The Bloodline Series Box Set

by Gabriella Messina

  The glass doors at the end of the hallway swung open, and a nerdy-looking kid, for lack of a better description, came shuffling toward him. Ronne groaned internally... when he’d asked to see whoever they had available, he hadn’t meant the green kid from the mailroom.

  “Hey, man, sorry for the delay. We were having an issue with one of the cameras.” The kid brushed his shaggy hair off his forehead, then offered his hand. “Jon Clarenden.” Ronne shook his hand firmly.

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Not exactly. I’m an editor, I cut the segments together. I have co-produced a number of segments, however, so...” He trailed off and shrugged.

  Ronne nodded. “Good enough for me.” He held up the envelope in his hand. “Printed documents, and a flash drive.” Clarenden took the package carefully but did not open it. Instead, he took a sticker out of his pocket, the station affiliate’s call letters emblazoned on it, and stuck it right at the place where metal clasp latched it together, effectively sealing it up. He grinned at Ronne’s puzzled frown.

  “Protocol. Whenever evidentiary information comes in, we secure it to ensure nothing else goes in or comes out before it’s formally logged. We take our investigative reporting very seriously.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “You said this stuff is about Strong and her campaign?”

  Ronne nodded in reply, and Clarenden continued: “Alright, we’ll check it out. Thank you.” With a parting nod, Clarenden turned quickly, and disappeared back through the glass doors.

  Ronne chuckled. “Oh, no... thank you,” he murmured, then turned to head out. Vincent was, no doubt, pacing the courtyard like an agitated tiger, and the good doctor had told Ronne to keep a close eye on him. He was “cusping”, as Hudson called it, the pull of the moon and years of not changing catching up with him. Of course, it had to be now, didn’t it? Ronne thought as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. When they need him most, when Sam need him most. He understood a great deal about what the Irishman’s unique condition meant for all of them if he changed... and, as Hudson had said, he couldn’t be permitted to change... because if he did...

  The doors slid open, and Ronne stepped out, crossing the lobby quickly with a cordial nod for the security guard at the front desk. Ronne could see Vincent pacing outside, his shoulders hunched, that ridiculous coat on despite the humidity. Ronne paused for a second to watch the other man stop walking, take out a cigarette. Vincent was suffering, and Ronne couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, and for himself as well.

  Hudson had been very clear when he told Ronne the details of Vincent’s past... Very clear, and Ronne knew if Vincent did indeed change, the task of stopping him permanently would likely fall to him. Rival for Sam’s attention that he might be, Ronne had to confess he’d grown to like the charming Irishman. He wasn’t relishing the thought of killing him at all, and he whispered a final prayer as he stepped outside to join him that it wouldn’t come to that... for all their sakes.

  34

  REMARKABLE, Hudson thought to himself. He’d been viewing slides for hours, the sun setting, the dinner hour coming and going, and still he looked on... He sat back, rubbing his eyes to try and clear the fog of weariness clouding his vision.

  That afternoon, just before Sam left for her meeting with Dushku, Hudson had drawn Ben Lewis’ blood under her watchful eye. He’d gotten more than he’d hoped... four vials... He would have liked to have gotten other samples, but he could feel the tension emanating from her, and decided not to push it. The blood was more than enough... Enough to examine, to analyze, and to use as a starting point for a vaccine, perhaps. He’d mentioned it in passing to young Ben, who hadn’t seemed as impressed as Hudson had hoped.

  A vaccine was possible, too. Beginning with the first one he’d viewed, Hudson had tested the blood with the unique titre measurement he had devised, looking for the signs that the body had fought the onslaught of the Lycanthropic Virus. It wasn’t unusual to find in victims of an attack, though most of his opportunities to study blood samples had come after death. What he found with Ben’s blood was astounding. His body had come in contact with the virus, and the virus had attempted to work its retroviral magic on the body. There were signs of reverse-transcription, so the process of conversion had started, but something had stopped it... Something in Ben Lewis’ blood prevented the retrovirus from completing the process of reverse-transcription and insertion into the host’s DNA. But what?

  “Find the cure for the common werewolf yet?” Vincent leaned against the doorjamb. The stress was starting to get to him, Hudson could tell. The Irishman looked exhausted, the strain evident in the dark circles under his eyes, the drawn appearance of his handsome face. Hudson knew that only a part of it was stress from worry. Most of it was the stress of fighting the change. It was nearly full moon, the height of the phase arriving in a couple of days... it was going to get worse for him before it got better.

  “Very funny.” Hudson jerked his head toward a chair near the door. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down? You look like thirty miles of bad road.” Vincent smirked, and rubbed his stubble-covered chin with his middle finger clearly raised, flipping Hudson off.

  “Seriously, though, Jack... Have you found anything?”

  “Yes, actually.” Hudson removed the slide under the microscope and grabbed another from the tray beside him. He carefully positioned it as he spoke. “Mr. Lewis has, indeed, been infected with LV, and survived the experience relatively unscathed. The process of conversion began, and then stopped. I’m not entirely sure how yet, but I think I may be able to find the stimulant for the immune system needed to create a vaccine.”

  “Don’t suppose you’ll have an answer before that full moon rises, will you?” Vincent’s smirk was still there, but the empty tone in his voice was difficult for Hudson to hear.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.” He watched Vincent’s smirk fade slightly as he nodded.

  “When you have it, if you have it...” Vincent said quietly, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his black tee shirt. “What will it do?”

  Hudson hesitated, knowing that Vincent was looking for an answer that he simply couldn’t give now. “I’m not...sure. Vaccines stimulate the immune system to defend against a virus, to improve the body’s ability to fight it off, reject it. But, for someone like you or Sam, or anyone already infected...” He shook his head. “It may help in suppressing it, making the urge, the impulse, to change even more easy to overcome.”

  “Sort of like a patch when you quit smoking.”

  Hudson smirked. “Sort of. It could function like an anti-viral medication, preventing full conversion. Or it could act on existing mutated cells, causing them to reverse back to their original, pre-infection state. Like what was happening to John, only faster, and worse.”

  Vincent nodded quietly, then moved farther into the room. Still fidgeting with his tee shirt hem, Hudson was struck by how young he looked, vulnerable...

  “Jack, is my immunity to mercury an absolute? Or can it still kill me?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that,” Hudson replied.

  “Do I?”

  Hudson nodded. “I saw how many bullets you and Ronne loaded. I don’t know how many it would take, but, yes, if you get enough mercury in you, it will kill you.” Hudson watched as Vincent nodded, and turned to leave. “I’ve warned Samantha... about you...about that beast in you.” Hudson expected a glower, or even an explosion of temper at his intrusion, so he was surprised when Vincent turned back to him, his eyes moist as he spoke.

  “Do you think she’d hesitate... killing me?”

  Hudson hesitated, but only for a moment. “No... not if she knew she had no choice. But I can guarantee you one thing, Vincent Kremer... Every single tear she shed because of it would be real. My advice? Don’t make her cry.”

  Later, in the hush that followed the other men going to bed, with only the white-noise hum of the electricity running through the walls to fill th
e night, Vincent lay in bed, wide awake. Sam nestled under his arm, her cheek resting on his chest, an arm thrown across him. She’d returned from her mission successful, declaring Dushku for them and willing to help in any way he could for old times’ sake... and generous compensation, no doubt. The plan was to go into action immediately, with Dushku taking the lead in the morning. Coupled with the information Ronne had passed to the news, the next few days were destined to be explosive for the city’s society, both politically and economically. Vincent just hoped the Pack didn’t retaliate with literal explosives.

  They had yet to truly encounter them, this elusive “Pack”. Many of them had been at the Bund in March but had disappeared into the woodwork as Strong rose in the polls, and in power. Vincent suspected that many of the “old guard” were not on board with the policies she was trying to push, or the direction she wanted things to go in, and as such were pulling back, nestling into their plush penthouses and choosing to keep their identities, and their views, to themselves. The few that were vocal, though... the radicals... they could be a problem.

  Sam stirred slightly, the sigh of her breath stirring his chest hair, and raising goosebumps all over him. Vincent shivered slightly, pulled the blanket up around her naked shoulders, and she settled again. His stomach tightened, and the feeling spread up into his chest, the weight of it making it difficult to breathe. He closed his eyes, and his mind started to race, flashbacks and memories bombarding it in a cacophony as it sometimes did. He lived with it every day... the things he had done... the man he had once been...

  He could smell her, so close... and then the pressure on his lips. Vincent opened his eyes, and looked into Sam’s blue ones, bright and fixed on him. She knew... and in a moment, she was pulling him closer, comforting him, distracting him from the agony in his mind, immersing him once again in the paradise that was her touch, her warmth, her love.... Mo Anam Cara... Vincent’s mind eased, the images and feelings fading away as he surrendered to the ministrations of the woman in his arms.

  35

  THERE WERE DECIDEDLY more people at the museum this afternoon than Ronne would have liked. He glanced down at his jogging gear and felt a bit uncomfortable. When Sam had grabbed him on the way out and asked him to come here and look for this tome her grandfather had mentioned, Ronne had been a bit irritated. When she explained what it was, or at least what she hoped it would be, he was intrigued, and by the time he reached the Cloisters, his curiosity was raging. Of course, he didn’t know what he was looking for, or how he was going to even see it, let alone get a hold of it.

  “You’re looking for the Kazka Vorony.” The voice startled Ronne and he whirled around quickly, nearly knocking over the old man who had spoken them.

  “I’m sorry...”

  “Wagner... Cassius Wagner.” The old man bowed his head slightly, smiling affably. “And you are Officer Francis Ronne... and a Raven.”

  Ronne suddenly felt uneasy and noticed something dark in the look of the old man in front of him.

  Wagner held up a wrinkled hand. “You have nothing to fear from me... from us...” He sighed. “It is difficult to manage a Pack well long distance, hence the sightseeing trip to New York for my family. You do know of my Pack, do you not?”

  Ronne nodded slowly. “What do you want?”

  Wagner shrugged, continuing to smile. “What everyone wants... Peace... Security... Prosperity...” His eyes took on a far-off look as he continued: “I was there at the beginning of all of this... I watched them be created, and I listened to their pitiful screamed as they died, and they all did eventually... All, but one...” Wagner’s jaw tightened, and there was a glint in his eye at the mention of this one that chilled Ronne to the bone. Wagner closed his eyes a moment, and the storm of emotion seemed to pass, for when he opened them, he once again looked pleasant. “The Kazka Vorony, the Raven’s Tale, is a guide for the care of the wolves. It is here in the Cloisters, hidden and kept safe for many reasons. I would not let others have it, but you, sir...” Wagner stopped, looking up at the towering Ronne. “You are a true Raven. I will make the arrangements for it to be sent to you. You must keep it to yourself, and its contents must not bee seen by others. There is too much knowledge within those pages that could cause harm... to many... to all... Do you agree to these terms?”

  Ronne hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Wagner sighed, looking quite pleased with himself, and Ronne wondered fleetingly why this guy seemed so familiar, and whether he’d just made a huge mistake in agreeing to this.

  “Now, other business,” Wagner’s smile faded. “You must prepare yourself for retaliation from the Kremer girl. She has been cast out of the Pack, as of this morning. She will, no doubt, be searching for your Wolf... for vengeance.”

  Ronne nodded. “Thank you. We’ll be on the lookout.”

  Wagner smirked, and shook his head. “You won’t need to. She will come looking for you, draw you out. The Quicksilver Blood is corrupt in her... she cannot cope. We will stay out of it, cause no trouble for any of you while you... handle her. Good day to you, Raven.” And with that, Cassius Wagner walked away.

  Ronne flinched internally at the coldness of the statement the man had made, all but telling him that Alice Kremer had been a naughty girl and needed a good melting. He walked toward the street, mentally preparing himself for the jog back to the apartment, and for facing Sam without the book she’d sent him to get.

  It was just as he passed the Mad Tea Party statue in Central Park that it hit him, and it was enough to bring him up short with the shock of it.

  Cassius Wagner was the old man from the diner, the one Vincent had asked him to find. Ronne frowned. Wagner had called it his Pack, yet there was no sign of LV about his person. Granted, Ronne couldn’t scent like Sam or Vincent could, but he could sense in other ways, and he hadn’t felt a hint of “wolfiness” about the old German. Could it be that they had it wrong? Was the Pack really made up of werewolves trying to take over the city in some way... or had this always been about something else?

  Two things Ronne knew for sure, and as he rode the elevator up to the penthouse, he all but swore an oath to himself regarding them. First, he wouldn’t be breathing a word about any of this to anyone... not now, not yet. And second, when he did have that book, he was most assuredly going to show it to at least one other person...

  36

  IT WAS LATE MORNING before the first rumblings began...A small segment during the noon broadcast... A passing reference to the situation involving rumored vote buying and the firing of Alice Kremer, though her name was never mentioned... Afternoon brought a breaking news story that the shipping facilities across the river in Jersey, primarily in and around Bayonne, were experiencing a delay in operations.

  By the following morning, the papers and news broadcasts were bursting with information, conjecture, interviews with people completely unconnected to anything going on, and even a few quotes from local officials. The shipping issues had spread to the cargo areas along the Hudson and in Brooklyn, and there were rumors a full-blown longshoremen strike was eminent. Financially, several of the local credit unions, all associated with political action committees and semi-unionized groups, were experiencing a crisis in funding resulting from an investigation.

  The investigation, which was being conducted by the Major Crimes unit of the NYPD, was being kept very hush-hush, with the only leaked information hinting that it was “big with a capital B”. Sam had to chuckle at that... According to Ronne, and whoever his source was at One P.P., Major Crimes appeared to be the only unit that hadn’t been infiltrated, or paid off, or however Strong and the Pack were controlling things. Although, Sam thought to herself as she peeked at the roast in the oven, I’m really beginning to wonder how involved they are. Some of this shit going on... just doesn’t seem like they would want things going down this way. Too obvious.

  “You’re right,” Hudson said as he entered, his smile cautious, but pleasant.<
br />
  “You need to quit doing that.” Sam frowned, shutting the oven door a little harder than required, and tossed the oven mitts on the counter.

  “Sorry.” Hudson pursed his lips. “The... information dump appears to be going well.”

  Sam smirked. “So far, so good. You don’t think the Pack will be a problem?”

  “No.” Hudson opened the door to the wine cabinet, his fingers lightly tracing the bottles as he searched for the right one. “I believe your assessment of them is spot-on. The old guard doesn’t want waves. Success, but no waves. Strong got careless, though I think she was not entirely to blame for that.”

  “Alice.” Sam sighed, and leaned against the counter. It was a topic no one wanted to talk about the past few days, but it needed to be addressed. Alice Kremer was still MIA... Dead or alive, friend or foe, she needed to be found and dealt with accordingly. “Jack, what am I dealing with here?”

  “Meaning Alice?”

  “Meaning Alice.”

  Hudson sighed, and pulled two bottles of red wine from the cupboard. He set them on the counter, then pulled one more before closing it up. “Alice Kremer... was a less than ideal candidate for LV on the best of days. John, to put it mildly, fucked up when he infected that girl.” Hudson carefully screwed the end into the cork, turn by turn, each turn seeming to punctuate his phrases. “She was a budding teen... emotionally volatile... incredibly clever... and unstable...” He set the wine down, and slowly worked the levers to ease the cork out with a pop. Hudson grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and poured a splash of wine into each glass, and handed one to Sam. “She wasn’t a cutter or suicidal... Emotionally, though... She was very sensitive, often had trouble controlling her emotions, her sense of persecution. Her cleverness, and the habit of isolating and living in her head, made it easy for her to concoct scenarios in her head, see vendettas that weren’t there.” He took a sip of the wine, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing, and nodding appreciatively.