by Jan McDonald
Mike frowned. He didn’t understand; his brain was still too fragile to interpret her words into anything that made any sense. His shook his head, and regretted it instantly.
“He was bitten … and force-fed vampire blood. From what I can tell, he is in the first stages of the turning. He’s quiet at the moment but, soon … soon he will be in exquisite agony and I’m afraid I know nothing about how to help him. He needs Beckett. Where is he?”
Mike groaned. Beckett’s love for the young man had been obvious, the love of a father for his son, for son Darius was in all but blood. Now another kind of blood was raging in his veins. Beckett had to be told. He swallowed the bile in his throat.
“How long have I been here?” he asked suddenly.
Roman answered him. “You’ve been out for eleven hours now, Mike.”
“Then Beckett is in Greece,” he said. His thoughts began to assemble themselves into comprehension and he raised his hand to his own throat, flinching at the sore, puckered flesh beneath his touch.
The girl nodded at him. “Yes, you were bitten, but you didn’t drink from him. I cauterised the wounds with a burning piece of wood. You won’t turn but I’m afraid you’re going to have another scar,” she said nodding towards the lengthy scar down his cheek. “Looks like you’re used to being in the wars.”
He shrugged. “I have to call Beckett. I feel responsible; I was there with Darius when this happened. The Sanctuary is burned out, I gather?”
She nodded. “Yes, it’s nothing but a blackened shell now.”
Further talk was halted as Darius’s scream of torture ripped through the sombre atmosphere. Mike paled and reached for his phone, and his saviour rushed out of the room towards Darius’s agony.
He tried to gather his words as he listened to the distant ringing of Beckett’s phone, then Beckett’s tense voice.
“Mike? Not great timing. Can I get back …?”
Mike interrupted him. “Beckett, listen to me. Something’s happened here – something bad. I’m afraid Darius is hurt – well, more than hurt and, we don’t know what to do to help him. Tell us what to do.” He went on to describe the events at The Sanctuary, acutely aware of the silence at the other end – silence that was eventually broken by a woman’s voice.
Unseen by Mike, Lane had caught the tumbling information running through Beckett’s head.
“Oh God – Darius!” she exclaimed.
Another voice, a man’s this time, came down the line. Mike could only assume that the news had sent Beckett into silent shock.
“This is Mihai Rabinescu, a friend of Beckett’s. To whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Mike Travis, I’m calling from South Wales and I too am a friend of Beckett’s. I’m afraid I just gave him some grave news.”
“Yes, we understand. This news is devastating. How long ago did this happen?” he demanded.
Mike didn’t give a thought to the fact that Beckett had voiced none of the news he had imparted or how Mihai Rabinescu, whoever he was, knew everything that had occurred. The whole vampire thing was beyond him. For now.
“About twelve hours ago,” he replied, mentally calculating how long it would have taken for Roman Woolfe to reach him and return to Linwood House.
Mihai’s voice was stone. “Then I’m afraid there is nothing to be done for Darius other than being with him and minimising his pain. Every turning is different in how long it takes to manifest, but one thing is certain; he will very soon be in unimaginable agony. With the Sanctuary burned out, you will have to use your ingenuity to obtain some heavy-duty pain relief for him. A hospital is out of the question and it may take too long for me to make the necessary arrangements.”
Mike glanced at Roman, “I think that will be easy enough,” he said.
There was a pause on the other end of the conversation. “And then there will be another problem,” Mihai said quietly.
“And that is?” Mike asked, already dreading the reply.
“And then Darius will be hungry. You take my meaning.”
Mike took his meaning. “I’m rather afraid I do,” he said before disconnecting the call.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE MASQUERADE BALL
Vasile Tepes smiled with satisfaction as he heard news of the success of the mission to The Sanctuary. He was disappointed that the object of his fury had not been present, although he had known of her deep vampire sleep, he hadn’t known Lane’s location, cloaked as she was from him. He had hoped she would have been sleeping in some remote part of The Sanctuary but, never mind; there would be no sanctuary now for the filthy Created, or anyone else, there. News also began to filter through of other safe-houses and sanctuaries throughout Europe: Berlin, Paris, Madrid, Amsterdam, Budapest, Prague and Moscow, that had all suffered the same fate, being engulfed in flames with maximum casualties.
The war had begun.
He donned a thick overcoat and left his home, acknowledging his servant, Nicolae, in silence as he left. The heavy, oak door slammed behind him as he climbed into the driving seat of his sleek black limousine. He had no need of Nicolae; this was something for him alone. If the information he had received had been correct, this would certainly be a day for celebration.
He cast a glance across the valley to the ruins perched on top of the crags at Poenari. “Soon,” he muttered to himself. “Soon.”
He threw the car into gear and, well-used to the wintry mountain roads, he was on the main highway, heading towards the Borgo Pass, in minutes. The name of his destination irked him. Castle Dracula Hotel, a magnet for mindless tourists in his opinion, who dared associate themselves with his noble ancestor; thriving as they did on cheap thrills from books and movie screens and playing at vampires. They would soon have more respect for the House of Tepes.
Delicate snowflakes had begun to drift over the Borgo Pass, despite the local peasantry being convinced that it would be another week or so before the sub-zero white blanket would isolate them from the rest of the world. In the distance a wolf howled, announcing its intention of leaving the forest in search of more readily available food.
Vasile smiled again. Today was a good day.
The long, winding drive to the hotel was already coated in a fine, white dusting of the early snow and, now the flakes were becoming thicker, coating the windscreen between the rhythmic sway of the wiper-blades. Yes, a good day indeed. Soon there would be no escape for the one he searched for. He would be generous to his informant.
Inside the hotel, against his better judgement, Christian had arranged for the Masquerade Ball to proceed in a minor form, despite the small group. Now, it was snowing contrary to the forecasts – both peasant and meteorological – and his instincts were to get the party back to Bucharest while he still could. He stood in the doorway looking up into the snow falling out of the early darkness. The drive was no longer visible; the dark tarmac now a white ribbon set in a white blanket.
The headlights of the approaching car created a diamond sparkle on the ground and the lying snow crunched under the tyres. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the headlights and wondered at the foolhardy action of the driver. He was already regretting his delay and decided to call off the party and instruct everyone to pack and be ready to leave within the hour.
The driver of the car seemed to be in front of him without leaving any footprints in the snow. He blinked and turned around to face Vasile who had somehow managed to appear behind him.
From the flanking forest came the howl of a wolf, answered almost immediately by another.
One of the ancients, Vasile was adept at infiltrating and controlling the minds of the unwary. He wasted no time in reaching into Christian’s head.
There is one in your party that I seek. Take me to her. Now. Vasile transferred the image of the one he was looking for and followed Christian inside the hotel.
The vastly scaled-down Masquerade Ball was under way in one of the ground-floor rooms. Each had a mask of varying design; from spectacle-type
eye- masks adorned in dramatic black feathers or similar plumage, to half or full-face masks that would be at home in any assembly in Venice. The six women all wore Gothic gowns and the men were dressed in frock-coats and white shirts, with cravats and flowing lace cuffs appropriate to the Gothic era. Byron himself would have been proud of their attire. All were happily imbibing the local plum brandy with differing degrees of enthusiasm; it was an acquired taste, the acquisition of which varied from person to person. From first glance, Vasile could tell that intoxication was imminent; it would make things easier.
One of the women detached herself from the group and approached him. Her ruby silk gown rustled pleasingly as she moved and Vasile took time to appreciate her slender figure encased under the corset-type bodice. Her eyes were behind a mask of peacock feathers but he reached into them with ease. She hesitated.
Christian stood beside Vasile, his eyes glazed and uncertain.
“Davina?” he muttered.
She ignored him and moved in close to Vasile, whispered something in his ear, and then kissed him long and slow on the lips before stepping back.
Vasile raised a hand and, without knowing why, everyone ceased their conversations and turned to face him. All were silent.
All were still.
All were afraid.
No-one moved.
Vasile pointed towards one of the women and beckoned. “You. Come here!”
The woman in the black satin ball gown with a mask of feathers the colour of a raven’s wing stepped forward. Her fingers were at the pendant around her neck. She had always known that this time would come; her grandmother had told her so. She had kept it safe all those years, never taking it from around her neck; her touchstone, she called it, fingering it in moments of anxiety as if it would take away all burdens when it was the burden all along.
She glanced sideways at Dan, willing him to step in to protect her, but he looked away. She had known deep down that when the time came he would fail her, so she did the only thing she could do; she kept walking towards the commanding voice. As she stood in front of him, Vasile hooked a finger under the delicate chain and yanked the pendant from her neck. She was no longer afraid of him – rather she saw herself moving towards a destiny she had always dreamed of; to enter into the real world of the vampire. No more fantasy; no more role-playing. This was for real, and she held all the cards. Dan had let her down when she had wanted him to step up, now she had nothing to lose. Now, she would be one of them.
Vasile looked down at the necklace in his hand and his face suffused with rage.
“What is this?” he bellowed.
Lucy stood firm, a half-smile playing around her mouth. “This is half of what you are looking for. You can have it, but it will do you no good without the other half. Take me with you and I’ll tell you where to find it.”
Dan gave a small gasp. “Lucy … no;” he whispered.
Vasile’s eyes narrowed into cruel slits. “You think I can’t make you tell me?”
“I’m sure you can, but I’m not afraid of you. I’m sorry Dan,” she said. “I’ll be leaving now.”
Time was halted as the other members of the group tried to decide if this was part of the entertainment or for real, and if it was real, just how real. Any suspension of belief regarding vampires was about to get a severe going-over.
Vasile’s mouth twisted into a savage grin as he grasped the pendant in the palm of his hand. Only half of the seal it may be, but his vampire senses and his psychometric skills were absolute and, he knew without a doubt who had created the seal. Mihai Rabinescu. And he also knew without doubt that Lucy had no idea where the other half was. He had no need of her.
But he would enjoy her.
He pulled her close to him, inhaling her perfume, feeling the soft skin of her neck against his lips, feeling it give under the tiniest hint of pressure from the sharp canines that were seeking out her jugular vein, sensing her longing for the oblivion and rebirth that would come when he made her vampire. She had no idea that such an act was abhorrent to him; that it would be the one thing he would deny her.
He pulled away and she gasped her disappointment.
Reaction among the others varied with their expectations. Christian’s mind was still locked in a fog of confusion, Davina made a small sound of jealous protest and the others, beginning to sense the reality of their situation, made a sudden rush towards the door.
Vasile and Davina were on them in a millisecond, blocking the doorway with discarded, ripped bodies. None had the time to comprehend their fate before their throats were torn open.
Christian found himself unable to move; his face was ashen and he was shaking violently. Davina wiped the blood and gore from her chin and licked her lips and, taking a step forward she hit him hard across the face, sending him reeling against the wall. She was on him in seconds, dragging him from the heap of bodies and hauling him before Vasile.
He lifted his head towards her, terrified and heart-broken. “Davina,” he whispered. “My God.”
She grabbed his hair roughly and yanked his head back further as Vasile approached.
“Look at me,” the head of the House of Tepes intoned, his voice steady and haunting. “Look at me.”
Christian had no choice but to comply, his mind already belonging to Vasile.
“Davina will help you to get this mess into the coach along with their belongings. You will then clean up this room and take the coach down the mountain where you will drive it over the ravine into the gorge below where you will all be hidden under the snow until the spring, after providing much needed food for the wolves if they find you first. Do you understand?”
Tears were forming in Christian’s eyes but they didn’t fall. He simply nodded in silence as his instructions took possession of him.
Vasile grabbed Lucy’s arm and dragged her whimpering towards the door.
“Vasile!” Davina’s voice made him halt. “You promised me,” she cried. “You promised me that it would be me at your side if I gave you the information you needed.”
Vasile snarled at her. “Do as I have instructed and I may grant you access to my House. But disobey me or fail me and …” he glanced meaningfully at the pile of bleeding death at his feet. His eyes flashed with unfettered power and she backed away to do as she was bid.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: TENSIONS RUNNING HIGH
Despite having drunk the Blood of the First One once-removed via Mihai, Lane was still physically weak from her long vampire sleep. She laid a hand on Mihai’s arm, concern for the lover of her old friend surging through her.
“Where is Helena?”
Dr Helena Bancroft, the red-haired, elfin-featured haematologist and geneticist who was desperately seeking a ‘cure’ for the vampire virus, was the love of Mihai’s immortal life and her lab was an annexe to The Sanctuary.
Mihai exhaled a lengthy breath. “She wasn’t in her lab. She was in Scotland doing some research that she hoped might lead to a breakthrough. She’s safe, Lane, don’t worry. Though it seems there is nothing left of The Sanctuary or her lab. I’m so sorry.”
Lane sighed, long and hard. Her consuming passion for the protection of the Created fledgling vampires had led her to The Sanctuary project; a safe-house where newly-turned vampires could find help and care during the turning and, afterwards, where they could find supplies of the necessary blood that they required to stay alive. Not many survived the turning unless they were lucky enough to be brought to The Sanctuary. Many other Council members had followed her lead and ‘sanctuaries’ had sprung up all over Europe and had begun to do so in the Americas. What Lane had begun had become part of the vast vampire network. Now her dream was in charred ruins.
She sighed again and then drew herself to her full height. What had been created once could be so again, though her heart was heavy for the casualties: the receptionist, the volunteer, and the newly-turned male vampire seeking refuge and finding only death.
But most of all she burned wit
h rage for Darius; her Darius; Beckett’s Darius. There would be a reckoning.
Beckett had been galvanised into action and while, in her weakened state, Lane grieved, Beckett had made arrangements for the swiftest return to Wales. To Darius. He had called Mike back and given rudimentary instructions for Darius’s care but, he was in no doubt that, without immediate administration of the anti-HVV serum, Darius would turn and, bereft of the facilities in The Sanctuary that was now inevitable.
At least he had Mike and the facilities at The Strazca headquarters and, he understood that one of the volunteers, a Goth girl called Raven, who had been recruited from medical school at the University Hospital in Cardiff, was with him too. He hoped it would be enough; the turning took many lives.
Mihai had been deep in dark thought and then he broke his unaccustomed silence. “It has begun then; there is war between The Born and The Created. Blood is going to flow like a river before this is ended. We must be prepared for what is now inevitable. And we must find the chalice before Vasile Tepes does. He must not lay hands on it – whatever it takes.”
Beckett understood his meaning but shook his head, his voice steady, his expression dark. “No Mihai, you keep your hands off him – he’s mine.”
Mihai simply nodded his understanding.
Lane seemed unaware of the lone tear that had escaped her eye and was pooling on her chin. Memories that had drifted in her subconscious mind during her long sleep were beginning to surface. She tilted her head as if to better ‘hear’ the information tumbling around inside.
“Mihai, I remember something. If I’m right, then Helena is wasting her time and it’s no wonder she is getting nowhere. All this time we have believed we were fighting some kind of virus. It’s not. It’s a genetic mutation in the Born and one that is switched on when a victim is fed by its creator. We must speak to her as soon as possible.”
Mihai nodded, “Yes, but there are more urgent matters, Lane. The chalice.”
Beckett’s eyes darkened even further. “More urgent than a cure? More urgent than Darius?” he demanded. “You know Mihai, it seems to me that someone who created the original seal, however misguided, should know what it looked like; should be able to reproduce it. Or am I mistaken?” The edge in his voice was palpable.
