“For being a homicidal maniac?”
The doctor winced again. “And for his psychic abilities. I mentioned side effects? There’s some concern as to those abilities presenting themselves in any test patients. Not to mention his lack of consent presents a bit of an ethical dilemma.”
“I thought he didn’t put up a fight?”
“Yes, but…well, he is a prisoner.”
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” Fulk muttered.
“We have every reason to believe, however, that Prince Vlad will be amenable to our research and will help willingly. He might even provide insight into the process.”
“Every reason to believe?”
“He preserved the Western world once, my lord. I don’t see why he won’t be willing to do it again.”
“But you can’t wake him up.”
“To be fair, we haven’t tried. I wanted to do it the proper way first. Though.” And here his expression changed, some of his star-struck wonder replaced by a sternness he hadn’t shown thus far. “We will wake him up. With or without your help. And if you don’t help. Well. I’m afraid I must warn you that the government funders of this project won’t take kindly to your lack of cooperation.”
“Ah.” His stomach clenched so tight he thought he might be sick. “So it’s like that, is it?”
Dr. Talbot nodded, face grave. “I’m sorry, but yes.”
Fulk wanted to be angry. He wanted to smash the projector and hook his strong fingers into the doctor’s throat, rip out his voice box in a shower of blood and grim satisfaction. He wanted to howl. A deeply sick part of him wanted to go down to subbasement level two and throw the locks on Valerian’s cage; who would notice two wolves slipping out the gate when the antichrist was ripping through the place?
But a part of him had always known this day would come. He’d been cut loose from the immortal world since 1865, since he turned Anna and fled with her across the Atlantic.
They had been one-hundred-and-fifty-two blissful years, but he’d always known he would be asked to do his job again.
He cast a look to his Anna, his heart, and she stared back at him with her jaw kicked up to a stubborn level. We can run, her look said.
They were strong, and they could live forever, but they weren’t invincible. And if anything happened to her…
Fulk looked back at the doctor. “You understand that I won’t be able to control him. That’s not how a Familiar works.”
“I’m not asking for control, my lord. Just the chance to make the world a healthier place.”
~*~
“You don’t have to do this,” Anna whispered into the sensitive skin just below his ear. She stood on her tiptoes, body pressed flush to his. She smelled metallic with fear, though her face was soft and carefully guarded when she pulled back to look at him.
Fulk knew his smile was sad. “Yes I do, darling.” He kissed her mouth, shutting his eyes a moment, letting the memory of her taste seep into him. In case this went south. In case…
“My lord?”
It was that annoying woman Jennifer from the phone before, standing with a lab coat and clipboard, nervously shuffling her feet on the flagstone floor.
Fulk sighed and rested his forehead against Anna’s. “Wait over there. Please?”
“Okay.”
Only when she was back against the wall, in the shadows, did he turn to Jennifer.
The woman looked properly frightened. “We’re ready,” she said, almost whispering.
The coffin was old. Old. Well-made, but crude: weathered boards fitted together with nails and craftsmanship. The sort of thing that, if dug up by random graverobbers, would have seemed like nothing more than a simple farmer’s final resting place.
The stone sarcophagus lay off to the side in pieces; it had been too bulky and heavy even for the new service elevator to handle, and they’d had to jackhammer it to bits in order to get the coffin down here, in subbasement one, set up on two sawhorses beneath an array of operating room chandeliers.
The coffin was dusty, rotting in places, coated in a thick layer of dust. By contrast, the figure that lay against its moldy satin liner seemed fresh from a bath. He was tall and broad, a true hero for the ages, with heavy shoulders and arms, a tapered waist and muscled legs, his power visible even through the tattered clothes that had left him almost bare. His skin was pale, but smooth, poreless. Shiny dark hair framed his face, long enough to reach his shoulders. He had a harsh, masculine face, Eastern European features, sharp cheekbones. He was a little too thin, from hibernation, but that would change once he was awake…and fed.
For now, he reclined in peaceful slumber, hands folded over his chest.
Fulk felt invisible ants crawling up the back of his neck. It was hardwired into his wolf soul to bow his head and submit, no matter how much he’d always hated that.
“Do you have the book?” Dr. Talbot asked, brightly, unaware that Fulk wrestled with every ounce of his better judgement.
“What?”
“The wolf book. Do you still have it?”
Fulk shook his head, baring his teeth a little. “I sold that eighty years ago. To a Frenchman headed for Moscow.”
“Shame.”
“We don’t need the book for that – it’s only if you’re trying to turn a wolf.”
Dr. Talbot beamed. “That’s helpful to know. Whatever else you need, then, it’s yours. We are very well-stocked.”
And they were. Beyond the ring of light surrounding the coffin were two teams of medical techs with an assortment of wheeled carts. Gauze, swabs, covered dishes of food. A defibrillator.
“You’re going to need some blood,” Fulk said, and watched the techs shrink back. “He’ll be hungry. And disoriented.”
Someone cursed quietly.
Dr. Talbot nodded. “Jennifer, four pints, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I need a knife. A sharp one.”
A sheet-white boy tech approached him cautiously and offered a scalpel.
Fulk took it from him and paced slowly around the coffin, moving to stand behind the sleeping figure’s head. If he was the sort of person who was easily impressed, who cared about celebrities, he would have been shaking with delight, here in the presence of a true son of Rome. Vampire royalty – figuratively and literally speaking.
But as it was, he was merely shaking with nerves, sick dread heavy like a stone in his belly.
He sought Anna’s gaze one more time, the love and softness in her eyes. Her jaw was set, ready for any sort of resultant violence, but her eyes were gentle for him.
God, he loved her.
He hoped…
He took a deep breath. “Be ready,” he said, grimly. And then began the chant. The words themselves weren’t important, not on the grand scale of things, but they were part of the ritual. The Latin felt thick and unwieldy on his tongue – not that the mortals would notice – so long had it been since he’d used it. But the farther he went, the less he tripped. He smelled his own fear; he smelled something ancient wafting up out of the coffin, old stone and melted tallow candles, and blood, blood, blood…
He lifted his left hand and brought the scalpel down across the palm in a quick slash, blood welling up along his lifeline.
In English, voice resonating with the deep wolf-growl building in his chest, he said, “Thus I command you to wake, Vladimir.”
He tipped his hand and poured his wolf blood onto the sleeping monster’s face.
Vlad’s eyes opened.
To be continued…
Look for Sons of Rome Book One
White Wolf
Coming later this year!
A Note From The Author:
Welcome, all, to the Sons of Rome Series! As you can tell, this series is going to be heavily-flavored with paranormal and supernatural elements, and you’ll even find some real historical figures peppered throughout. For instance – there really was a first Baron Strange of Blackmere
, and his name really was Fulk le Strange. I love it when the truth is more fitting than any fiction. Obviously, I’ve taken great liberties with Baron Strange, and the version appearing in this novel is a purely fictional creation, as I’m assuming the Fulk born in 1267 in England is not, in fact, a werewolf still living today.
The first novel-length installment of the series, White Wolf, is expected fall of 2017. Until then, you can follow my progress and read teasers on my social media sites:
hoofprintpress.blogspot.com
facebook.com/Lauren Gilley – Author
@lauren_gilley
@hppress
If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. We’re just getting started, so I hope you’ll stick around!
Happy Reading
~Lauren
Lauren Gilley lives in the South, writing novels and mucking horse stalls. She is the author of nineteen novels and several short stories.
Other Titles by Lauren Gilley
The Dartmoor Series
Fearless
Price of Angels
Half My Blood
The Skeleton King
Secondhand Smoke
Loverboy
American Hellhound
The Lean Dogs Legacy Series
Snow In Texas
Tastes Like Candy
The Russell Series
Made For Breaking
God Love Her
“Things That Go Bang in the Night”
Keeping Bad Company
“Green Like the Water”
The Walker Series
Keep You
Dream of You
Better Than You
Fix You
Rosewood
Standalones
Walking Wounded
“Love Is…”
Whatever Remains
Shelter
The Stalker Page 3
