“How dare you talk to your commanding officer in such a manner!” Tamara’s altered voice echoed in the cramped room.
McCaw suppressed his smile of delight. Tamara was obviously scared, her nerves exposed, and he’d touched a particularly raw one. The sight of her naked body and the stench of musty sweat caused a jab of excitement to flinch inside his penis.
“My apologies, Your Highness,” McCaw muttered, making sure his voice sounded more submissive than he felt. “I’m only pointing out that even a commanding officer can find themselves in grave danger when the odds are stacked high enough against them. Perhaps, once we rendezvous with Simon, you two can discuss the best way to stem this unwelcome tide of vampire and werewolf victories.”
Tamara breathed deep and her anger subsided. Her shape shifted back to its trim figure. Glancing once more around the gutted ops center, it seemed she’d accepted there was little she could do in order to reverse Cain’s decision. McCaw had already dismantled the phone system, and the entire internet and email programs were removed from the computers. Only a few smaller files needed to be deleted.
“Let Cain know I need to speak with him,” Tamara said, her tone curt and flat.
McCaw smiled. “Yes, Your Highness; of course.”
“Which way to the showers?”
McCaw nodded to a door to Tamara’s left, and with a sharp glance in his direction she left the room.
Once he heard the rush of water within the cubicle, McCaw reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his cell phone. She claims to be a high-ranking commander yet doesn’t have the sense to inquire about a cell. McCaw shook his head and smiled again.
Twenty feet below ground the service should have been non-existent, but a conductor had been installed five years ago. McCaw flipped open the cell, pressed the speed-dial button, and waited for the call to connect.
* * *
Hotel Les Jardins d'Eiffel
Paris, France
The phone call brought bothersome news—it seemed today would be the day for ill tidings. First came the call that all hybrid forces had retreated from Portugal into Spain; then numerous requests from the United Kingdom, calls for reinforcements to be sent to stem the tide of destruction: manpower he did not have at his disposal; and finally the reports that hybrid resistance had been extinguished in the Soviet Union and all of Her former republics.
The dominant hybrid snapped his cell phone shut and sighed in frustration.
The fact that Tamara Wyatt had turned up alive and well in Lublin wasn’t exactly awful news, but it wasn’t the best information he’d received all day either.
Simon Cain placed his cell phone on the writing table in his hotel room, crossed his legs as he sat in the leather armchair, and stared through the open window.
The Eiffel Tower dominated the vista beyond his room, lights blazing on the iron structure with a stunningly bright golden hue. It seemed to illuminate the night sky, turning the underside of clouds scattered across the horizon a subtle shade of yellow. A full moon hung in the sky above the metropolis, its brilliant whiteness mocking him.
He longed for every last werewolf to lie dead and rotting in the sun, but just this once wished the cursed creatures had achieved success and ripped Tamara’s body to pieces. It would have saved him the job.
Cain respected Samson; had loved him like a brother. The supreme hybrid commander had been created in the purest form, by the union of a vampire and a werewolf, and, like Cain himself, Samson ruled over the clan with honor and reverence. Tamara, on the other hand, had been conceived less than a mortal lifetime ago, and while Samson’s blood filled her veins, so did the life-fluid of the serving wench Samson had copulated with. Cain didn’t even know if the woman remained alive, but Tamara’s blood wasn’t a pure amalgamation between werewolf and vampire. She occupied the main throne in counsel through the unfortunate death of his fellow Elder, yet she did not deserve to touch the seat of one of The Chosen. She had not earned the right, and never would.
She was nothing more than a servant to his cause.
He hoped he wouldn’t taint Samson’s legacy too much by removing Tamara from her position—permanently.
Once he achieved that goal it would leave only him: Samson had died more than a decade and a half ago; the counsel members governing the Americas, Australasia and Asia were now almost certainly dead; Bowers had been loyal and brave no doubt, but his service to Samson’s diluted daughter appeared to have cost him his immortal existence. Tamara had prevailed, although Cain suspected that was more through luck than judgment. Despite her power within the clan’s hierarchy Cain knew he had the majority backing from the hybrid soldiers. Getting rid of the obstacle within his ranks could turn out to be easier than he’d expected.
He reached across the table and picked up a bottle of bourbon before pouring himself a large shot into a crystal glass. The liquid warmed him as he swallowed.
He’d ordered McCaw to bring her to him by daybreak. Maybe McCaw could one day take her place. His lieutenant wasn’t one of The Chosen but he had been alive for almost three hundred years, had partaken in the first wave of ambushes two centuries ago that began their involvement in this dark war, and had fought successfully at Cain’s side in all of the hybrid’s major victories. Cain didn’t trust his subordinate completely, but McCaw was the closest he had to a loyal confidant.
They needed to regroup; gather their forces and cull the deadwood ready for the conflict to come.
Times like these, the clan needed only one commander, not two.
Cain relished the justice to come, and wondered if Tamara would beg for her life.
SIX
Wenceslas Square
Prague, Czech Republic
During its one thousand one hundred years of existence, Prague had borne witness to many uprisings, revolts, and covert operations, although tonight’s mission would not be written into the annals of mortal man’s brutal history.
With any luck, it would be overlooked by hybrid historians as well.
One of the most popular destinations within the ancient city, Wenceslas Square slopes down towards the border between Prague’s Old and New towns. At this late hour streetlights continued to glow in the rectangular boulevard, the area typically frequented by prostitutes during the hours of darkness. However, at almost three a.m., even the hookers were no longer out in force.
Huddled at the entrance to a side street just off the square, a small battalion of werewolves focused their attention on a seedy joint at the square’s northwestern corner. The building masqueraded as a strip club, but had long been utilized by hybrids as a breeding colony.
A thin covering of stratocumulus clouds had dissipated about an hour ago to reveal a clear blanket of summer sky turned insipid by the full moon’s brilliant whiteness. The glowing orb provided additional luminosity, like a spotlight trained on the scene in anticipation of the events to come.
Trace glanced at the radiant satellite and undead blood thundered through his veins.
The pack no longer needed a full moon to induce their transformations, but the intense lunar glow and strong gravitational pull instilled a deeper, more primordial strength within the werewolves’ souls.
On nights such as this, Trace felt invincible.
Standing close to him, one of the newest recruits pressed into his side as the pack gathered in the darkened street. Sometimes her company became annoying, but for the most part Trace tolerated the newcomer’s presence.
Shadows couldn’t hide her smile, nor did the darkness conceal the woman’s hair dyed a deep shade of red. Only a year into her new life as a werewolf, she had yet to carry the weathered, time-worn appearance of many lycanthropes within the pack. Repeated transformations weakened the skin, the wounds of battle often disfiguring natural beauty. This specimen retained her youthful, human outlook however, and Trace took pleasure in her appearance.
If he remembered correctly, her name was Deanna. A nice name, he didn’t think it suited
a lycanthrope, but apt names were never a priority in the pack. The ability to fight and a lack of fear were, in essence, all that mattered. So far, the recruit had shown both.
It had been a long time since he’d gazed at himself in a mirror, and Trace wondered just how weathered his features had become. At that moment he felt like a tired rock star, having spent the better part of the last six months living out of a suitcase. The American continents—both North and South—are vast areas of land, and hunting hybrids had been a time-consuming, energy-sapping undertaking. Together with the assistance of their vampire cousins they’d managed to exterminate the hybrid threat in that area of the world before Trace had led his pack north through Alaska and into Russia. The frustration at missing his quarry in the Ukraine still galled him, but at least they were nearing the end of this latest, extended offensive.
Trace hoped that after tonight, the hybrid clan would be reduced into a shambled ruin that resembled a mortally wounded animal begging to be put out of its misery.
With an almost prehistoric instinct, Trace knew the time had arrived.
He glanced behind him, into gloom settling in the street, noticing the keen stare of Deanna at his side, and nodded that they should ready themselves for war.
Deanna tore at her shirt, eager to rid the material from her skin. She watched intently as Trace stepped out of his pants. The beast within affected people in different ways: prudish, celibate citizens becoming loose, lust-crazed animals; shy, introverted individuals gaining an air of confident dominance and vociferous behavior.
Deanna, it seemed, had fully embraced her new, animalistic entity.
Trace smiled back at her.
Fully naked, he stepped from the street’s obscurity and into the subtle amber hue of overhead streetlights. He loved the beast, and allowed it to overwhelm him in a ferocious burst of hormones.
Wenceslas Square echoed to the sound of cracking bones and reforming skeletons. Muscles stretched and tendons popped loudly. Many of the werewolves uttered a grunt of bestial pleasure as the changed swamped them, but Trace knew the importance of silence.
The hybrids would possibly have guards stationed inside the building. He hoped they’d be ill-prepared.
Once dawn broke, a new chapter would have been written in this centuries-old war; and the hybrids would be one step closer to extinction.
* * *
Thanks to information gathered over months of werewolf interrogation and analyzing hybrid memories, the surprise attacks on hybrid breeding colonies were swift, violent, and highly successful.
At exactly three in the morning Trace led his pack of werewolves into battle. The main wave entered through the front door and windows on the ground floor. Over a dozen fully transformed lycanthropes invaded the premises, ripping through the unsuspecting hybrids. Some of the crossbreeds were sleeping in the open-plan strip arenas, while others continued to engage in grotesque rutting sessions in the back rooms, intent on trying as hard as possible to maintain the hybrid bloodline.
With ruthless determination, Trace would not let that happen.
The pack moved swiftly through the rooms, not bothering to feed, only interested in massacring every individual within the building’s walls. They encountered stiffer resistance further in and on the second floor as the sounds of ambush carried ahead of the pack and alerted the gathered hybrids to their plight.
Any counterattacks didn’t have a chance.
Two divisions of lycanthropes entered the makeshift whorehouse from the roof; either ripping the slates clear or smashing the higher windows and climbing inside. Some of the more elegant and senior hybrids were located in these plush, upper rooms. Werewolves tore them to pieces as if the crossbreeds were slaughterhouse meat.
The attack, and two others like it that night in Prague, was swift and thorough. Trace’s pack cleaned the building in less than ten minutes.
The assault was not isolated.
Across Europe, battalions of werewolves and legions of vampires devastated hybrid breeding colonies in a single night of ferocious carnage.
Isaac himself led forays into the perilous environment of Germany’s disused Second World War bunkers located in and around the capital. Never being one to shy away from battle, the supreme Alpha-Male slaughtered hybrid defenders with consummate ease. Centuries of power and dominance had evolved the pack’s ultimate leader into a beast of almost invincible prowess. The members of his attacking horde took strength from their leader’s fevered determination, and before long the darkened caverns of the former Nazi hideouts were coated with thick, coagulating hybrid blood.
With little hybrid activity in Italy, Anton crossed the border into Switzerland; Bern and Geneva shaking with the force of an overwhelming vampiric onslaught on hybrid bases in the once peaceful country. Utilizing forty-inch sabers, sharpened talons, and their deadly venom, the vampires swept through the cowering mass of copulating crossbreeds like an unremitting sexual disease.
Xavier, recently returned from mop-up missions in the Far East, coordinated a three-pronged assault on crack houses and porn dens utilized by copulating hybrids in the Romanian capital, Bucharest. In the comfort off his chamber at Santi Quattro Coronati in Rome, Marcus was kept abreast of developments with regular updates.
Each scene was replayed with a callous indifference throughout the immense continent.
Any hybrids who survived the initial wave of attacks were rounded up and injected with vampire venom. Neither the pack nor the coven took any prisoners.
When dawn arrived, the history books told of a great, combined triumph by werewolves and vampires, an event never before witnessed in the immortal world.
A chapter was closed in hybrid history; the final one soon to be written.
SEVEN
Castle Klusenstein
North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany
The first time Tamara noticed the building was when dawn sunshine reflected off its undersized windows. Shielded by foliage and a forest in full summer bloom, the castle remained almost invisible from the road despite its location atop a sixty meter high limestone cliff. Through a break in the woods she glimpsed its weathered stone walls and red slate roof badly in need of repair.
The building, forlorn and desolate, matched the emotions twisting her guts.
Complete with tinted windows, the black BMW hugged the road’s curves majestically. Meandering through the valley, the Hönne River became a flash of silver beyond the vehicle’s darkened windows. McCaw gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting in his lap.
Tamara sat in the passenger seat, McCaw’s assistants in the back. A pile of books and signed documents, too valuable to be destroyed, sat on the rear seat between the two hybrids. A pair of suitcases and vital equipment salvaged from the bunker beneath the concentration camp had been stowed in the car’s trunk. They’d made the journey nonstop from Lublin, McCaw driving the entire distance. The trip had been made in virtual silence; not even the car’s radio disturbing the stillness.
A layer of unease settled thickly in Tamara’s stomach, and the closer they got to their destination the more intense her nervousness became. She hoped the feeling arose due to her dislike of Simon Cain but a nag in her conscience suggested something more serious would come to light.
Seeing the six-hundred and fifty year-old castle looming over the road at the next bend churned her anxiety into a thicker sludge.
“Cain knows we’re coming?” Tamara asked.
“Of course,” McCaw answered.
“Is he alone?”
McCaw shook his head. “Simon Cain is never alone.”
That figures, Tamara mused. He claims to be a superior warlord yet needs an army to defend himself. Tamara wondered if he would have escaped the monastery in the Ukraine as easily as her.
McCaw eased off on the accelerator and maneuvered the BMW to a stop behind an abandoned mill. Exiting the car, Tamara craned her neck to gaze up the tree-encrusted cliff face at the citadel. Early morning
sunshine lightened its gray walls, and the building appeared as if it were a natural extension of the limestone valley. She couldn’t decipher movement in the glinting squares of glass but had no doubt Cain stood at one of the windows observing their arrival.
McCaw and his assistants exited the vehicle and the muffled thud of precision-engineered German craftsmanship echoed off the cliff as they slammed the car doors. She didn’t offer to help as the hybrids pulled suitcases from the trunk; Tamara was their commanding officer and wouldn’t stoop to the level of hauling luggage.
Heaving a sports bag onto his shoulder, McCaw asked: “Are you tired from the trip?”
Tamara couldn’t understand why he fabricated his concern; she knew he didn’t like her. “No I’m not. I have too much to discuss with Cain and too much planning to do; I can’t begin to think about resting.”
McCaw shrugged and walked past her. “This way, your highness.”
He gestured towards the rear of the old mill, and Tamara followed. Where the hell are we going? Morning shadows cast their forms across dusty earth, the gnarled boughs of small trees coated with the life of green foliage. She hoped to God they weren’t about to hike up a concealed track across the sheer rock face. McCaw snapped his way through flattened underbrush, the area resembling a worn path trampled into the greenery.
She noticed their destination, and figured the trek to the castle would be just as hard as scaling the limestone cliff’s external walls.
The cave entrance distorted the rock face, sunlight unable to reach into its depths. A twinge of disconcertion edged into her emotions. The yawning aperture was not hidden entirely from view. Nosy teenagers, prying historians, or more concerning, marauding groups of vampires or werewolves could easily access the opening. She shook her head in disbelief: their supernatural enemies were closing the net, and Simon Cain had left the door open.
The Last Stand -- Blood War Trilogy Book III Page 7
