by AD Starrling
Reid glanced at his side mirror. ‘Gotcha.’ He rolled the cracked window down, leaned out of the estate, raised the Glock and fired a series of shots.
The front right tire of the leading car went out in a burst of flames. It pitched sideways, flipped onto its roof and careered towards the center line in an explosion of sparks. The second car veered to avoid it and slammed into a truck in the other lane. The last sedan drove around the wrecks of the first two vehicles, clipped the bumper of the second car and kept coming. The roar of police sirens rose in the distance behind it.
We were drawing close to a bridge that crossed the canal. At the end of a short queue of stationary vehicles, the lights were on red. Reid sat back in the seat and stared ahead. His eyes widened. He glanced at me. ‘Tell me you’re not thinking of—’ he started to say warily.
‘Hang on!’ I interrupted harshly. Ignoring Reid’s and Bruno’s shouts, I swerved onto the verge, accelerated and skidded across the junction between the contra flow. A blare of horns erupted around us. It was followed by irate yells and the ricochet of bullets bouncing off the back of the Volvo.
I righted the car, crossed a lane and overtook a truck. The black sedan swung around it and stayed on our tail. A moment later, the rear window acquired another spider web of fractures from a bullet.
‘Goddammit!’ swore Bruno. He pushed Anatole down on the seat, twisted around, smashed the glass clear with the butt of the Steyr AUG, levered the rifle through the gap and fired.
I glanced at the rear view mirror at the sound of an explosion. The rounds had penetrated the front grille of the sedan and ignited something under the hood. The car braked abruptly and skidded to a stop on the side of the lane. Several figures staggered out in a billow of black smoke.
I wondered whether Olsson was amongst them.
Seconds later, the bridge disappeared behind us. I looked over my shoulder at Anatole. ‘How’s he doing?’ I said anxiously. Though I had known the immortal for only a short time, I did not wish to be responsible for the death of yet another person. I had enough blood on my conscience as it was.
‘Not so good,’ said Bruno. The bodyguard was frowning. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood.’ He paused and studied the buildings outside the window. ‘Head north. I know a place where we can hide.’
Chapter Twelve
The Bastian safe house was a hunting lodge deep in the woods around Hollabrunn, some twenty-five miles outside of Vienna. We drove to the hotel in Landstrasse and swapped the Volvo for our Audi before setting off.
Anatole drifted in and out of consciousness for most of the drive up. By the time the car rolled to a stop on a pine-cone covered clearing outside the wooden cabin, his breathing had turned shallow.
We carried the immortal inside the lodge and laid him on a couch in the front room. Bruno brought in some wood and old newspapers from the porch and stacked them in the empty fireplace. Once the logs were alight, he emptied the bag of supplies he had picked up from a chemist near Landstrasse; rolls of bandages, a sewing kit, a disposable scalpel, and a couple of bottles of pills slipped onto the wooden surface of the coffee table. ‘Get the bullets out and stitch him up,’ he said to me curtly. ‘He’ll live if he makes it through the night.’ He turned and headed for the front door.
Reid frowned. ‘Where are you going?’
Bruno paused with his fingers on the handle. ‘I need to get in touch with Victor.’ He indicated the cell phone in his hand. ‘There’s no reception here. I’ll have to make the call from a phone box.’
Reid’s eyebrows rose. ‘There’s a public telephone in the woods?’
Bruno sighed. ‘No. It’s about an hour’s walk away.’ His eyes shifted uneasily to Anatole before he left.
While Reid did a perimeter check around the cabin, I searched the rooms and uncovered a bottle of gin at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen. Reid returned just as I finished pouring a generous amount of it down Anatole’s throat and followed this with some painkillers and antibiotics. ‘Isn’t that a bit much?’ he muttered, staring at the half-empty bottle of liquor.
I threaded a needle and turned to the unconscious immortal. ‘He’s going to need it.’
By the time Bruno returned almost two hours later, Anatole was sleeping soundly in front of the fire. ‘They made it to one of the hideaways,’ the bodyguard announced bluntly. He crossed the floor with another armful of logs and set them by the grate. ‘Victor’s coming to meet us. He’ll be here tonight.’
We made a meal from the contents of the cans we found in the larder. Bruno unearthed a dusty bottle of whisky from a hidden stock I had overlooked and passed it around.
I finally broke the silence that had befallen us. ‘Do you know why the Crovirs are after Anna Godard?’
Bruno glanced at me. ‘No,’ he replied with a shake of his head. ‘Victor received an urgent request for help from Tomas Godard late yesterday afternoon. They arrived at the Westbahnhof in the evening and we took them straight to the hideout under the Hofburg Palace.’ He stared into the flames. ‘An hour later, we got word that a group of Crovir Hunters were asking questions about the Godards. We decided to move them to another safe house. That’s when you guys turned up.’
‘The bartender mentioned a name at the canal last night,’ said Reid. ‘Someone called Marcus?’
Bruno’s eyes narrowed. ‘Marcus Pinchter is a Bastian noble and a member of our Second Council,’ he said in a bitter tone. ‘He works for Victor.’
I studied the bodyguard with a frown. ‘Why would he betray you?’
Bruno shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
I hesitated before voicing the next question. ‘And Tomas Godard?’
Bruno looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I guess there’s no harm in telling you,’ he muttered. He swallowed a mouthful of whisky and paused, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘Godard is the oldest surviving member of one of the most ancient families of Bastians in existence today.’ He gave me a level-headed stare. ‘He is true nobility, if you know what I mean.’
I gazed at him silently while the meaning behind his words sank in. ‘You mean he’s a pureblood?’ I said. The bodyguard nodded with an awkward expression.
Reid’s eyes narrowed and his gaze shifted from Bruno to me. ‘What’s a pureblood?’
‘An immortal who can trace his genealogy all the way back to the very origins of our races,’ I replied steadily.
Bruno shifted uncomfortably under my unrelenting stare. ‘Godard used to be the Head of the Order of Bastian Hunters,’ he said. ‘He abdicated his position in the fifteen hundreds for reasons unknown to immortals outside the First Council.’ He took another gulp from his glass. ‘Victor’s father, Roman Dvorsky, was elected the next Head of the Hunters.’
I narrowed my eyes at that. ‘Is Victor the current leader?’
‘No,’ Bruno replied gruffly. ‘Victor’s the Head of our Counter Terrorism Section.’ He paused. ‘The majority of us believe he will be the next Head of the Hunters though. Roman is still alive, if somewhat frail.’ A grimace crossed his face. ‘Unfortunately, it was several decades before the full effects of the Red Death manifested themselves in him.’ He leaned forward and threw another log onto the flames. ‘In the eyes of most Bastian Hunters, Victor is their de facto leader, even if he has not officially been sworn in by the First Council yet.’
Silence fell across the room once more. Anatole stirred on the sofa.
‘Godard mentioned another name last night,’ I said curiously. ‘Who is Vellacrus?’
A scowl dawned on Bruno’s face. He glared at the fire. ‘Agatha Vellacrus is the Head of the Order of Crovir Hunters.’ Amber liquid splashed into his glass as he poured in more whisky. ‘She’s a pureblood and a nasty piece of work, if I say so myself,’ he added with a grunt. ‘If it was up to her, the immortal war would still be going on to this day.’ He caught the wary glance I exchanged with Reid. ‘What?’
‘Several members of the Crovir First Council held a private meeti
ng in Washington a few weeks ago,’ I explained quietly. ‘A fortnight after that, a Crovir Hunter made contact with us in Boston.’ I hesitated. ‘Forty-eight hours later, he killed me.’ Bruno’s eyes widened at my words.
‘Oh, and twenty-four hours after that, he killed him again,’ said Reid wryly.
Bruno looked suitably impressed. ‘How many is it now?’
I knew what he alluded to without him having to clarify the question. ‘Sixteen.’
Bruno whistled softly under his breath. ‘That’s not good.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ A sigh left my lips. ‘It would be good if I could get to the bottom of whatever’s going on before the final one.’ The logs crackled and hissed in the hush that followed.
‘I’m only on my tenth,’ said Bruno finally. He glanced over his shoulder at the unconscious driver. ‘Anatole here’s on his eighth.’ A grimace crossed the bodyguard’s face. ‘He’s always been a bit of a pacifist.’
‘I heard that,’ mumbled Anatole.
Bruno straightened. ‘Hey. How’re you feeling?’
‘Like hell,’ said Anatole. He opened his eyes, sat up slowly and groaned. His gaze alighted on the bottle on the table. ‘Here, pass me the whisky.’
Bruno frowned. ‘I don’t think you should be drinking. You already had half the gin.’
‘What are you, my mother?’ Anatole muttered in a distinctly disgruntled tone. ‘Besides, that was strictly for medicinal purposes. Now shut up and give me the bottle.’
Dusk had fallen across the forest when the roar of an engine finally rose in the distance. Bruno crossed the room with his gun in hand and peered through a gap in the curtains. ‘It’s Victor,’ he said, his stance visibly relaxing.
Headlights appeared between the trees. Moments later, a black Volkswagen minivan rolled to a stop next to the Audi. The passenger door opened and Victor Dvorsky got out; he wore a bandage around his left wrist and bore a nasty bruise to his face. ‘You guys ready?’ he called out.
‘Yes,’ said Bruno. He closed the door behind us and we headed down the porch steps.
Victor studied Anatole’s face with a frown. ‘You look like hell,’ he said bluntly.
‘Thanks, boss,’ muttered the Bastian driver. ‘You don’t look so hot yourself.’
Dvorsky’s gaze shifted to Reid and me. ‘Put your stuff in the van. We’re leaving the car.’
We emptied the Audi and climbed inside the minivan. It pulled away from the cabin and turned down the path that led out of the woods.
‘So, where we headed now?’ said Reid curiously. ‘Not that I’d know even if you told me,’ he added after a pause.
‘Vilanec,’ Victor replied curtly from the front passenger seat.
‘Oh.’ Reid’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s in the Jihlava District,’ said Victor. ‘In the Czech Republic.’
Pine cones and branches snapped loudly under the wheels of the van in the silence that followed. Reid stared at me. ‘We sure travel a lot, don’t we?’ he said sardonically.
‘Consider it your first European tour,’ I said brightly.
Reid frowned. ‘Anyone got a smoke?’
It was half hour before we crossed the border into the Czech Republic. The van skirted around the Podyji National Park and turned north.
‘How’s Godard?’ I said after a while.
Victor glanced at my reflection in the rear view mirror. ‘He’ll live,’ he said with a grunt. ‘He’s a tough old man.’ His tone clearly discouraged further conversation.
I ignored it. ‘Did he tell you why the Crovirs are after his granddaughter?’
Awkward silence fell inside the vehicle. Victor sighed. ‘I’d rather Tomas did the explaining,’ he said tiredly. ‘He was hoping to spare you from the Crovirs, but you’re too deeply involved in this now for him to put it off any longer.’
It was my turn to be quiet while I tried to decipher the meaning behind his words. ‘Do you know a man called Mikael Olsson?’ I said finally.
Victor frowned. ‘I can’t say I’ve heard the name before. Why do you ask?’
‘He’s an old friend who’s now working for the Crovirs,’ I replied. ‘He tried to kill me in Boston a few days ago and posed as an officer of the Austrian State Police at the Bundeskriminalamt this morning.’
Victor stared at me in the mirror. ‘Does he bear a grudge against you?’
I shook my head. ‘Not that I was aware of.’ I glanced out of the window as we drove past a small hamlet. ‘You and Godard seem to be good friends,’ I added reflectively.
Victor snorted. ‘You could say that. Tomas Godard is my godfather.’
I was still pondering his shocking words when we reached the outskirts of Vilanec shortly after eight that evening. The van turned down a narrow country lane just outside the sleepy village and headed west across a series of dark fields. The land gradually rose and a wooded hill appeared on the skyline. The lane was replaced by a rutted dirt track.
Apart from the pale reflections from the eyes of the wild animals that fled the glare of the headlights, the forest seemed uninhabited. Two miles later, the trees started to thin out. A clearing appeared ahead of us. It was fringed by the woods on three sides; a dark ridge rose behind it to form the crest of the hill.
A house stood at the far end of the clearing, in the lee of the grey rock face. The pale stone walls shone eerily in the night. The windows were dark, the glass reflecting the glow from a star-studded sky and a crescent-shaped moon.
Victor stiffened and leaned forward in his seat. ‘Stop!’ he barked. The driver slammed on the brakes. Pebbles peppered the underside of the van as it juddered to a halt at the edge of the clearing, jolting us all forward. Anatole swore behind me. ‘Something’s wrong,’ said Victor with a heavy frown.
‘What is it?’ My gaze swept guardedly over the woods outside the windows.
‘I told Tomas to turn the porch light off if there was any sign of trouble,’ said Victor. He took the Beretta from his coat and checked the magazine. I studied the house through the front windshield of the van. The lantern above the front door was dark. ‘I could’ve sworn Marcus didn’t know about this place,’ Victor continued quietly.
The words had barely left his lips when the windows on the first floor blew out. The white glow of the explosion bloomed brightly and shot through the roof, blasting tiles and part of a stone chimney towards the sky. The shock wave rocked the van violently. We sat stunned for a second before scrambling for the doors.
Burning bricks, wood and smouldering debris drifted down slowly around the clearing. Flames erupted on the ground floor of the house. Glass popped and cracked inside the burning building as further explosions shook its foundations.
‘We need to get out of here,’ said Victor urgently. He took a step towards the van.
I placed my hand firmly on his arm, stopping him in his tracks. ‘What about the Godards?’ I said harshly.
‘There’s a secret passage in the basement. If Tomas detected the Crovirs’ presence in time to warn us, he would have gotten out through there,’ said Victor steadily.
The conflagration engulfed the entire house. I stared at the fire tensely, heat washing over my face in waves. Despite the immortal’s reassuring tone, I could not stop the icy lump of fear forming in my stomach. ‘Where would they have gone?’ I said insistently.
‘Not far,’ Victor replied. ‘They’ll probably lay low for a while and catch up with us later.’ He glanced warily at the woods around us. ‘We need to leave. The Crovirs must be close.’
I hesitated, before nodding slightly. As I turned to cast a final glance at the burning building, I caught a faint flash from the trees to the east of the clearing. My eyes widened. ‘Get down!’ I shouted.
A second later, a rocket propelled grenade smashed into the side of the van and detonated. The pressure waves from the explosion sent us tumbling across the pine cone covered track. Hot shrapnel and burning fragments shot out from the wr
eckage and rained down from the sky. A tire hurtled out of the blazing wreck and rolled towards the trees, leaving a flaming trail in its wake.
I crawled to my knees, my ears ringing from the blast. Blood dripped down my face where a jagged shard had slashed the flesh above my right eye. Next to me, Reid groaned and climbed dazedly to his feet.
A muffled curse sounded to our right. I turned and saw the driver of the van rolling desperately in the dirt, his legs engulfed in flames. Victor staggered unsteadily across the ground towards him.
Gunshots rang out from the woods. I looked over my shoulder and saw dozens of figures emerge from the trees next to the house. Muzzles flashed repeatedly in the darkness.
A bullet whizzed past my head and slammed into the dirt by my hand. I rolled onto my back, my fingers on the Smith and Wesson, and shot the Crovir Hunter crouching some twenty feet away in the grass.
‘Come on, move!’ yelled Victor. He had hauled the wounded driver upright and was dragging him into the woods to the west. Bruno and Anatole followed closely behind them, the spent rounds from their guns dropping soundlessly to the ground as they fired continuously at the Crovirs.
‘And things were just starting to get interesting!’ Reid shouted with a savage grin. He emptied the magazine in the direction of the approaching immortals, the Glock jerking in his hands.
‘Let’s go!’ I grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the trees.
Dead leaves and branches snapped beneath our feet when we entered the woods. Moments later, the crash of footsteps and the shouts of our pursuers rose behind us. The forest rapidly thickened. Crowded trees blocked out the ambient light from the sky. The undergrowth became a solid entity, snagging at our clothes and limbs, and hampering our progress. The ground was an invisible enemy ridden with potholes, burrows and roots that threatened to trip us up at every step.
Gunfire erupted on our left. Reid grunted and clutched at his arm. I drew the Glock and fired blindly into the night. More bullets whistled through the air from the right and scored a tree as I darted past it. I raised the Smith and Wesson in my other hand and half emptied the magazine.
