Chained to the floor not far away, Singe smiled with malicious glee. “It has already begun,” he crowed.

  Viktor moved with lightning speed, so quickly that Selene barely realized he had lunged before the outraged Elder had crushed Singe’s skull with a single blow. The prostrate lycan dropped lifelessly onto the cold stone floor, his wizened face pulped beyond recognition.

  Selene was not even tempted by his blood.

  Turning away from the ignoble carcass at his feet, Viktor approached Selene and gently lifted her chin. “I am sorry I doubted you, my child,” he said gravely. “Fear not, absolution will be yours…”

  Selene’s heart lifted, grateful and relieved that her sire had not forsaken her. I knew he would see the truth in time!

  “…the moment you kill the descendant of Corvinus, this Michael.”

  Kill Michael? Selene stepped backward involuntarily, her rising spirits crashing downward. How could Viktor expect her to kill Michael in cold blood? It wasn’t Michael’s fault that his DNA was so dangerous. He was an innocent, albeit one contaminated by the lycan infection. There must be some other way!

  Her face froze as she struggled to conceal her shocked reaction to Viktor’s pronouncement. But Viktor had turned away from her. He briskly exited the crypt, followed closely by Kahn.

  Selene lingered behind, wrestling with her turbulent emotions. A pool of bright red blood poured from Singe’s shattered skull, spreading acr
oss the marble floor of the lonesome crypt. The scarlet tide lapped at the toes of Selene’s boots, threatening to surround her.

  Blood, she thought numbly. Lycan blood.

  Just like Michael’s.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Michael opened his bleary eyes, finding himself back in the converted subway station. I must have dropped off again, he realized, fighting to keep his heavy eyelids from descending once more. He tried to lift his head, only to have it fall backward against the hard steel examination table.

  A voice spoke from the shadows of the ramshackle infirmary, just out of sight. “You were given an enzyme to stop the Change. It will take some time for the grogginess to dissipate.”

  Michael recognized the crisp British accent of the bearded stranger who had bitten him in the elevator two nights ago. You! Michael thought vengefully. You’re the one who did this to me, turned me into… whatever I’m becoming.

  If he were free, he would have leaped from the table and attacked the voice with his bare hands. But his wrists were still cuffed together behind the table, and heavy strips of nylon webbing immobilized the rest of his body, as though he were an Egyptian mummy being prepared for burial and not a nascent lycanthrope.

  One of the two lycan cops, whose uniforms were probably as bogus as their human appearance, stepped forward. It was the long-haired one, Pierce, who had stabbed Michael with a hypo back in the squad car, when the young American’s abortive transformation caused him to go berserk. Pierce flaunted an empty glass syringe, and his sadistic smirk made it clear he was looking forward to an encore.

  He didn’t bother to prep or disinfect the injection site; he just brutally jabbed the needle into Michael’s arm. The captured American winced in pain, then lost his temper completely. Screw this! he thought furiously. I’m tired of everybody treating me like an animal!

  He writhed helplessly against his bonds, but his frantic efforts snapped the needle off at its base. The syringe crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces. An impatient snarl came from the stranger in the shadows.

  Pierce didn’t like being embarrassed in front of the mysterious Brit. Growling with fury, he viciously backhanded Michael, hitting him so hard that he almost blacked out. Michael’s head lolled to one side, and he blinked repeatedly, unable to focus. The inside of his skull was ringing like cathedral chimes.

  “That’s enough!” the unseen stranger barked. Even dazed, Michael heard the nameless Brit straining to contain his vexation. His voice was stern but firmly under control. “Just… go and see what’s keeping Raze, will you?”

  Pierce grudgingly backed away from Michael. His surly eyes shot Michael one last dirty look before he shuffled out of the infirmary. Michael groaned in misery as soon as the phony policeman appeared safely out of earshot. He shook his head, trying to clear the shock waves from his mind.

  The enigmatic stranger stepped quietly from the shadows. “I really must apologize. Pierce is in desperate need of a lesson in manners.”

  As Michael’s vision came back into focus, he saw that the speaker was indeed the bearded stranger from the night of the subway massacre—when this whole craziness started. Michael recognized the man’s deceptively genteel features, as well as the crest-shaped pendant dangling around his neck. The stranger seemed none the worse for being hit by Selene’s speeding Jaguar. Who the hell are you? Michael thought, glaring at the soft-spoken Brit with a mixture of hate and dread. And what do you want with me?

  “Speaking of manners,” the man said casually, “where are mine?” He stepped nearer to the upraised examination table, close enough to bite Michael again if he felt so inclined. Instead, he bent down and removed Michael’s gag. “Forgive me. I’m Lucian.”

  The name meant nothing to Michael.

  “I need to go,” he pleaded, struggling against his bonds. “I need to get back.”

  Lucian sighed and shook his head. “There is no going back, Michael. There’s no going anywhere.” He spoke slowly and carefully, as though instructing a slow-witted child. “The vampires will kill you on sight, just for being what you are. One of us.”

  He leaned even closer and looked Michael dead in the eye. “You are one of us.”

  No! Michael thought instinctively. I’m a human being, not a monster! But in his heart, he knew that Lucian was telling the truth, just as Selene had been. I can feel myself changing inside.

  Jolted by Lucian’s ominous statements, Michael failed to notice that the bearded lycan had produced a fresh syringe, until he suddenly felt the needle spearing his vein. He stared down in dismay as the cylindrical glass chamber filled with blood. “What are you doing?” he asked apprehensively.

  Lucian kept his gaze on the syringe as he continued to draw Michael’s blood. “Bringing an end to this genocidal conflict.”

  “Your war has nothing to do with me,” Michael insisted. He didn’t even know which side to root for, the werewolves or the vampires. Lucian or Selene?

  “My war?” Lucian asked harshly, and Michael sensed that he had hit a nerve. The bearded lycan tugged the syringe, now filled to capacity, from Michael’s arm. Blood streamed freely where the needle had pierced his skin; a Band-Aid apparently was not on the agenda.

  Lucian’s free hand gravitated to the gleaming pendant upon his chest, drawing Michael’s attention to the mysterious talisman. The sight of the pendant triggered a flood of bizarre, unaccountable memories. His eyes rolled upward, exposing their whites, as another round of hallucinatory sounds and images engulfed him.

  His hand delicately swept along the edge of a gilded vanity table, tenderly exploring the combs, hairpins, and perfume bottles. Lifting his eyes, he gazed into the brass mirror above the vanity and found himself staring at his own reflection.

  Lucian’s reflection.

  “Lucian?” Michael murmured weakly as he twitched spasmodically on the examination table. Now he understood, sort of. These had been Lucian’s memories all along.

  A.D. 1402. Lucian and three of his lycan brothers made their way down a shadowy passage, on their way back to their den in the servants’ quarters. Torches blazed from iron sconces mounted on the sooty stone walls. The sun had fallen outside, so they were no longer required to guard the castle from hostile humans. Their vampire masters once more could defend themselves.

  The clanking of heavy plate armor echoed down the corridor as a pair of Death Dealers advanced toward Lucian. The fearsome vampire warriors marched in finely crafted suits of expensive Italian armor, quite unlike the antiquated leathers and chain mail worn by him and the other lycan sentries. Heraldic symbols were emblazoned on the vampires’ steel breastplates, which easily could repel the wooden stakes or arrows of the superstitious mortals beyond the castle’s walls.

  Behind the armored Death Dealers, a procession of regal, pure-blooded nosferatu strode down the hall. Their elegant garb, much finer than Lucian’s own simple garments, was trimmed with fur and embroidered with delicate gold thread. Gowns and cloaks of the choicest satins, silks, damasks, and brocades rustled as they approached, the hems of the vampire ladies’ flowing gowns trailing behind them like silken shadows.

  Stepping aside to let the lordly party pass, Lucian and his brothers lowered their gaze respectfully. Unlike his fellow servants, however, he could not resist sneaking a peek at the undead nobles as they glided past him.

  And there she was! Sonja, the beauteous vampire princess of his most ardent desires. Her raven hair tumbled down onto her shoulders like the fall of night, and a gilt circlet rested gently on her head. Azure eyes gazed from a snow-white face of surpassing loveliness. A shining, crest-shaped pendant dangled from a chain around her swanlike throat. The priceless ornament rested securely on the ivory slopes of her bosom, above an embroidered burgundy gown.

  She strolled beside Viktor, the undisputed master of the castle. A brocade cloak of a metallic golden hue rested on his imperious shoulders, its upright collar rising stiffly behind his neck. An intricate silver medallion,
far more elaborate than Sonja’s pendant, adorned his chest, while his dark satin breeches were girded at the waist by an ornate golden belt whose polished buckle bore a design similar to that of the medallion. Two matching silver daggers were tucked into the belt.

  Lucian’s face lit up at the very sight of the princess. He was riveted, unable to take his eyes off her. Conscious of his gaze, she turned and locked eyes with him. Caught! He felt a tremor of apprehension, until a playful grin appeared on her radiant features. Emboldened by her response, he smiled back at her, provoking an even wider grin. Her emerald eyes sparkled flirtatiously.

  Alas, the buoyant exchange did not escape the notice of Viktor. A scowl turned his thin lips downward, and his expression darkened, yet he said nothing… for now.

  Time jumped ahead suddenly, breaking the seamless flow of the ancient memories.

  Lucian stared again into the gilded mirror, heedless of the silver beneath the polished glass. Sonja’s reflection joined his as she slid up next to him, resting the soft curves of her body against his rougher form. They kissed, and she took his hand and gently pressed it to her belly. Beneath her satin gown, her belly swelled with the cherished life now quickening within her. Holding his breath in awe, Lucian could feel the baby stirring inside his adoring princess, the new and precious life their shared love had brought into being.

  He smiled and kissed her again, feeling the passion rise once more. But before he could tell her again how much she meant to him, the door to her boudoir burst open. Viktor stormed into the bedchamber, his face a livid mask of rage—

  Another break in the memories, as time took a jarring leap forward.

  The medieval crypt was cold and damp. Sputtering torches threw writhing shadows upon the moldering stone walls. Rats scurried in the corners, alarmed by the sudden activity in the cavernous chamber. High above the floor, tucked away in a dark, umbrageous recess, a tinted black window admitted rays of filtered starlight into the fetid dungeon.