The hot water washed the soap suds from her belly. This one will be different; this child will stay close and I’ll be able to love it forever.
She wouldn’t tell Markus about it, not yet—he had enough to worry about these days.
The water cascading upon her began to cool and she turned off the shower. Stepping out, Ilanna grabbed a towel from the heated rack, dried her body, and left the room. The wounds from Markus’s fangs had already begun to heal. Maybe tonight, in their private quarters at the fortress in Rome, they’d be able to make love again.
Sunlight poured into the bedroom, an ambient silence filling the surroundings. Markus had gone but she knew where he’d be. After brushing her hair and dressing, Ilanna also exited the bedroom.
Scullery maids and servants maintained the upkeep of the castle and its grounds, but Ilanna ignored their presence as they busied themselves in the castle’s kitchen and offices. She stepped from the palace and into the estate’s imperious grounds, the gardens ablaze with color and bathed in sunlight.
She hurried through the heat and rounded the corner of one of the castle’s battlements into a landscaped oasis cloaked in the more comfortable blanket of shade.
* * *
Oval in design, the west facing garden had undergone an overhaul two years previous to cater for the grave of the Elder’s beloved daughter. Two-foot wide flowerbeds marked the plot’s periphery with cobblestoned pathways meandering through alternating sections of neatly cut grass and decorative fountains. A large elm graced the garden’s furthest edge, its fan of impressive greenery dominating the plot.
The stunning landscape had been designed to reflect the beauty Gabriella had possessed in life.
Even with his head bowed and eyes closed in silent prayer, Markus heard his wife’s approach long before she spoke.
“Time for a last goodbye?”
Markus glanced over his shoulder and forced a smile. “It won’t be the last; but yes, it does seem kind of final.”
In the year since returning from Rome Markus had spent many mornings out by the grave. It wouldn’t solve anything, wouldn’t bring her back, but he needed these moments to grieve; that emotion had yet to drain itself fully from his system. Her memories tormented him, as if unwilling to offer him peace.
Ilanna stood behind him, her hands applying gentle, comforting pressure upon his shoulders. “When you’re away, I always come out here, before the sun shines too bright. In the winter, when it’s cloudy, I sit here for hours. Sometimes I even talk to her, tell her about all that’s happened; remind her how much we both love and miss her. Does that sound stupid?”
He breathed out a short laugh and reached up to place a cold hand on top of hers. “No, it doesn’t sound stupid. You should have heard what I was saying to her just now.”
“It feels harder to leave her when we’re both going away.”
Markus nodded his agreement.
Finally, he opened his eyes and lifted his head. Gabriella’s bust faced north, towards the undulating Carpathians. Sunlight coated the hills: a vast expanse of coniferous forest shimmering with a bright emerald hue. Serenity flooded the gardens; a peaceful ambience that contrasted sharply with the turmoil writhing through his body.
Anxiety throbbed daily in rhythm with his pulse. He hadn’t trusted a lycanthrope in six hundred years and wouldn’t do so now; Isaac’s betrayal being the one thing he could be certain of. The Alpha-Male had uttered an assurance of silence about their undisclosed document but it was only a matter of time before the werewolf Elder shattered that promise. Markus had yet to work out a way of murdering Isaac and his right-hand man in order to keep that secret hidden, but hoped some sort of opportunity would present itself in the coming weeks.
The cessation of their half-breed enemy had become a distinct priority, however. A document blaming him for the war paled in comparison with the secrets he had buried in the hybrid bloodline. The only way to prevent that horrific revelation digging its way to the surface was to exterminate that damned species for good.
The gentle whoop of rotor blades drifted through the serene morning air and pulled him from his morbid thoughts.
“Do we have an agenda to discuss when we get to Rome?” Ilanna asked.
“There’s plenty to discuss. Let’s not worry about that until tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
He turned to leave but Ilanna stood before him. She leaned forward and pressed her cold lips against his.
He didn’t respond.
Placing his hands on her arms, Markus pushed her back a step. “Not here, Ilanna.”
“Is something wrong?”
There’s a lot that’s wrong, but none of it I can share with you. Markus shook his head. His smile didn’t feel authentic, but it seemed to pacify her. “I’m fine.”
The black body of a VH-71 Kestrel helicopter roared over the estate, heading for the landing pad near the northern perimeter. The chopper would take them direct to Bucharest airport, then private jet to Rome.
“Here’s our ride,” he said, and walked towards the castle.
A cramp of unease molded his intestines, Markus unsure if it was because of his secrets threatening to tear the walls of his coven apart, or the impending trip to Italy and another war cabinet held in the company of werewolves.
FIVE
Lublin Provence,
Lublin, Poland
The monstrous hybrid ran through dense woodland at full sprint and picked its way between thick trunks with agile sidesteps. Twilight’s cloud cover dispersed now night had fallen, and the full moon shone vividly like the beam of a flashlight. The surrounding forest had fallen silent, its nocturnal creatures pushed into alarmed recoil by the supernatural being loping through the woods.
Tamara made the trek in her preternatural state so as to hasten her journey; anxious to return to the safety of numbers the clan would offer. Battalions of werewolves probably patrolled the miles of forestry, and she wouldn’t stand a chance if she encountered such a patrol on her own. She breathed through her nose, deep yet controlled, but all she could smell was the forest’s natural scent and the odor of its wildlife. She wasn’t sure if a mere fifteen years would be long enough for her to master locating the stench of a lycanthrope, but hoped she’d be lucky tonight and not find out.
Besides, her destination wasn’t far away now.
She’d left her trauma and the saddening memory of Reginald Bowers back at the monastery in the Ukraine. Only thoughts of taking command of her army and seeking revenge on every werewolf and vampire she could locate ran through her mind. After dragging her weary body from the river she’d stripped naked, transformed into her more dominant form, and began the journey across the border into Poland. Tamara hadn’t been able to catch much food, but two hours ago she’d snared a fox and devoured its body within minutes. The animal’s meat gave her extra strength and she hadn’t slowed since feeding. The uncomfortable pinch of thirst squeezed her throat however, but she ignored the ache and continued to run effortlessly.
The dense woodland began to thin out around her, forest debris and scattered twigs spreading in wider sections across the soil. Tamara slowed her pace, and jogged through the peripheral edge of forestry. She halted near a thick trunk and sniffed the air in deep, prolonged inhalations. Freshness rode the air currents, the tang of pine diluted by the open space ahead of her. Another aroma filtered into her senses: the faint scent of modern life.
Lublin decorated the horizon with the illumination of a mortal city. Lights shone brightest near the city centre, the town’s suburbs highlighted by the dots of streetlights and the homes of Polish families. Ahead of her a field spread as a black void and she located her destination easy enough; a night sky brightened by the bloated moon helped to highlight the dark silhouettes of buildings on the immediate horizon.
Tamara took a cautious step beyond the edge of woodland. She smelled nothing untoward. If a concealed pack of werewolves were watching her from the tree line she dou
bted she’d be able to cross the field to the buildings before being caught. She couldn’t wait here, either.
Setting her jaw in determination, Tamara ran across the field. Nothing disturbed the darkness around her except the slapping of her own bare feet on soil. At the camp’s wire fencing, she paused and surveyed the scene once more. It seemed she hadn’t been followed from the woods. Her luck was holding.
She’d visited the camp only once previously, almost four years ago, yet the place conjured grotesque mental images of a senseless, animalistic slaughter far worse than anything she’d ever witnessed in combat with her hated supernatural foes.
Constructed in nineteen forty-one, Majdanek became the location where more than seventy-nine thousand people lost their lives. Firing squads and gas chambers claimed most of those, and Tamara couldn’t imagine the amount of suffering endured within the camp. Innocent families torn apart; men, women and children slaughtered for the simple, inane reason that they were of a different race. Tamara had lived the life of a mortal human long enough, and the emotions of her former life remained strong. Although she’d show no compassion towards her immortal foe, a feeling of empathy welled in her body as she gazed at the derelict buildings.
She was sure, if she sniffed the air hard enough, she’d be able to detect the stench of old bones.
With ease and agility, Tamara scaled the camp’s double-thick barbed wire perimeter and dropped to the grass.
The concentration camp lay within Lublin’s city limits, with high-rise apartments overlooking the site. At such an early hour, Tamara hoped the Polish families were sleeping soundly.
Rows of barracks stretched in front of her, the buildings shrouded in shadow. Hybrid armies had been using submerged bunkers, constructed beneath the camp, for the better part of three decades. Mortal man remained unaware of their location, and Tamara hoped the chambers weren’t yet deserted.
Their enemies were sweeping through Europe like an encompassing hurricane. In all likelihood the werewolves who’d attacked the monastery had already crossed the Ukrainian border into Poland, and it would only be a matter of time before this, one of the hybrid’s last remaining sanctuaries in Eastern Europe, would be overrun.
Urgency turned adrenalin into a whirlpool inside her veins; she had to be quick.
Certain areas of Majdanek were now a museum; the old crematorium reconstructed after the Nazis burned the original building during their hasty evacuation. Keeping herself low to hide among the shadows that coated the sloping ground, she made her way towards the renovated building. Moonbeams brightened the silhouette of its chimney stack pointing at a clear sky.
Pausing at the entrance, Tamara sniffed the air heavily once more but couldn’t decipher the smell of pursuing lycanthropes. Her nose picked out the aroma of a modern city tainted by the faint odor of sixty-five year old genocide.
If the pack had detected her scent, they weren’t close.
She tried the door, thankful when it opened quietly. Her heart lurched in hope; with the entrance being unlocked and the alarm disabled, it meant a hybrid presence must still be in the building. Peering into the gloom and allowing her eyesight to adjust within seconds, Tamara stepped into the crematorium.
A row of five ovens stretched before her, close to the entrance. The iron doors hung ajar, as if the furnaces had just been emptied of charred remains then left open to cool. Stepping quietly across the gray concrete floor, Tamara noticed the shadowed mounds of ash still residing in the chambers. She moved hastily through the gloom, not wasting time in getting to the backside of the brick fireplaces. Metal stretchers were fixed to the rear of the ovens, the devices once used to feed corpses into the fire. Tamara stopped at the middle door and peered inside. She looked through the oven, its chamber long enough to fit two bodies end-to-end. Subtle moonlight filtered through the small, square window frames on that side of the building and glinted off the concrete floor.
Reaching into the oven, she unhooked a retaining clasp built into a recess in the stonework. Tamara pushed onto the bottom of the chamber, fingers pressing into age-hardened ash, and mechanical gears shifted noisily in the hushed building. The oven floor parted; thick darkness within concealing the staircase she knew was there. Positioning her naked form onto the stretcher, Tamara entered into the hole feet first.
Crouching at first in order to seal the oven above her head, Tamara breathed a tentative sigh of relief, allowing a sliver of composure to settle in her emotions. The tunnel offered a degree of protection. With the crematorium floor sealed above her, no natural light filtered into the passageway, and Tamara had to feel along the wall in front of her before she found the next section of corridor.
It sloped downwards, bending slightly to the left, and she detected the faint shard of artificial light squeezing between door and frame before she reached the end of the underground hall.
As hoped, the entrance wasn’t locked. Without knocking, Tamara opened the door and strolled into the hidden lair.
* * *
McCaw had watched her arrival through the security monitors and therefore was not surprised when the hybrid commander waltzed into the control room. Infrared beams crossed the fields immediately surrounding Majdanek, and Tamara had tripped them when she’d been fifty feet from the camp’s perimeter. McCaw hadn’t welcomed the increase in blood pressure when the alarms went off, fearing a pack of werewolves were prowling close by. A sigh of relief had whistled through his lips when he realized the intruder was nothing more than his tiresome commander.
He’d been ensconced in the makeshift command center for almost forty-eight hours now, meticulously sifting through files of computerized data, saving the most vital information to micro-discs, deleting the rest. Gone were the days of pen and paper, McCaw glad he didn’t have to wade through archaic records of hybrid history. The most ancient volumes, hand written four centuries ago by those hybrids called The Chosen, were locked away in a location even he didn’t know about.
The commanding officer before him wasn’t one of those more superior hybrids. In fact, to McCaw, Tamara Wyatt should be even lower than him in the pecking order. She’d been fortunate to have a great hybrid as her father; her status within the clan inherited and not earned.
McCaw thought she’d died in the Ukrainian slaughter and believed his chance to climb one rung higher in the clan had finally been presented to him.
Ambition burned fiercely in McCaw’s gut; he’d worked hard and remained loyal in order to rise this far.
He’d ascended to the position of Simon Cain’s understudy when Cain’s former lieutenant had raped then impregnated the commander’s wife. McCaw aided in the traitor’s murder, he’d helped to dismember the corpse then burn the remains. He hadn’t quite agreed with what Cain had done with the bastard child, but then McCaw wasn’t one to disobey a commanding officer.
Now he needed Tamara out of the way, yet she seemed to hang around like a fly on shit. Cain hated her more than he, and since the hybrid commander claimed he had a plan for her demise, McCaw guessed he’d have to wait.
If it wasn’t for his two assistants in the next chamber destroying equipment they couldn’t carry with them, McCaw would have killed her the moment she entered the room.
Instead he offered a smile he hoped would pass for shocked delight. “Your highness! It’s so good to see you alive.”
Tamara stood naked before him, skin layered with sweat and stained by dirt. Long hair knotted into clumps around her face, cheeks red with exertion. She looked anything but a supreme member of the clan’s counsel. “Don’t sugarcoat my return, McCaw. We’ve suffered heavily, and I was lucky to escape with my life.”
Which is a pity. “I’m aware of our losses, but we feared you had perished too.”
She grunted but did not reply, instead studying the room’s inapt surroundings.
A line of dirty sweat curved around a nipple and McCaw watched its progress. She had a nice body, he’d give her that, and if she were a mere foot soldie
r—which is what she should be, he reminded himself—then McCaw would have already chanced his luck. Such a ripe, fine body should be put to use in the breeding colonies and not wasted on inane attempts at controlling our armies.
“What’s going on here?” Tamara asked. If she’d caught him staring at her nudity it didn’t show in her expression.
“This is the unfortunate death throes of our location in Eastern Europe. Simon has ordered a complete withdrawal and destruction of any evidence our enemies might use to aid their fight.”
“So instead of sending reinforcements here to launch a counterattack, he orders a retreat?”
McCaw wanted to remind Tamara that she’d been playing with dolls on a secure estate in New Zealand while Simon Cain had been directing some of the hybrid’s greatest successes against their immortal foes, but decided to let her ignorance remain unchallenged. She’d find out soon enough who had command over the clan.
“To send reinforcements here would be akin to sending lambs to the slaughter,” McCaw countered. “They’d be underprepared and vulnerable. We’re to fall back into Central Europe and stand ground there.”
An expression of incredulity remained molded into her features. “Then Cain is foolish. I need to speak to him as soon as possible, make him see that he’s playing into the hands of our enemies.”
“No problem, Your Highness. We’re almost finished here and then we’ll be moving out. You can come with us.”
“Retreat,” Tamara mumbled, as if speaking to herself. “We won’t win this war by going backwards.”
“Tell me; how long did your forces manage to hold ground against overwhelming numbers?”
It seemed Tamara had no problems detecting the scornful sarcasm with which McCaw delivered his comment. She strode forward three paces, her athletic figure swamped by the grotesque shifting of muscles under transformation.
The Last Stand -- Blood War Trilogy Book III Page 6
