Underworld

by Greg Cox

  A mournful howl echoed down one of the slanted tunnels, reaching a poignant note before trailing off into silence. Something, she knew, had just died painfully. A steel chain extended up the passageway in question. Selene was reluctant to follow the chain, for fear of running into yet another hungry werewolf.

  No point pushing my luck, she thought. One way or another, the battle at the other end of the chain was over. I just have to hope that Michael was the victor.

  The sputtering glow of the torches revealed an actual staircase, leading up to the ground floor of the monastery. Selene thought she glimpsed more light at the top of the stairs. With luck, she would find Tanis above, and not more of his ravenous guard dogs.

  After all of this, he’d better have some answers for me.

  Holding her knife before her, she climbed the stairs. Every sense was at a heightened state, alert to the slightest hint of an ambush. Emerging from the stairwell, she found herself in a vaulted corridor heavy with the weight of ages. Time and decay had taken their toll on this part of the monastery. The plaster walls were cracked and crumbling. Wooden crosses and other holy relics, resting in niches along the walls, were covered by many decades’ worth of dust. Cobwebs cloaked the hanging tapestries. The paving stones were broken and uneven, forcing Selene to tread carefully. Melted snow dripped from the ceiling, forming puddles upon the floor. Rats scurried away at her approach. Moonlight shone through broken stained-glass windows, casting a spectrum of eerie colors upon the ancient stones.

  As Selene entered a particularly murky intersection, she heard muffled breathing to both sides of her. Not werewolves, she realized instantly. After centuries as a Death Dealer, she knew a lycan when she heard one; this was something different. She remained on guard regardless. Werewolves were not her only enemies these days. She also had to watch out for her own kind.

  Two pairs of bare feet crept toward her. Then, like hissing alley cats, a pair of female vampires exploded from the shadows. Their blue eyes glowed in the darkness as they bared their fangs and came at her with both knives and claws. Bizarrely, they wore only a few pieces of skimpy lingerie.

  Despite their frivolous attire, Selene did not underestimate her foes. She herself was living proof of just how deadly a female vampire could be. She took out the blonde with an elbow jab to the gut, then delivered a sideways kick to the brunette that sent the dark-haired vampiress tumbling backward. The blonde doubled over, vomiting blood onto the paving stones. Selene jabbed the point of her own blade into the back of the blonde’s head and the woman dropped lifelessly onto the floor. The brunette made the mistake of trying to get up again, still clutching a silver dagger in her hand, but a roundhouse kick snapped her neck in half and she joined her companion in death. Selene retrieved her blade from the blonde’s skull. Cold blood stained its length.

  Who? Selene glanced quickly at the women’s faces. She didn’t recognize them from the coven. Tanis must have turned them himself, she guessed. Most mortals died immediately from the bite of an immortal, but a small percentage of victims became immortal themselves. How many human girls did he have to bite to provide himself with these pretty playthings? How many mortal girls had to die?

  Selene felt a pang of regret. Before tonight, she had never killed another vampire. Now she was becoming an old hand at it.

  A bullet slammed into the wall behind her, missing her face by inches. Pulverized stone and plaster pelted her cheek. An intense beam of light blinded her. Throwing up a hand to shield her eyes, she squinted past the harsh white light.

  Andreas Tanis stood a few yards away, gripping an AK-47 assault rifle. A powerful searchlight was mounted beneath the barrel of the gun. “I knew it was you, Selene,” he said venomously. “The stench of Viktor’s blood still lingers in your veins.”

  The exiled historian had changed little in appearance. He was a slight man, with mousy brown hair, who looked to be in his midthirties. A brocade dressing gown with a thick fur collar was draped over his shoulders. A pair of velvet slippers protruded from beneath the hem of the gown. He had a depleted, dissipated look, as though he had spent rather too much of his immortality indulging in hedonistic pursuits. And, judging from the baleful look in his bloodshot brown eyes, he had neither forgotten nor forgiven Selene’s role in his banishment.

  “Tanis,” she greeted him. Her face and voice held a warning. “I see your aim hasn’t improved.”

  He smirked at her from behind his gun. “You haven’t changed. You don’t scare me, Selene.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to work on that.”

  Without warning, Michael dropped from the ceiling, landing right behind Tanis. The historian spun around and gaped in shock at the hybrid. Michael’s singular black eyes dilated in the light. “What—?”

  With but a swipe of his arm, Michael knocked Tanis into the wall, shattering a centuries-old mosaic. He grabbed the struggling vampire’s throat and pressed him against the wall. Tanis was as strong as any ordinary vampire, but he was helpless in the hybrid’s grasp. The Kalashnikov clattered onto the floor as Tanis released the weapon.

  Selene calmly took possession of the rifle. Beneath her icy exterior, she was thrilled to see Michael alive and well, but that wasn’t an emotion she wished to share with their new prisoner. Better that he remember the old Selene, who cared for nothing but vengeance.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  The converted wine cellar was as good a place as any to interrogate Tanis. At their mercy, the disarmed historian sat himself down on an antique wooden chair. His attempt to present a nonchalant attitude was belied by the trickle of sweat running down his temple. He fidgeted restlessly in the chair, obviously more apprehensive than he let on.

  Good, Selene thought. He ought to be scared.

  She glanced around at the lavishly appointed cellar. Tanis had obviously made himself quite at home over the years. Her frosty gaze fell upon the discarded female clothing lying on and about the decadently oversize bed. Disordered cushions and covers hinted at a recent bout of vigorous activity. Incriminating drops of fresh vampire blood stained the rumpled sheets.

  “Your exile seems a bit more comfortable than I remember,” she remarked drily. The bodies of his undead paramours rested in the corridors outside, leaving Tanis to face the music alone.

  He looked nervously at Michael. Although Michael had resumed his human form, now that Tanis was no longer a threat, the memory of the hybrid’s fearful appearance was apparently not far from the historian’s thoughts. He watched nervously as Michael sorted through a rack of stylish designer jackets, looking for something to wear. At the moment, Michael’s entire wardrobe consisted of a single pair of bloodstained trousers.

  “How does a vampire have lycan bodyguards?” Michael asked.

  Good question, Selene thought. She’d been wondering that, too, although she had her suspicions. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted an unusual glow coming from behind one of the elaborate tapestries adorning the walls.

  “A gift,” Tanis volunteered. “From a most persuasive client.”

  As were the mortal girls you turned into your undead concubines, Selene suspected. Her boots carried her across the cellar toward the faint blue glow. She had a pretty good idea who Tanis’s mysterious benefactor was.

  “Lucian,” she guessed.

  Michael reacted in surprise to the name. He looked at Tanis in confusion. “Why would Lucian want to protect you?”

  Why indeed? Selene thought. She ripped the tapestry from the wall to reveal a huge weapons rack lined with a wide variety of guns, blades, and crossbows. Vials of luminous blue fluid emitted a solar radiance that hurt her eyes. The same fluid filled multiple rounds of ammunition clips. Selene recognized the lethal ultraviolet ammo that Lucian’s lycan soldiers had recently added to their arsenal. One of her fellow Death Dealers, a longtime comrade named Rigel, had been killed by the UV rounds only three nights ago. Selene had watched in horror as Rigel had literally been burned alive from the inside out
, until only his carbonized corpse remained. The UV ammo was nothing less than weaponized sunlight.

  “Because he’s been trading with him,” she said angrily. She swiped up one of glowing clips. Even through its insulated casing, the glow from the irradiated fluid stung her fingers. “UV rounds.” She had previously suspected a mortal arms dealer, Leonid Florescu, of supplying Lucian with the experimental tracer rounds, but now it appeared that Florescu had only been a middleman at best. She glared at Tanis. “How long have you been in the business of killing your own kind?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve done what was necessary to survive,” he said without apology. “But my decision was made easier the day your precious Viktor betrayed me.”

  Michael pulled a dark wool jacket over his bare torso. Tanis moved to object, then thought better of it. Apparently he valued his life over his wardrobe.

  “Betrayal was something he did well,” Selene said bitterly. She took down a silver-plated throwing star from the weapons rack and examined it with an expert eye. The make was unfamiliar to her.

  Tanis looked at Selene in surprise. “Did?”

  “Viktor’s dead,” she informed him. “I killed him.”

  He chuckled, as though this was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “You? Killed Viktor? No, I think not. Unless…” Understanding dawned in his eyes. “You learned the truth.” A grin stretched across his face. He was enjoying this now. “So your eyes are finally open. Isn’t it interesting how truth is even harder to absorb than light?”

  Selene scowled at the historian’s mockery. The worst part was knowing that he was perfectly entitled to his scorn. I was blind for so long.

  His voice took on a wheedling tone as he craftily tried to turn Selene’s shattered illusions to his advantage. “You know, I tried to stop him, of course.” He feigned a shudder of repulsion. “An unspeakable travesty, committing such a horrible crime. And then turning you…that was just too much to take. My protests are why he put me here.”

  Right, Selene thought. She didn’t believe a word of it.

  He gestured at the throwing star in her hand. “Careful with that, dear. It makes a terrible bang. Open the blades and they’re active.”

  “Good to know.” Selene pocketed a few of the explosive shuriken, then selected a gleaming steel crossbow from the armory. She loaded a silver-tipped bolt into the crossbow and peered down the length of the stock. Time to get down to business, she decided. “Viktor put you here for a reason, but I doubt it was because you had moral qualms.” She swung the crossbow in his direction. “What do you know?”

  Tanis chose to ignore the implied threat. Getting up from his chair, he strolled over to a rough-hewn wooden table where he began to pour himself a glass of bloodred wine. “Very little about anything, I’m afraid.”

  Not the response I wanted, Selene thought. Taking aim, she squeezed the trigger. The silver bolt took flight, whizzing over the historian’s shoulder and into the wineglass in his hand. Tinted glass exploded and wine splashed over the walls. Tanis jumped backward, a shocked expression on his face. His blasé pose shattered just as readily as the wineglass. “Son of a bitch!”

  Joining her by the weapons rack, Michael smirked at Selene’s inimitable people skills. She was glad that he was starting to understand how her world worked. Just so long as he never expects me to play the good cop.

  “He wanted this,” Michael said, drawing Sonja’s pendant from his pocket. He tossed the pendant at Tanis, who caught it in one hand. “Why?”

  The historian’s face paled.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The stable was dark and quiet. Having been put away for the night, the weary workhorses dozed in their stalls…until a noise upon the roof roused the horses from their equine dreams. They whinnied in alarm and circled frantically inside their stalls. They reared up in fright and kicked at the gates with their hooves. Their eyes rolled wildly as they worked themselves into a lather.

  Noisy claws tore apart the timbers overhead, allowing the cold night air into the barn. Then a fearsome winged figured crashed through the roof before alighting on the hay-covered dirt floor below. The hybrid’s abrupt entrance made the trapped horses even more panicky. They hurled themselves against the walls of the stable in their crazed attempts to get away from the invader.

  Marcus listened to the horses’ racing hearts. He licked his fangs.

  Tanis was ready to talk.

  A smart decision, Selene thought. She leaned against a tile wall, feeling infinitely more at ease now that she had thoroughly rearmed herself from the historian’s weapons rack. New automatic pistols, Walther P99s, replaced her Berettas and now rested against her hips.

  Michael stood in the shadows nearby. Fully dressed once more, he kept a close eye on Tanis, who was seated at a long wooden table. Leather-bound tomes, obviously many centuries old, were stacked atop the table, with more books crowding the shelves behind him. The historian eyed his captors nervously, no longer trying to hide his fear behind a sardonic manner.

  “Some history is based on truth,” he said. “Other on deception. Viktor was not the first of our kind as you were led to believe. He was once human, and the ruler of these lands.”

  Tanis flipped through yellowed parchment pages as he spoke. A beaded crystal lamp provided him with enough light to read by.

  “Marcus. He is the one. The source.” Tanis looked up from the pages. “The first true vampire.”

  Attracted by the panicky cries of the horses, the farmer came running into the stable. Clutching a shotgun, he flicked on the barn’s interior lights. A gasp tore itself from his lungs as he got his first look at the slaughterhouse his stable had become.

  Dead horses lay in heaps upon the ground, their throats savagely torn out. Excess blood soaked the hay covering the floor. The barn reeked of blood and mutilated horseflesh.

  The shocked farmer made an inarticulate, gagging noise. He threw a hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up. The loaded shotgun trembled in his grip.

  Marcus emerged from the shadows. No longer a wizened relic, he looked just as he had in his prime. A reddish beard framed his youthful, aristocratic face. His wings were tucked neatly into his back. He casually wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand.

  This latest feast had done much to restore him.

  “Mother of God!” The nameless farmer stared at Marcus in horror. Shaking visibly, he swung his shotgun toward the intruder.

  But the Elder’s reflexes were infinitely faster. Before the farmer could pull the trigger, Marcus lunged forward and knocked the mortal aside with a vicious slap. The shotgun went off, blasting another hole in the ceiling, as the hapless farmer sailed headfirst into a wall. His neck snapped loudly.

  Marcus eyed the corpse with interest. Having glutted himself on the horses’ blood, his appetite was sated now, but maybe this unfortunate wretch could still be of use. Marcus glanced down at his silken trousers and gilded belt. The ancient garments did nothing to conceal the wings folded against his back. Moreover, it struck him as rather unseemly to be striding about half-naked. Perhaps a bit more clothing was in order?

  Kneeling beside the farmer, he fingered the dead man’s weathered overcoat.

  Marcus? The first true vampire?

  Selene’s eyes widened at the revelation. She had always believed Viktor to be the oldest and most powerful of the Elders. Her mind instantly flashed back to the night before, when Viktor had taunted Singe in the crypt below Ordoghaz:

  “The three sons of Corvinus,” Viktor had mocked the lycan scientist, heaping ridicule on what Selene had believed to be an old wives’ tale about the secret origin of the immortals. “One bitten by bat, one by wolf, and one to walk the lonely road of mortality.”

  “So the legend is true,” she declared. Viktor had implied that the story was nothing but a preposterous fairy tale, but Viktor had lied about many things. She searched Tanis’s face, but found no hint of deception. Michael listened just as raptly to the
historian’s words. According to Singe, she recalled, Michael was a direct descendant of the mortal son mentioned in the myth. She regarded him thoughtfully. Although new to their world, Michael was nonetheless a physical link to the very birth of her kind.

  Perhaps he was always destined to be part of this?

  “Near the end of his ruthless life,” Tanis continued, “when his next breath meant more to Viktor than silver or gold, Marcus came with an offer, a reprieve from sickness and death. Immortality.”

  Selene could readily imagine the scene. In her mind’s eye, she saw Viktor, perhaps less than sixty years old, lying upon his deathbed, succumbing to some incurable mortal ailment. Viktor’s face would have been drawn and ashen, his life guttering out like the beeswax candles lighting his gloomy bedchamber. Marcus would have been there, looking as young as ever, while he sat beside the dying warlord, whispering promises of eternal life….

  All of this centuries before Viktor made me the same promise, she realized, stunned by Tanis’s revelations. Up until a few nights ago, she would have regarded such an account as nothing short of heresy. How can I have spent six hundred years fighting in Viktor’s name without ever hearing this story before?

  “In return for immortality for both he and his army,” Tanis continued, “Viktor was to use his military might to aid Marcus.”