BLOODLINES -- Blood War Trilogy: Book I

by Dylan J. Morgan

  Have no fear, father, Trace whispered in his mind. The pack will revive you.

  A pitiful moan punctured the room’s murk, the whimper of pain coming from the human. Military trousers covered the man’s legs, jackboots still adorning his feet. Obviously a German soldier, the man moved his head slightly to one side, eyes flickering as if consciousness were trying to find a way to the surface. Leather straps held his limbs in place on the table, blood-stained bandages loosely covering the entry points of the needles attached to the tubing connecting him to the werewolf.

  Glancing at the lycanthrope on the other table, Trace couldn’t recognize the wolfen features. The werewolf’s eyes were almost closed, white foam coating its jaws. The bonds used to strap the creature to the table had gouged deep into the beast’s flesh and dried blood caked the wounds. The monster appeared close to death; his father seemed not to care.

  “What is going on here, Father?”

  Edward smiled, although the task seemed painful to accomplish. “This is science, my boy. A great undertaking that could have immense connotations for the future of man’s war—and mankind as a whole.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Silence thickened throughout the room. Trace’s pack of thirteen warriors stood unvoiced over the slaughtered remains of German soldiers.

  “I’ve been conducting these experiments for the better part of three years now.” Pride filled Edward’s voice, which deeply worried Trace. “I feel as though we’re getting closer to our goal.”

  “Which is?”

  “To create the ultimate man: a superior fighter with all the strength and ferocity of a werewolf, yet one that cannot alter shape.” Edward managed a smile when finishing the sentence, but it failed to hide the Elder’s insanity.

  “Have you succeeded?” Trace asked hoping for only one answer.

  Edward’s smile faltered. “Alas, as yet every human subject has failed to live through the experience.” He glanced at the desperate soldier on the dissection table. “I fear this one will suffer the same fate.”

  “How much do the German’s know of this?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Edward said, self-importance hardening his words. “Hitler ordered it.”

  Trace had no reply to that. He shook his head in saddened disbelief.

  Every werewolf—and every vampire too, Trace knew—had sworn an oath to the Elders that they would never interfere with the course of mankind. The human race had nothing to do with their species, had no connection with their centuries-old conflict, and thus was to be left alone to make its own way in the world. Edward had helped draw up the outline of the oath, had taken it, signed it, and yet he had defied it in the most heinous way possible.

  “You’re betraying the pack,” Trace whispered. “You’re going against all of our beliefs and laws. You’re playing God.” His voice increased in volume, anger and disgust unable to subdue his emotions. “Are you mad?”

  “How dare you question me, child!”

  In his peripheral vision Trace noticed the other werewolves retreating into the laboratory’s darkened recesses. Bergen had lost his air of invincibility, and the German born lycanthrope hunkered behind a workbench like a scolded dog. It seemed they didn’t quite know how to react to the situation developing before them; unsure of whom to side with: their battalion commander, or one of the pack’s most venerated Elders.

  “What do you hope to achieve by doing this?” Trace said.

  “It’s simple. Creating the ultimate man will end this war; it will bring peace to mankind; it will stop the slaughter of innocent civilians and prevent the annihilation of so many young lives.”

  Trace wasn’t sure if he heard right. The Nazi’s must have brainwashed him, it’s the only explanation. “We are not to interfere in the path mankind will take, Father. Our fight does not belong in the realm of mortal man.”

  “Our fight should not be with each other either, my son.”

  Aware of his nudity yet indifferent to it, Trace straightened his back and layered his words with authority. “I forbid you to continue with this barbaric undertaking. I have strict orders from your fellow Elders to escort you back to the mansion and relocate you with the pack. If we cannot return with you in our charge, then we are to return with your head as proof of your execution.”

  Trace still didn’t believe it would go that far.

  Edward’s expression shifted; dropped, hardened, became serious in an instant and his normally brown eyes blazed a deep azure hue.

  Trace felt it, like a new smell on a dawn breeze signaling the advance of danger.

  His bowels tightened in anxiety, blood flooding his muscles.

  The Elder transformed, Edward’s age-old human disguise ripped apart by the monster within. His moldy clothing shredded into strips, skin tearing violently as muscle growth expanded the Elder’s body into grotesque proportions. Eyes flashed feral, nostrils flaring as a wolfen snout ruptured Edward’s once attractive features. Fangs surged from his gums, filling a mouth already open in an attacking roar.

  Through centuries of experience Trace knew the onslaught was coming, although he never would have guessed the assault would be from his own father. Already divested, clothing did not hinder his metamorphosis. Trace arched his back and issued a bellow of dominance at the attacking lycanthrope.

  The preternatural monsters slammed into each other, claws tearing skin, fangs slicing muscle.

  Aware of his battalion bellowing around him, Trace ignored their calls of excitement as he rolled on his back and threw the savage form of his father from his body. The man might be aged, wasted by years spent in the company of mortal man, but he remained a merciless werewolf. Edward steadied himself on his haunches, his thick pelt rippling as the muscles beneath his skin tensed, and then lunged for his son once more. Bleeding profusely from the first onslaught, Trace dodged the second assault, his flailing legs sending a laboratory table skidding across the cold concrete floor. The werewolves seeking shelter behind it scurried towards the stairs to avoid being caught up in the battle.

  His father’s claws raked deep lines of burning lacerations along Trace’s chest, his roar coming from pain and not anger. Edward lunged for his throat, and Trace moved his head just enough to prevent the Elder’s scythe-like teeth from slicing through his flesh. His father pushed Trace to the ground, slamming all his weight upon his offspring. Locking his knees, Trace pressed his clawed feet into his father’s sides, talons slicing through the Elder’s thick hide.

  Bellowing furiously Edward thrust his head forward again in a callous and precise attack.

  Trace reacted quicker.

  Clamping his jaws around Edward’s throat, Trace’s fangs sliced easily through tendon and muscle, the bite crushing his father’s esophagus. A muted yelp escaped the Elder’s lips and he pulled away. Skin tore around Trace’s teeth, mouth filling with his father’s blood.

  Trace backed away and whimpered in distress. If he had a tail he would have put it between his legs. Anger and rage subsided, washed aside by a flood of helpless grief. The onset of new emotions did not emit a change, and he remained bestial. Cobalt, lycanthropic eyes studied the wasted form of his dying father.

  The Elder lay on his side, one clawed hand gripping his rent throat, the other outstretched in Trace’s direction as though pleading with his son for salvation from the abyss. None could be given; the carotid artery severed, crimson life fluid pumped from the Elder’s severed neck in a steady flow.

  Come on, Trace implored. Please.

  An Elder aged such as Edward should have no trouble regenerating from such an injury, even though it would take many months to return to full health. Yet it appeared the lycanthrope refused to save himself. Remaining transformed, Edward’s lips curled away from his protracted canines in a lopsided smile; a grin that seemed to convey he knew how much he’d betrayed the pack and that death could be the only justice given.

  Edward’s fingers tightened, claws slicing through fragil
e skin already weak and lacerated. The loud crack of snapping vertebrae echoed through the confined room.

  “No!” Trace shouted, only the word came out as an anguished bark.

  With his last movement in a life that spanned almost a thousand years, Edward wrenched his arm forward and tore a section of his spine through his throat.

  The Elder’s head rolled from his shoulders.

  Trace arched his back, looked at the ceiling, and howled in misery.

  * * *

  The exodus had begun: Dietrich Kraiss’ armies were in full retreat, their beach defenses abandoned under the weight of the Allied invasion. Normandy fields echoed with the sound of gunfire and reverberated with the movement of a hundred thousand troops. Clouds rolled and billowed on the distant horizon, a combination of burning sea defenses and dust kicked in the wake of withdrawing Nazi’s.

  In the heart of town the church burned fiercest, the fire having been started in the building’s cluttered cellar.

  Standing alone on the balcony of Saint-Champs-Remes’ solitary hotel, Trace stared at the horizon with indifferent eyes. Mankind’s war would no doubt end soon, but his immortal conflict looked set to continue forever.

  Having discarded the American uniform, he dressed in the clothes of a French peasant, garments his soldiers had found in abandoned closets within the few houses that remained standing. Orders had come through from the pack’s Elders back in Bavaria; they had a new mission now against a more familiar quarry. Trace was looking forward to doing battle with vampires once again—German bullets and hand-to-hand combat with his own species were experiences he could do without.

  The shuffle of peasant feet scrapped on the wooden balcony behind him.

  “Sir,” Bergen said, his German accent unmistakable even after all these centuries. “We really should be moving out.”

  Trace nodded. When Bergen turned and left, Trace sighed deeply.

  Hauling his athletic figure onto the hotel’s wooden balustrade, Trace stepped into space, and gravity thrust him to the ground below. Landing with agility, the werewolf commander sauntered behind the hotel, gathered his troops, and led them south into the heart of France.

  The pack had lost another Elder and the pain of treachery continued to burn fiercely. Trace doubted the wound would ever heal. After living under Edward’s supervision for eight centuries, the five years separated by mortal warfare had seemed like a lifetime. It would now be an eternal existence burdened by betrayal and the guilt he felt at having killed his father.

  At times like these Trace wished he had a mortal life, if only for an earthly death to eventually end his pain.

  1995 A.D.

  OTAGO

  NEW ZEALAND

  If Tamara Wyatt were honest, Granddad’s villa was beautiful. Spacious and equipped with all the luxuries of twenty-first century living, including a heated indoor pool, en-suite to the master bedroom, and satellite TV, it stood proud in about five acres of green land. Excitement stirred in her stomach as she drove up the winding path to the front door. Maybe, to take the edge off her deep sorrow, she would inherit the house and its grounds. New Zealand’s Southern Alps enhanced the panorama beyond the building with snow-capped peaks stretching down the South Island towards Queenstown.

  It felt good to have a different emotion than grief churn in her stomach. Granddad had been dead a week and she cried every day. Her tears had flowed heavily yesterday as she sprinkled rain-soaked earth onto the old man’s coffin. As it oozed onto the oak casket she’d thought of him—emaciated and withered, life dripping away like the slime through her fingers. Sorrow still held a clenched fist around her heart.

  She pulled to a stop outside the house and cut the engine. The others were already there: Dale Vernon had parked his red Porsche outside the garage—what the hell is he doing here? He isn’t family—with Dad’s Volvo directly behind it. A large black car, the model of which she didn’t recognize, was positioned neatly against the edge of the driveway. It belonged to Granddad’s lawyer. Rebecca’s Ford wasn’t parked anywhere but that didn’t surprise Tamara. Her eldest sister had probably gotten a lift with Dad, expecting to leave the premises behind the wheel of an expensive Mercedes.

  Yesterday’s rain had made its way out to the Pacific and crisp autumn skies graced the Otago area. The gravel driveway shifted wetly under her feet.

  Close to the building, she gazed at it. She’d been there a few times on holiday, when she’d been a young girl, when the true grandeur of the building meant little to her and she’d failed to take mental pictures of it. Granddad liked houses and he’d used his fortune to build two elegant homes. His other property was more impressive with panoramic ocean views in the Wellington area. If she didn’t inherit the villa, maybe she’d get the estate in Wellington. After all, she had nursed him, been there for him when it really mattered. Surely Granddad would see she’d be looked after. Excitement settled and gave way to remorse. The South Island wind swept over Granddad’s acreage and reminded her of the old man’s rasping breath as he pulled air into his diseased lungs. Tamara bowed her head, shut her eyes, and tried to push the excitement away.

  She found only one vision in her mind of her grandfather: him in bed, shrunken and helpless. He’d aged incredibly in those final months, a vulnerable man struggling to stay alive. Tammy had considered it a merciful release when he finally went but it hadn’t lessened the hurt and her sense of loss. She’d been glad she’d held his hand at the time. At least he knew one of them cared. Tamara’s father was too wrapped up in his business, her stepmother too wrapped up in Dad’s money. And while her younger sister Alison lay down with Dale Vernon on top of her, Rebecca was just being Rebecca. She didn’t give a shit about anybody but herself.

  If she tried hard enough, Tamara could dig out memories of happier times with her grandfather. She’d retrieve them eventually, but it contained a long search through her subconscious; a heavy dig past fresher memories of a breathing corpse locked in bed by a shackling disease.

  Tamara checked her watch. Shit, I’m late. The door to the house opened before she finished ascending the four steps to the elevated building. An old man greeted her, his wrinkled face set with annoyance: the attorney, Reginald Bowers, with hair standing up as if someone had gone over it with a balloon. Maybe he charges himself every morning before he gets started. A smile pulled her features with the thought. The old man tilted his head so he could glare over the reading glasses on his freckled nose. A blotchy hand stretched from an undersized suit to shake Tamara’s.

  “Where the hell have you been?” His voice held a hard edge, belying his frail appearance.

  “What? It’s only been ten minutes.”

  He said no more, ushered her into the building, and pushed the door closed. When Bowers strode down the hall, leading her to the study, he walked with purposefulness and strength.

  At the end of the hall, ceiling-high doors opened onto a patio that offered a majestic vista of the mountains. Pictures hung in the hallway, reflected in the polished marble floor. Granddad, forty years younger, looked at Tamara from the largest picture on the wall. She stopped beneath it for a moment and gazed at his chiseled face and elegant suit. She smiled at it, hoping it would replace the vision of the man currently lurking in her mind—one of a shrunken invalid. She tried to take in every contour of the man’s young countenance in order to retrieve it when the nightmares returned.

  Bowers’ voice rasped in the echoic hallway. “Come on princess, we have delayed enough.”

  She hated it when he called her that; he didn’t know her well enough. She’d told him more than once Granddad would be the only one allowed to address her in such a loving manner. Bowers always smiled and called her the endearment regardless. With displeasure evident, Tamara marched into the room.

  The study was bigger than Tamara’s living room back in Christchurch. Large bay windows revealed the splendor beyond, and paintings on the other wall seemed to reflect that beauty with picturesque landscapes.
Leather seats were arranged in front of an expansive oak table. They sat in the comforting chairs: her family had donned black suits again, but Tamara knew the outward show of grief covered the elation they felt inside. They watched her with a sense of hatred as she entered, almost blaming her for the old man’s disease and subsequent death. They were probably just pissed off because she’d kept them waiting for more than ten minutes. She figured each of them knew what they desired, which piece—large piece if the truth be known—of Granddad’s fortune they wanted to inherit. Tamara had kept them from their financial windfall long enough and they weren’t happy.

  Tamara hoped they’d see none of it.

  She sat in the last available seat, to the rear of the family. Nothing changes.

  The old man took his place at the heavy oak table, silhouetted by the distant Alps.

  “For those of you who do not know me,” he began, “my name is Reginald Bowers and I’m acting for Mr. Wyatt’s solicitors—Bowers and Waterman—in the distribution of his estate and other holdings. I would like to take this opportunity to say that I have known Mr. Wyatt—Trevor—for almost forty years now and I feel deeply for your tragic loss.”

  The family nodded their thanks. Rebecca uttered words that sounded broken yet false. Her stepmother issued a sniffle of fabricated grief. They hadn’t bothered with him in life, why should they care now he had died? Tamara felt sickened by them. She sat back in the comfortable seat and crossed her legs.

  Bowers reached to his side and pulled up an outsized briefcase. He placed it on the oak desk, clipped open the locks, and raised its lid. Tamara watched his fingers grip the lid like the spindly legs of a giant spider crawling from its depths, and the man’s hair—brilliantly white and fizzed—resembled the imaginary arachnid’s body hair as it edged towards the rim of the case. Bowers retrieved a large envelope, closed his case, and set the document on its top. He launched into a coughing fit, shoulders bouncing with his efforts, veins forming ridges across his blotchy scalp as he wheezed into a gingerly clenched fist. Tamara’s family didn’t move. If they had any compassion in them they would have offered to help the old man. Tamara had watched Granddad cough his life away in much the same way as Bowers—the difference being Granddad had been riddled with disease. By the time Tamara walked to the desk and poured a glass of water from a pitcher, the old man had composed himself. He glanced at her with a mild look of surprise, thanked her, and took a deep sip of the cooling liquid.