She smiled at the thought, more comfortable hating Kraven than dealing with her confusing feelings regarding Michael. She tried again to push the American from her thoughts. He was attractive, yes, and compassionate, but she was a soldier on a mission, not a lovesick damsel from one of the romantic ballads she’d heard as a child. Besides, he was at least six hundred years too young for her.
So why couldn’t she forget the warmth of his blood within her mouth, the taste of his skin beneath her lips? She remembered the thrill she had felt as her fangs had slid gently into his tender flesh….
A flapping sound intruded upon her sensual reverie. Looking up through the snow-laden branches, she was astounded to see a winged figure, like some terrible dark angel, soaring over the treetops. Her jaw dropped and her brown eyes opened wide.
What in the Elders’ name…?
Centuries of prowling the shadows had not prepared Selene for the sight of the airborne apparition above her. She had never seen anything like this creature, in either the mortal or immortal spheres. Scalloped bat-wings swiftly carried the figure out of view as it flew south, back the way she had come.
Selene froze in her tracks as a terrifying thought awoke inside her. Could that have been… Marcus? She had only glimpsed the winged creature for a few seconds, but something about it set off alarm bells at the back of her mind. The Elders did not possess wings, at least not before tonight, but many things had changed over the last several hours. A sudden chill ran down her spine as she remembered Singe’s blood spreading across the floor of the Elders’ crypt, beneath which Marcus hung in repose. What had Viktor said again, shortly before he’d crushed the lycan scientist’s skull?
“An heir to Corvinus lies there, not three feet from you.”
He had been referring to Marcus himself. Was it possible that the lone Elder indeed possessed the same genetic quirk as Michael? Had Marcus also become a hybrid?
The very idea filled her with dread, especially when she recalled that the winged entity had been flying southwest.
Toward Michael.
Possessed of a sudden fearful premonition, she spun around and started racing back the way she had come. Her boots trampled over the deep tracks she had previously left in the snow, as she sprinted through the forest as fast as her athletic legs could carry her. All thought of reaching Ordoghaz was forgotten. Over the centuries, Selene had learned to trust her instincts, and right now those instincts told her that Michael was in deadly danger. Kraven and the mansion would have to wait.
I’m coming, Michael! she thought fiercely. The winged apparition had a head start on her, but Selene kept on running regardless. She wasn’t going to surrender Michael without a fight, no matter what sort of entity was after him. She prayed that he was still safely locked away in the hidden bunker. Watch yourself, she entreated him silently. Don’t take any reckless chances.
The tail of her black trench coat flapped behind her as she ran.
To Michael’s relief, the cops gave him only a cursory glance, before turning back to their meals. They seemed more interested in their breakfasts than in the new arrival. The tavern’s other patrons left him alone as well.
Thank heaven for small favors, he thought.
Finding an empty table, he dropped down onto a bench. After his long hike through the snow, it felt good to be out of the cold. A weary-looking barmaid took his order and he waited impatiently for his food. His stomach growled like a hungry werewolf. He licked his lips in anticipation.
God, I feel as if I could eat a horse. He shuddered at the thought of the plasma bag he had left behind at the old mine. He was starving, but he wasn’t that hungry.
Yet.
The feeling was starting to return to his fingers and toes by the time the barmaid returned with his order. She slid a large plate of paprikás krumpli in front of him, along with a mug of hot coffee. He couldn’t complain about the size of the portions; the diced potatoes and peppery sauce was practically overflowing the plate. The spicy smell of paprika overpowered his nostrils. It was rich, heavy fare, exactly what he was in the mood for.
And yet… he hesitated before digging in. Selene’s words came back to him: “Normal food would be lethal.” Did she mean that literally?
Best to take it slow. He speared a chunk of potato with his fork and cautiously took a bite. He chewed the food slowly, ready to spit it out at once if he experienced any adverse effects. Contrary to Selene’s warning, however, the savory dish went down fine. Better than fine, in fact; it tasted delicious. Throwing caution to the wind, he start shoveling the food into his mouth, wolfing it down ravenously. He couldn’t eat the stuff fast enough. Within moments, he had finished half the plate and was thinking about ordering a second helping.
Keep it coming, he thought.
Then it hit him. A sudden wave of nausea washed over him, causing him to choke and sputter. The hot meal started climbing back up his throat. He gulped the entire mug of coffee to try to wash it back down, but the nausea only got worse. He clenched his jaws to keep from vomiting all over the table.
Oh, shit! he thought. Selene was right.
His body was rejecting the food.
The TV news program continued to drone in the background. Michael ignored the broadcast until two English words rang out amidst the Hungarian:
“Michael Corvin.”
What the fuck? Despite his churning guts, Michael looked up to see his hospital ID photo plastered all over the TV screen. The anchorwoman said something about “wanted for questioning” and “possibly dangerous”.
I’m screwed.
Sure enough, the two cops had not missed the news bulletin. Looking away from the TV, Michael saw that the policemen were already out of their seats and headed toward him, guns drawn. “Don’t move!” the lead cop yelled at him in Hungarian. He was a stocky-looking Slav wearing a blue winter jacket and a black fur cap. His partner was slimmer and younger. “Hands over your head!”
A spasm twisted Michael’s guts. He clutched his stomach, his face contorted in agony. Another seizure rocked his body. A cold sweat broke out over his body. He felt hot… feverish. It was kind of like the ordeal he had gone through when he’d first started to change into a werewolf, back in that squad car in Budapest, but different, too. He clutched the side of the table until his knuckles turned white. The veins on his neck stood out like cables. His legs vibrated restlessly beneath the table. His teeth tugged at his gums. He slumped forward, resting his head against the coarse wooden tabletop. More of Selene’s warning flashed through his brain:
“If you don’t anticipate your cravings, you will attack humans.”
“Please,” he begged the cops. “Get away.”
This was clearly more than the two men had bargained for tonight. “What’s the matter?” the younger cop asked, a note of panic in his voice. His gun hand trembled alarmingly. “Is he on drugs?”
“Or just crazy,” the older cop said. His aim was steadier. “Go call for backup.”
The young cop didn’t need to be asked twice. He scrambled toward the front door, leaving his senior partner to deal with the distraught American. “I said, put up your hands!” the older cop repeated. He stepped closer to the table. Michael’s head began to pound as the cop approached. It felt as if someone were beating on a war drum inside his skull. His temples throbbed to the same relentless drumbeat.
“What’s the matter? Are you deaf?” the cop snarled, waving his gun in Michael’s face. “Don’t give me any trouble!”
Michael was too sick to obey the policeman’s orders. All he could hear was the thunderous pounding in his head, which seemed to grow exponentially louder with every step the cop took toward him, until it sounded like tidal waves crashing against a rocky shore over and over. It was the moon that controlled the tides, he recalled, and there was a full moon out tonight….
His febrile gaze was irresistibly drawn to the bull-like neck of the older cop—and the jugular pulsing beneath the skin. The tempting artery
throbbed in perfect unison with the excruciating pounding in Michael’s skull. He visualized the hot blood coursing through the other man’s jugular and realized with horror that he had been listening to the cop’s heartbeat this entire time!
Oh my God, he thought. What’s happening to me?
Lorenz Macaro stood at the top of the stairs overlooking the ops center. The artifact he had extracted from Viktor’s corpse rested securely within one of the inner pockets of his coat. Samuel maintained his post at the foot of the stairs, awaiting further orders. Macaro suspected that he would be dispatching the Cleaners again before long.
The Sancta Helena had left the Black Sea and was now cruising up the Danube toward Budapest. The Hungarian capital appeared to be the nexus of the current crisis, so Macaro had thought it wise to bring his floating headquarters closer to the front lines. Running at top speed, the ship was expected to dock at Budapest by nightfall.
God grant that we are not too late, he thought. A familiar melancholy hung over his soul, leavened only by a growing conviction that matters were rapidly coming to a head. Can it be that we have come to the final chapter at last?
Below him, the ops center was still in full crisis mode. Investigators manned every station, monitoring the media and police chatter. The fire at Ordoghaz continued to generate ample news coverage, but Macaro anticipated that there was little more to be learned there. Marcus had burned all his bridges behind him. Macaro could only guess at the Elder’s present activities, but he had no doubt as to Marcus’ ultimate objective.
He has to be stopped, Macaro knew. At all costs.
While each investigator dutifully monitored his or her own assigned frequency, tuning out any and all distractions, their commander strove to listen to every broadcast at once. To anyone else, the babble of competing voices would have been an incomprehensible wall of sound, but Macaro could differentiate each one. His brow knitted in concentration as he mentally sorted through the various reports and snatches of police chatter. That some of the conversations were in Russian, German, and English posed little difficulty for him.
An excited voice, shouting in Hungarian, caught his attention.
“…Corvin, the American fugitive… he’s here!”
Macaro’s hand shot up. He pointed decisively at one of the receivers below.
“There!” he said tersely.
His people responded with laudable speed. Instantly, all the other transmissions were silenced. Only the voice emanating from the indicated receiver could be heard throughout the ops room. The entire team listened intently.
“…requesting immediate backup. Repeat, requesting backup…”
That’s it, Macaro thought. A rush of excitement shot through his veins. He snapped his fingers and shot an urgent look at Samuel.
“Get the men up there now!”
Chapter Ten
Michael gripped the edge of the table. The policeman’s heartbeat pounded inside his skull. He tried to look away from the cop’s throbbing jugular.
“Please… just get away.” Desperation tinged his voice. It was an effort just to speak. “You’ve got to get away.”
His eyes remained locked upon the cop’s throat. The stupid policeman had no idea of the danger he was in! Brandishing his service revolver, he advanced on Michael until he was only a few inches away from the other side of the table. “Surrender peacefully and you won’t get hurt,” he promised. “Don’t make me use this gun.”
Michael clamped his eyes shut. He tried to think of baseball scores, the periodic table, Beatles lyrics… anything to fend off his uncontrollable urge to feed. But it was no use. He could still hear the cop’s pulse echoing inside his head, drowning out the pathetic squeaking of his conscience. His mouth watered involuntarily. Sharpened incisors slid from his gums. Taloned nails dug deep scratches into the wooden surface of the table. He couldn’t hold on any longer.
“Get the fuck away from me!”
The cop stepped up to the table, a belligerent expression on his beefy face. “That’s enough!” he grunted. Besides the gun, he had a clear weight advantage over Michael. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his belt. “You’re coming with me!”
Michael’s eyes snapped open. Jet-black orbs glared balefully. He growled back at the startled policeman, exposing a mouthful of jagged fangs.
“Holy Mother—!” the cop gasped. Too late, he staggered backward, away from the table.
Michael’s sanity took a time-out. Driven by an overwhelming physical compulsion, he pounced across the table at the other man, knocking him to the floor. The cop only managed to fire off one shot before his gun went flying from his fingers. The shot went wild, nailing the ceiling instead of Michael. Splinters rained down onto the floor, mixing with the sawdust. The sharp report of the shot echoed against the sturdy timber walls.
Having cleared the table in a single leap, Michael was right on top of his prey. Razor-sharp talons dug into the cop’s arms as Michael pinned them to the floor. The policeman’s thick fingers groped uselessly for his lost pistol. Michael threw back his head, ready to sink his fangs into the other man’s throat. Saliva dripped down his chin. He could already taste the cop’s hot blood. He couldn’t understand why he had waited so long….
Pandemonium erupted inside the tavern. The other customers shrieked and shouted as they jumped up from their seats, knocking over tables and chairs. They pushed and clawed at one another in their desperate attempts to flee the tavern. Plates and cups crashed onto the floor. Behind the long wooden bar, the bartender dived for the floor. Flailing bodies crammed the front door, blocking each other. A trucker swore loudly in Hungarian. The barmaid let out a hysterical scream as a serving tray slipped from her fingers. Glass steins shattered loudly. Beer spilled over the sawdust.
The commotion momentarily distracted Michael. His fangs still poised over the policeman’s jugular, he glanced up at the panicked crowd. Their terrified faces hit him like a sledgehammer. They looked scared to death.
Of me?
The thought was like a splash of cold water, restoring his sanity. He turned to look at himself in the mirror above the bar. He hadn’t morphed all the way into his hybrid form, but the reflection he saw was repugnant enough. A blood-crazed beast, with ebony eyes and bestial fangs, stared back at him.
“Oh my God…” His own voice sounded alien to him, deeper and more guttural. He looked down at the cop beneath him. The man’s face was white with fear. Frantic prayers tumbled from his lips. Michael realized that he had been only seconds away from ripping out the man’s throat.
“You don’t want that on your conscience,” Selene had warned him.
He had come so close!
Sickened with himself, he let go of the cop’s arms and clambered away from the man. His mind recoiled from what he had almost done; it was as if he were trapped inside his worst nightmare. He was supposed to be a doctor… a healer. Not a cannibal!
His eyes searched the faces of the fleeing patrons, seeking forgiveness and understanding, but all he saw were the panic-stricken eyes of innocent men and women afraid for their lives. They glanced fearfully back over their shoulders as they ran screaming into the parking lot outside. He had become these people’s nightmare as well.
It was all too much for him. The room began to spin around him, and he grabbed on to a tabletop for support. The pounding in his head multiplied and divided; he realized he was hearing the heartbeats of over a half dozen prospective victims, all mixed together in an unbearable cacophony. The smell of their alcohol-laced blood and sweat mixed with the oppressive odor of spilled beer and paprika. His stomach rebelled at the stench. Alternating waves of hot and cold washed over his body as the most violent spasm yet wrenched his insides. He dropped onto his hands and knees, gray-faced and shaking. He vomited explosively. Undigested potato sprayed from his mouth. He gnashed his fangs in agony.
Is this it? he wondered. Am I dying?
He half-hoped he was, but no such luck. Once his stomach was empty,
he found the strength to lift his gaze from the floor. A lighted sign reading KIJARAT caught his eye. Exit, his brain translated, as he scrambled to his feet and ran for the tavern’s back door. I have to get out of here before I hurt someone for good. That frozen blood back at the bunker was starting to sound like his last hope for salvation.
I should have listened to Selene!
The rear door was locked, no doubt in violation of the local fire codes, but Michael slammed into it with superhuman strength. The door crashed to the ground and Michael found himself lying face-first in a dark alley behind the tavern. Icicles dangled like spikes from the overhanging roof of the building. Frozen puddles filled the potholes in the pavement. Snow continued to blanket the ground. The sun had not yet risen.
Michael was starting to think this night was never going to end.
Attracted by the noise, the second cop came running around the corner. His flashlight lit up the alley. Michael’s black eyes blinked against the glare. He rose quickly to his feet.
“Stop!” the young cop yelled. He drew his gun. “I’m warning you!”
No! Michael thought. He couldn’t trust himself around anyone right now. He was sane again, but for how much longer? For God’s sake, just leave me alone!
Turning his back on the cop, he raced toward the other end of the alley. Gunshots rang out behind him and he felt the bullets tear into his back. Blood exploded from his chest as the bullets passed through him. Pain flared along his nerve endings. The multiple impacts staggered him, throwing his stride out of whack, but he kept on running. Apparently the local constabulary did not employ silver bullets.
He winced at the searing pain. How many times had he been shot? He had lost count after the first few impacts. It came as a start to realize that this was the second time someone had shot him tonight, Kraven being the first. Selene’s blood had healed him the first time around, but this time he was on his own. Ignoring the gaping exit wounds, he dashed out of the alley.
[Underworld 03] - Evolution Page 9
