Muscles protested about the position in which she lay, and Deanna realized she was at the foot of the tall column but had no recollection of crawling there from the steps. She glanced at her chest; jacket shredded by razor-sharp claws, its material stained with blood. So much blood, coating her chest and abdomen, jeans stained a deep crimson. Using her right arm because the left wouldn’t comply, Deanna pulled the ripped clothing aside.
Heat burned inside her body but she resisted the urge to scream. The rent flesh of her chest caused a sickness to rise in her throat and a question to plague her mind. Why didn’t I bleed to death?
An icy chill lacquered her skin and yet pulsating warmth ebbed inside her. The paralyzing fear of dying abated and she moved her head. Neck muscles protested at their use and a subtle headache throbbed against her skull. Something else pounded beneath it, but she couldn’t define the sensation.
The slap of feet on concrete came to her again, and a flush of panic surged through her guts. The two vampires had killed the werewolf then left the scene for a battle further in the park. The memory resided clearly in her mind. They’d come back for her, she hadn’t been overlooked as she’d hoped at the time of their departure, and they were returning to complete their task.
Desperate to move, a frightened whimper escaped her lips.
Another notion presented itself. Maybe it was the police. The commotion in the park last night must have attracted the attention of residents in buildings located in the near vicinity; perhaps the cops had been called.
All hope of rescue faded and a new, fresher fear supplanted that which had been there before.
The colossal figure of a werewolf emerged from the plinth’s concrete stairway.
At first she thought the beast decapitated by those two vampires had regenerated itself, but knew that even in this crazy supernatural world she found herself in such a thing wasn’t possible.
The creature paused when it saw her then gave a singular, loud bark. The echo of further footfalls resounded in the early morning air and she could almost feel the podium vibrating as more lycanthropes scaled the steps.
They’d rip her to pieces, she felt certain.
Simmering beneath the cauldron of fear burning through her veins was a different kind of heat: a feverish infection swamping her essence.
The lead werewolf padded closer, leaned in, and Deanna braced herself in readiness to feel its teeth slicing into her throat. The black orbs of its eyes appeared lifeless, ears pricked high on its monstrous head to take in all the sounds emanating from the park. Her nostrils filled with the repulsive stench of its scruffy pelt and the rank odor that coated its breath.
The beast sniffed the air, before moving closer and tasting the aroma wafting from her body.
The werewolf straightened and issued another deafening bark to the morning air.
She tore her gaze away from its imposing form and, glancing around the dais, Deanna counted at least nine creatures; keeping their distance yet seemingly intrigued by her presence.
The huge wolf leaned closer. Deanna’s breath left in rasping gasps of mounting panic. She could almost visualize how painful it would be to have the creature’s talons tear through her flesh.
It dragged a slime coated tongue across her cheek.
She wanted to scream but couldn’t find enough terror to do so. Her fire of dread seemed to burn itself out, or maybe it had been replaced by the other sensation swamping her body. She no longer felt afraid of the surrounding lycanthropes as she had just two minutes ago.
Although repulsed by its fetid breath, she couldn’t look away as the lycanthrope leaned in once more, stroked her cheek with its muzzle, and licked her face in a caring display of affection.
As one, the werewolves watching from the steps turned and left the scene.
Adjusting its position, the lycanthrope stood carefully beside her and slipped its arms under her body. It cradled Deanna gently around the back and behind the knees, pulling her freezing body close to its chest. The warmth of its fur seeped into her essence to gel with the inner heat churning her emotions. Deanna found herself pressing against the werewolf, seeking the comfort its body heat gave.
With a grunt of satisfaction, the werewolf loped away from the monolith and rejoined the pack.
NINE
Mausoleum of Augustus
Rome, Italy
Located at the Piazza Augusto Imperatore, not far from the River Tiber, are the ruins of Augustus Caesar’s burial chamber. Constructed twenty-eight years before the birth of Christ to house the ashes of the first emperor of Rome, the building has suffered the ravages of time. Its conical roof is gone, nothing but a forgotten memory, as is the statue of Augustus that once adorned the monument. Circular in construction, the bricks of its outer ramparts are pitted and grooved, festooned with weeds and grasses. At night, no lights shine upon the ancient mausoleum, as the building is no longer open to tourists.
Markus had long suspected that werewolves used the venue for secret counsel but had never been able to uncover enough evidence to prove the fact. However, the pack’s Alpha-Male insisted they held the meeting here which seemed to confirm Markus’s assumptions.
The black limousine pulled to a quiet stop and the driver cut the lights. Beyond the vehicle’s tinted windows the mausoleum looked more foreboding than usual. To Markus, its crumbling arched entryway resembled a dark cavern that led to a place filled with nothing but fire and brimstone.
“Are you sure you still want to go through with this, Milord?”
Markus glanced across the darkened space between seats in the rear of the limo and gave Anton a reassuring smile. “If the world was full of stubborn people, nothing would get done. Someone has to make the first move.”
Anton nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Markus suspected that after the events of last night Anton would rather not be partaking in a meeting with lycanthropes, but he was glad to have the Eliminator’s unwavering support. In a way, yesterday’s attack on Anton that resulted in the deaths of three Eliminators and one Norwegian had proved to be the cut that severed the final thread of Markus’s patience. He had insisted on this meeting with the pack’s Alpha-Male. It was time to redirect the course of the war and steer it towards some kind of resolution.
Santo stirred uncomfortably and glanced out the window at the ruins. Seated beside Anton, the vampire had only been a member of the coven for little more than a century but had already proven his bravery in battles against hybrid forces in both Croatia and Bosnia. Tonight’s outing was his first protecting Markus, the first time he would meet the werewolf’s famed leader.
“Try to relax, Santo,” Markus said. “Everything will be fine.”
Santo swallowed heavily. “I know, Milord; sorry.”
Shifting his attention back to Anton, Markus took strength in knowing the Eliminator would be at his side tonight. Anton had completed a remarkable recovery since turning up at Santi Quattro Coronati three nights ago resembling a corpse recently crawled from its grave. Even the trip to Norway, the extensive search for that cursed mortal, and the battle that followed, had not dampened the vampire’s tenacity or vigor. Anton allowed himself a mere four hours rest since returning from Scandinavia before he’d volunteered to escort Markus to this delicate conference.
Markus felt privileged to have Anton fighting his cause.
The only person he wanted by his side at that moment more than the Eliminator was his beautiful wife, but Markus refused to put Ilanna in such unnecessary danger. Once again, last night had proven to Markus just how vulnerable they were. Hunting a mortal should have been straight forward, yet he’d lost three excellent warriors because of lycanthropic bloodlust, and the whole mission had almost been compromised.
He’d burned Fabio Morani’s head in the open hearth in his bedroom, and Markus offered thanks in the memory of the original Elders that his daughter’s soul could finally rest in peace.
Once this night is over I’ll retire to the ca
stle and tend to her grave myself; devote some of my eternal time to her.
An ache of grief pinched his heart as he thought about how long he had left to live without her.
“Milord?” Anton said. The Eliminator tapped his wrist although he did not wear a watch. “It’s time.”
Markus nodded. Santo opened the door and exited first, following his orders to the letter as he scanned the vicinity thoroughly before allowing Anton and then Markus to leave the vehicle. The summer night continued to wrap a blanket of humidity over the city. The never-ending rush of the Tiber’s waters drifted through the static air to accompany the vampires as they crossed the piazza towards the mausoleum.
Markus led the way down the concrete steps and across the small unkempt courtyard, his Eliminators flanking him on either side.
Movement disturbed shadows clustered around the entrance, and a dry tightness crawled up Markus’s gullet. He hoped, for once in his life, that he could trust these feral beasts.
The lycanthrope guarding the wrought iron entry gate could easily have passed as a bouncer at one of Rome’s less favorable nightclubs: broad shouldered with thick, muscular arms, and a neck almost the same width as his clean-shaven head.
“No weapons to be taken into the meeting.” The werewolf’s deep voice vibrated as he spoke.
“And what of your claws and fangs,” Markus countered. “Will you be leaving those outside?”
“I said no weapons!” The lycanthrope grabbed for Markus, reaching to the buttons on the leather Armani coat in search of the Elder’s sword.
Before its fingers got to within a foot of him, Anton’s hand clasped onto the werewolf’s limb and held it steady. “You so much as breathe in Markus’s direction, and I’ll bleed you like a pig.”
The werewolf snarled, baring its fangs. It didn’t begin any sort of metamorphosis and the enlarged canines looked uncomfortably large in its mouth.
Markus placed his hand on Anton’s shoulder. “Thank you, Anton, but we really don’t need our weapons.”
He reached inside his coat and withdrew the forty inch blade from its scabbard. The lycanthrope watched steel glint in the subtle moonlight and Markus handed the weapon to him hilt first. “We haven’t come to do battle; this is a peaceful negotiation.”
Markus felt Anton’s incredulous gaze shifting across his face, but he kept his stare focused on the werewolf as the man-hound grasped the sword and took it from him. I hope to high heaven I’m not making a mistake.
Taking their Elder’s lead, Anton and Santo released their weapons to the guard. He stood all three sabers against the weathered stone of the mausoleum’s outer wall, stepped to one side, and gestured that they were allowed to enter the building.
Markus took the lead. A thick cloak of blackness filled the passage, none of Rome’s ambiance able to filter into the corridor. Their footsteps echoed off the deteriorating block walls. Markus strode with an air of dominance, but nervous tension rather than pride kept his back straight.
Another werewolf met them as they reached the first circular chamber, this beast not as domineering as the one guarding the outer gate. The new lycanthrope didn’t speak, chewed lethargically on gum, and nodded towards an entrance further in. Markus forced a polite smile to crease his face then made his way to the opening.
He glanced towards the empty ceiling, the chamber’s walls looking like a jagged cliff face. A clear sky stretched overhead, the light of distant constellations gazing upon the ancient ruins. If the meeting took a threatening turn Markus guessed he could always use his vampiric agility to scale the walls and escape across the ramparts. The empty scabbard on his hip felt uncomfortably light. Unarmed, brute strength wouldn’t be enough; even an Elder as aged and experienced as he, with the support of two trusted Eliminators, would be no match against the feral rage of a handful of fully transformed werewolves.
Markus didn’t break stride as he passed through the opening into the first burial chamber.
Smaller in diameter, the cavity retained more obscurity than anywhere else in the construction. Boulders were scattered across the grassy floor; sections of the ceiling that had crumbled many centuries ago. Arched niches were spaced evenly around the curved wall, the urns of their dead occupants long since pilfered and the ashes scattered. Markus’s eyes adjusted to the intense darkness in less than ten seconds.
Two werewolves, wrapped in their human disguise, stood near a small concrete doorway which Markus assumed was the entrance to the final, central burial chamber. By the looks of things, the pack’s Alpha-Male was going to long lengths to ensure his safety. It seems he has less trust than I.
“In here,” one of the lycanthrope’s barked.
So far, Markus had not recognized any of the loitering werewolves. It gave him cause for concern; seemingly the coven’s knowledge of the pack was not as detailed as he thought.
The vampires ambled towards the doorway.
“I’ll enter before you, Milord,” Anton said.
“There’s no need,” Markus replied. “We have nothing to fear.” Then why does my stomach refuse to stay calm?
Over the centuries Markus had fought many a battle in the darkened alleyways and subway systems of mankind’s ignorant world; yet never before had he ventured into an enclosed chamber without the weight of a sword in his grip to face perhaps the most powerful werewolf who had ever lived.
“There’s always a first time for everything,” Markus whispered to himself. At the doorway, he stooped his head, and stepped into the central burial chamber.
Dull gray walls reflected no natural light, the blanket of complete darkness extinguished by two candles standing in what appeared to be seventeenth century brass candlestick holders. An orange luminescence danced across all four walls and echoed from the ceiling, pushing shadows deep into alcoves that once contained Augustus Caesar and his family. A distinct chill hung in the cramped chamber. A werewolf dressed in black biker leathers stood motionless in the far corner, his feral gaze locked on the newly arrived vampires.
Standing in the center of the circular room, Isaac shouldered a brown leather jacket, his attire completed by jeans with rips across the knees. Long, dark hair passed over his shoulders, giving the Alpha-Male the appearance of a nineteen-eighties hard rock star. Isaac didn’t look a day over forty, although Markus could only guess at his real age. Markus had been fortunate enough to live through a time, over six hundred years ago, where vampire and werewolf coexisted as respected cohabitants. Rumor had it Isaac was even older than he.
Isaac held out his arms in a muted greeting, but made no effort to shake Markus’s hand. “Markus; I see you’ve brought an entourage with you.”
Markus smiled. “You didn’t expect me to come alone?”
“No; of course not. I’m sorry there’s nowhere to sit, but you did call this meeting at very short notice.”
“That’s quite all right, Isaac, I don’t plan staying here long enough to get comfortable.”
Isaac’s hands fell to his side and the hint of a smile faded from his face. “In that case, let’s get straight to the point. What do you want?”
Typical werewolf, Markus mused, all brawn and no tact.
The atmosphere within the confined tomb seemed to tighten, a tension that dissipated the chill and coaxed a nervous heat into Markus’s cold body. The leather trench coat felt heavy, suffocating, and for a moment Markus considered taking it off. He’d been in more threatening situations than this: backed into the corner of an old farmhouse back in sixteenth century Hungary with three enormous werewolves crossing the gloomy space towards him was one incident that came to mind. Of course, he’d held his sword in his hands that time and had decapitated two of the brutes before disemboweling the third, but somehow this current encounter seemed more perilous.
Markus reminded himself he was just as dominant and powerful as the Alpha-Male standing before him. He felt confident a one on one battle with a transformed lycanthrope would be an easy victory for him—he’d
achieved such a thing plenty of times during his prolonged lifetime—but tonight the odds had swung in the werewolves’ favor.
The roof of the emperor’s crypt pressed upon his shoulders with a stifling weight.
Without wishing to display any shred of the apprehension swimming through his undead veins, Markus stepped forward with his chin up and smiled warmly at his wolfen host. “I think the time has come for us to consider another truce.”
Isaac breathed out a laugh of disbelief that initiated a snigger of support from the werewolf in the corner. Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “Another truce? Why? It didn’t help the last time, what makes you think today will be any different?”
“Because the last time both of us were naive to the enormity of the threat posed to us, yet now we know different.”
“You’re talking about the hybrids, I presume.”
Markus nodded. It was hard enough controlling a war against lycanthropes, doubly difficult when marauding gangs of crossbreeds tried to gain a dominant foothold in the conflict. If they were able to wipe out that cursed breed once and for all, then he felt sure the big picture would become clearer.
“We’re distracted,” Markus said, “neither of our species can control our own destinies because of that cursed race of half-breeds. They need to be exterminated.”
“And what then, if we manage to slaughter every last one; do you suggest we forget about our own troubles and become one big, happy family?”
Markus dreamed of such a thing—but only under his terms. He shrugged his regal shoulders. “Why not; would that be so bad?”
“It’s not easy to forget your enemies after six hundred years, Markus.”
“But don’t you see that’s just it; we’re fighting a common enemy now. It’s no longer vampire against werewolf; we both have something else to contend with.”
Monsters and Mortals - Blood War Trilogy Book II Page 10
