Samson reached the stooped hybrid, grabbed a handful of its rain-streaked hair, and pulled its head from the torn corpse. The hybrid’s rebellious hiss locked in his throat when he saw who had disturbed him. Its eyes were deep pools of darkness, slightly protracted jaws covered in blood and strands of flesh.
“When you’ve finished the main course,” Samson said, “clean this mess up.”
The inferior hybrid smiled then proceeded with its meal.
A female soldier approached; her naked form pale against the surrounding storm. Unlike the subordinate gorging itself by Samson’s feet, the advancing combatant had taken her human guise, smooth skin slick with rain water. From recollection her name was Sofia, an inquisitive creature who had overrun last night’s briefing with an abundance of questions.
“This area is secure, my liege,” she said. Like many female hybrids, she had a deep voice, vocal cords altered by repeated transformations. “We have also managed to detain one alive, as you requested.”
Samson nodded. So far everything had progressed like clockwork. “Take me to the captive,” he commanded.
Her broad smile looked pleasant enough but failed to hide her malice. It pleased Samson none of her hunger for vampire destruction had been sated by tonight’s feast.
“Follow me,” she said.
Almost in unison they leaped from the courtyard. He watched Sofia’s form as she scaled the building’s vertical façade with ease. Naked skin stretched over lengthening limbs and sharpening claws scrapped against cold, rain-washed brick. The warrior panted with excitement and Samson heard cheekbones snap as the female hybrid’s face distorted. A small snout formed into nothing more than a protrusion of malformed bone tissue and her eyes darkened into round, blackened pupils. White canines extended and pushed against her lower lip as the metamorphosis completed. Samson smiled this time; the warrior beside him carried dominant vampiric genes, ideal for the fight against their nimble foe.
The roof slates were slick with rain and the footing treacherous but the two hybrids moved swiftly to the roof’s apex. Samson looked northward towards the obscure mass of the Danube meandering across the country, and then followed Sofia as she loped away in a fit of fevered excitement towards the great river. It took them no more than a couple of minutes to cross the city to a Gothic-styled house bordering the river’s banks.
Over the edge of the roof, the Danube’s mass eased its way through the city. A balcony jutted over the waterway, two floors below the gutters. He dropped effortlessly onto the concrete terrace. Sofia joined him and he stepped from the driving rain into a large living area furnished with ornate chairs and sofas. Huge pictures graced the wall and a spacious fireplace clung to the last embers of flame.
In the centre of the room the vampire, with arms pulled out horizontally, struggled against thick ropes tied to her wrists. A fully transformed hybrid stood to either side keeping the cords taut and the vampire fixed to the spot. The bloodsucker’s weapon lay in the gloom, a soft glow from the steel blade revealing its place amid the shadows. The vampire greeted his entrance to the room with a hiss of panic.
The leech was a female, her youthful face distorted by jutting fangs. Samson noted the beauty in her eyes. He appreciated the female form, and although the woman may have been a bloodsucking heathen, she was stunning. Her black clothes stuck wetly to her skin and he admired her profile for just a moment.
“What a fine specimen,” he said, “and a brave one too; a true warrior.”
The two hybrids struggling with the ropes looked to their commander and laughed at his comment. The fools had relaxed just enough.
In one fluid movement the vampiress curled her hands around the ropes for greater purchase and pulled the hybrids towards her. They flew through the darkened room and skulls cracked with their impact in front of the black clad female. The vampire discarded the ropes, turned, grabbed her forty-inch sword, and held it aloft. It seemed Sofia had been given her cue to attack, and the subordinate female issued a growl of revulsion before she sprinted at the Enforcer. The vampire adjusted her stance and swung the saber at the charging hybrid.
Sofia leaped into the air, avoiding the arc of the steel blade with an agile back flip, and landed squarely on her feet. The vampire had put so much effort into the swing, she spun on her heels and Sofia countered with a violent push in her back, driving the supernatural maiden face-first into the room’s solid wall.
Nice move, Samson thought with a touch of sarcasm. He remained by the large double doors that opened to the storm-laden night.
The force of contact with the wall would have rendered a mortal woman unconscious, but without a moment of hesitation the vampiress turned to face her adversary, eyes dark with anger. Upon her too quick, Sofia swung a fist into the attractive countenance of the vampire and catapulted the woman across the room. She slammed into the wall and her weapon slipped from her grasp and skidded along wooden floorboards. Sofia strode purposely to the Enforcer, a crumpled form half hidden in dense shadow, but as she dragged the vixen from the floor by her hair the vampire struck a heavy palm squarely into Sofia’s chest. The hybrid cried a high-pitched squeal, but it did not conceal the snap of splintered bone—a couple of ribs perhaps, maybe her sternum—as Sofia was launched through subtle darkness before sliding to a stop in the centre of the room.
Resembling a darkened demon unleashed from the pits of hell itself, the vampiress sprang from the gloom and landed perfectly upon the prone figure of Sofia. The hybrid warrior squealed and bucked her body in an attempt to throw the leech from her, but the vampire held on with sharpened talons that sliced Sofia’s flesh.
Samson knew the time to intervene was at that very moment, but he felt drawn to the sight of their bodies locked in a seemingly amorous embrace, cloaked in a somber shadow that only added to the eroticism of the spectacle before him. A smile curled Samson’s mouth. His penis stiffened as he watched the immortal females fight for survival. Like a supernatural cat-fight, he mused. He nodded approval as Sofia managed to toss the vampire aside as though she were discarding a limp doll. The vampire skidded off the smooth floorboards and rolled into an antique coffee table, scattering china cups and saucers across the thick carpet. The Enforcer sprang to her feet quicker than the hybrid.
The bloodsucker lunged for Sofia in a deadly, precise attack. She wrapped a solid arm around the hybrid’s naked torso, thrust an outstretched hand into the face of Sofia to expose her tender neck, and dislocated her own jaw to allow a bigger bite as she sank fangs into the hybrid’s throat.
The vampire’s body shuddered as she injected venom into Sofia’s bloodstream. The Enforcer backed off, shock etched onto her striking countenance as Sofia squealed in absolute agony and staggered away. The hybrid collapsed to her knees and gasped for air she did not seem capable of pulling into her lungs. Her muscles went into spasm, the skin of her naked form rippling as her body trembled and contracted. Sofia looked at Samson, eyes pleading with him to release her from the pain, and her eyeballs bulged from their sockets as the whites flushed a deep crimson. As he witnessed his comrade’s agony, Samson hoped his own disbelief remained hidden by thick shadow. Sofia’s pallid body turned a subtle pink as if all the arteries in her essence had ruptured and pushed blood to her epidermis. Noiselessly, she collapsed to the hardwood floor.
The sickening pop of viscous bubbles in Sofia’s oozing blood punctuated the room’s silence.
An increasing sensation of anxiety dripped into Samson’s emotions, a feeling he had not experienced since he’d been a boy, one hundred and ninety years ago. He could remember his time spent hiding; living in the frozen wastes of Switzerland’s Alps and gripped by dread that the hunting werewolves and vampires—their distant forms strident against the brilliant whiteness of snow—would eventually find and then eliminate him. The unfamiliar feeling of isolation and uncertainty tightened a knot in his guts once again. Their venom must be potent enough to kill!
The vampire lunged forward and scooped u
p her discarded sword. Samson transformed in a matter of seconds, his body bending as his spine cracked and swelled. His face slid into a grotesque snout, fangs surging from gums darkened with blood. The bloodsucker’s eyes widened, astonishment evident in her gaping mouth. Samson relished the alarm settling in her dark pupils. She can see the wolf in me, her immortal enemy born anew.
“What are you?” she hissed. “You are no werewolf.”
“You are half right,” he said, his voice distorted by the transformation. “And yet, I am no vampire either.”
For a moment he thought an understanding creased the contours of her face then a disturbance in the hall beyond the doors caused her to look away. Humans, Samson surmised, descending on the room to discover what all the commotion was about. He did not worry about encountering mortal man, the pathetic creatures could be easily dispatched, but the hybrid’s infiltration program had not yet been completed and if the reality of this darkened war became knowledge to mankind then he feared hybrid destiny may never be fulfilled.
The vampiress took a defiant step towards him, muscular arms holding the sword aloft ready to wield its blade. “Whatever you are move aside or I will take your life as I took that of your pitiful comrade’s.”
Samson smiled.
“What’s your name?” he asked; voice soft against the hammering rain.
She gave him a quizzical look; unsure she should answer.
“If I am to let you live, I need to know the name of the maiden I spared.”
It had always been his intention to let one of the vampires escape. A great plan, he told himself. If all the witnesses to his celebrated night of triumph were eliminated, what conclusions would the pack and coven come to? Whole squads purged in one night would be seen as a huge conquest, and each would surely claim they had achieved a great victory over the other. What would tonight really mean to him if neither vampire nor werewolf knew who the real successors were? The opportunity to witness his inferior cousins cowering fearfully in front of their new adversary’s dominance could not be passed up.
Samson edged from the entryway and walked into the room. The vampire moved cautiously, stepping in an arc in the opposite direction to him, towards the doors. She kept the same distance between them, and they circled each other in a supernatural standoff.
“Please,” he whispered; a hint of joviality in his voice as he teased her. “What is the name of this beautiful, yet powerful, maiden before me?”
She spat with revulsion in his direction and continued to move slowly towards the doors. Her saliva coated his cheek in a vile, sticky sheen. It trickled to the corner of his mouth before percolating his lips. The blood of his fallen comrade touched his tongue with a sharp sweetness he was not accustomed to. Angered, he wiped the mess from his face. He almost launched himself across the divide between them but managed to quell his fury.
“You are what, three, maybe four hundred years old?” Samson asked.
“My age is of no concern to you.”
She had to be at least three centuries, Samson felt sure of it. His preternatural strength had to be equal, if not greater, than the vampire who confronted him, but a warrior so strong and agile, a vampire able to defeat one of his own combatants single-handedly, was certainly no fledgling Enforcer. She knew the history.
“I’m sure you can remember The Truce,” Samson continued, “and The Cull that followed. Tell me, how many of the children were caught and slaughtered?”
She stopped at the huge double doors, the storm at her back, and even in the darkness he could see wonderment crease her features. She straightened her form into an imposing figure silhouetted against the fierce night.
“No!” she hissed.
Samson heard humans beyond the heavy oak doors and someone asking if another could hurry up with the keys because the burglars could take everything. He watched the vampire back from the doorway into a rainstorm that ran in rivulets down her darkly-attired body. She gave a quick visual search over the building’s façade, probably checking its security, and then stepped onto the stone balustrade.
“Maiden,” he called. She froze on the edge of the balcony and turned to look at him. “If you survive long enough, tell the coven that the children have prevailed. A new breed has joined the fight. The Chosen will eradicate you all.”
Her brow furrowed once more as she absorbed his words, then she dropped from sight. Samson moved swiftly to the balcony’s edge and watched the Danube swallow her.
He turned on his heels as his body shrank to its human shape. Samson grabbed Sofia’s lifeless body by its hair and tossed her bloated form into the river. One in each hand, he dragged the useless guards from the room and in turn their bodies tumbled into the surging run of water. Keys rattled in the locks of doors shrouded in shadow behind him as he swung from the balcony and climbed swiftly to the top of the building. He hoped his clan had already disposed of the bloodsucking mess splattered throughout the courtyard and regrouped in readiness to continue their offensive. Samson smiled as he crossed Vienna’s rain-battered rooftops once more, and a feeling of satisfaction and triumph settled in his stomach in spite of the troubling developments within the darkened room of that house.
Finally his war had begun, and his tide of destruction could now be unleashed.
1789 A.D
PARIS,
FRANCE
At this time of night, thirty minutes beyond the witching hour, only the seediest areas of Paris seemed to retain life. Danger maintained a fearful presence in the shape of silent figures skulking in the gloom of dark alleyways and unlawful gangs grouped outside the entrances to sordid drinking establishments. Prostitutes hurried between dim pools of light thrown down by street lanterns. Despite the threat, the streets were not deserted and as such this district afforded the closest thing to sanctuary.
Somewhere close behind, concealed in the blackness of an ancient city, they followed her.
She had yet to see them, but knew they were there. She couldn’t believe her plans had disintegrated so rapidly and the knowledge of what they would do should they catch her sent a bolt of terror through her body. Fear urged her to run faster. Yet that emotion was subdued by the immense panic brought on by the awareness that ‘He’ was leading the chase. Had all of her accomplices deserted her this night? Could she no longer trust anyone?
She refused to accept that she was alone, without help or assistance. The tattered sheet of paper clenched tight in her right hand gave her an address, and a faint glimmer of hope. For many years she had sat alone in her chamber and read the words. It had not been a note of love or encouragement, or a message of support. The words revealed an address; one she knew well. Many times in recent years she had walked past the building, hesitant, wondering if she should dare knock on the heavy doors or take a chance to walk inside and search for him. Her own kind would not have allowed her to enter the premises—would have killed her without question if they knew she even considered doing so. She’d hidden the parchment well because if they had found it she would have been executed without trial. She gripped the old paper tighter.
The faded words had been written in blood, inked onto the cloth not by a quill but by the elongated claw of a right index finger.
Her father had scratched the words, and they pointed to where she could locate him in her greatest hour of need.
With her own kind chasing her through the narrow cobbled streets, intent on ripping her to pieces, that hour had arrived.
Without looking back, she ran harder.
* * *
Issuing a growl like the warning of a cornered beast, the heavens opened and rain lashed the Parisian streets. Clouds massed and swarmed overhead, heavy and thick. In the distance, somewhere along the northern districts of the city, lightning scratched the underbellies of bloated thunderheads. Another roar echoed throughout the municipality.
High on the rooftops of Paris’ fifth administrative district, Simon Cain gazed down into the darkened street and watched the y
oung woman run for her life. She’d discarded her footwear when the chase began, and ran with speed and inhuman agility across the cobblestones. His acute hearing could detect her breathing yet she did not sound fatigued. It didn’t surprise him. The woman was a hybrid, an amalgamation of two supernatural beings—vampire and werewolf. She, like Simon Cain himself, was two hundred years old, born into a clandestine world where the monsters of mortal nightmares were terrifyingly real. Despite her supreme dexterity, immortality, and ability to transform her human figure into that of a monstrous killer, she was vulnerable.
Soon, she would be slaughtered.
The woman sprinted down Rue Lagrange. On either side of the road, atop the slate roofs, the pale outlines of transformed hybrids gave chase, some of them loping like animals on all fours for greater speed. Her time was running out.
The storm closed around Paris and screamed its harsh breath across the city. It carried the scent of her rampant fear to his animalistic nostrils.
Keeping pace with his horde of pursuing warriors, Simon Cain watched his prey closely. Not a hybrid given to allow any feelings of weakness to enter his system, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He’d given the woman everything she wanted, treating her with respect and honor, confiding in her the darkest secrets of his war cabinet and his plans for future success against their immortal enemies. Yet she betrayed him; betrayed them all.
Monique Armel was his cousin by birth but he had once loved her as if she were his daughter. He’d groomed her for this stage of the war, at her request, for the past eighty years. Before then she’d been one of the ‘invisible’ members of counsel, not present at any cabinet meetings but party to all the decisions Cain and his chain of hybrid warriors had made. They’d worked hard throughout the decades preparing themselves and their army for this offensive, devising attack plans and strategies. Monique was an avid reader and he’d often found her within the walls of his library at his German castle. She studied old volumes that outlined past historical battles in the realm of mortal man and although the war they now fought was unlike anything mankind had witnessed, Simon knew many a lesson could be learnt by past mistakes. Those errors had not been his, and he’d conversed often with Monique about the details of the clan’s impending offensive, picking at her knowledge of conflicts and what battle plans were the most successful.
BLOODLINES -- Blood War Trilogy: Book I Page 3
