by Greg Cox
She dropped down into the dark, crumbling tunnel, landing ankle-deep in the turbid stream. Any muddy bootprints had been washed away by the rain, so she hesitated, uncertain which way to turn. She sniffed the air, catching a whiff of freshly spilled blood to her right; Trix’s wounded shoulder, she surmised, unhealed thanks to the toxic presence of her silver bullet.
Her nose wrinkled in disgust. Unlike human blood, which invariably attracted her despite her best intentions, the unclean blood of a lycan held no allure; indeed, it was considered anathema to her kind even to think of partaking of a lycan’s tainted essence. Despite the fangs projecting from her gums, she fully intended to slay Trix the proper way: with cleansing fire and silver.
Her gun raised and ready, she ventured cautiously in the direction of the blood scent, only to be greeted by the flare of a gun muzzle and the clattering report of a semiautomatic pistol. Like enraged fireflies, three incandescent bullets punched through her coat, barely missing her leather-corseted ribs.
Careful, she cautioned herself. Don’t let your anger at Rigel’s death make you careless. He wouldn’t want that.
She caught a glimpse of Trix at the far end of the drainage tunnel and dive-rolled out of his line of fire, blasting away with her own gun even as she smoothly tumbled head over heels. The blare of the weapons echoed thunderously in the cramped confines of the narrow tunnel.
Trix missed.
She didn’t.
The lycan toppled over, splashing down onto the submerged floor of the tunnel. His right hand still wrapped around the cold steel grip of his pistol, he flopped spasmodically upon his back like a fish out of water. Hot steam rose from the bullet holes sprouted across his chest.
Selene wasted no time finishing him off. Hissing like an incensed panther, she drove her boot down onto the supine lycan’s neck and mercilessly emptied the remainder of her silver ammo into his chest. The faces of the little girls, the old man, and the butchered maiden once again flashed across her mind, this time joined by the searing image of Rigel bleeding shafts of deadly light. Die! she thought passionately, as she always did when she had a lycan at her mercy. Die, you bloodthirsty animal!
Trix’s body rocked beneath the explosive force of the gunshots, not going limp until Selene’s Beretta clicked upon an empty cartridge. She stepped back, contemplating the lycan’s devastated corpse with cold satisfaction. Her gaze fell on the modified Desert Eagle still locked in the dead lycan’s grip. Kahn will want to inspect this new weapon, she realized.
Thrusting the Beretta back into its holster, she bent and pried the pistol from Trix’s stiffening hand. The painful radiance of the lambent rounds forced her to wince and look away as she methodically ejected the ammo clip.
An eerie silence fell over the lonely tunnel, broken only by the sibilant gurgle of the draining water. Then a deafening roar came from the subway tracks above. Another speeding train, Selene wondered anxiously, or something far more dangerous?
No longer trapped in the puny shape of a man, Raze exulted in his regained strength and speed. There were certain advantages to a human form, granted, such as an opposable thumb and the ability to blend undetected amidst the gullible mortal herd, but when he became a wolf, he became his truer, more primeval self. Guns and knives were all very well and good, but nothing equaled the sheer unbridled exhilaration of tearing apart a foe with your own teeth and claws!
The blood of his latest prey still stained his matted black fur, while bits of undead flesh and gristle lodged between his serrated yellow fangs. The flesh of the male vampire had only whetted his appetite, though; he wanted the female, too. Two down, he thought, eagerly recalling how the first vamp had been burned alive by Trix’s ultraviolet ammo. One more to go.
His lupine snout sniffed the air, readily determining which way Trix and the vampire bitch had gone. He hoped that his fellow lycan had not already killed the bloodsucking leech on his own; he was looking forward to rending the flesh from her shapely body, then cracking her bones and eating the marrow.
At the back of Raze’s mind, his human half remembered that he still had a vital mission to complete, one interrupted by the vampires’ unwanted appearance on the scene, but the wolf was in ascendance now, and long-term plans would have to wait. He had tasted blood and wanted more.
I’ll find that miserable human later, he promised himself, before bounding down the tunnel after his prey.
His muzzle twitched in anticipation of fresh meat as he quickly located the open grate and dropped down into the waiting drainage tunnel. Stalking forward on two legs, the transformed werewolf stooped beneath the low ceiling of the moldering conduit, his tufted ears brushing against the crumbling brickwork.
Gunshots blared loudly ahead of him, then abruptly fell silent. The acrid stench of gunpowder reached his canine nose. Had Trix eliminated the she-vampire, he wondered, or the other way around? Wading through the turbid water, he advanced toward the sound of the fleeting battle, his knife-edged claws extended before him.
The fact that he smelled only hot lycan blood, not the tepid red ichor that flowed through a vampire’s veins, gave him cause for concern, which was promptly validated by the sight of the female vampire bending low over the fallen remains of his fellow lycanthrope. Tainted by the vampire’s cursed silver, Trix had died in his human form, unable to change shape as Raze had.
The crouching vampire had her back to Raze, apparently unaware of his approach. Fleshy black lips peeled back hungrily, exposing the werewolf’s bloodstained incisors as he crept forward, eager to avenge the death of his pack member. Sinewy muscles tensed in expectation, and saliva dripped from the corners of his mouth. The vampire was easy prey…
With a ferocious roar, he pounced at the vampire, who surprised him by twisting around at superhuman speed and hurling four coinlike silver disks at the charging werewolf. Razor-sharp blades snapped out of the disks, turning them into deadly silver throwing stars.
Shards of jagged pain mixed with feral rage as the flying shuriken sliced into the werewolf’s massive torso. He reared backward, growling in fury, his claws slashing fruitlessly at the air. Goddamn blood! he howled inside, the angry curse emerging as an inarticulate snarl. You’ll pay for that, you sneaky bitch!
But the vampire was already gone.
* * *
Her perforated trench coat flapped behind her as Selene ran like hell away from the injured werewolf. She had no illusions that a handful of throwing stars would be enough to bring down a fully transformed alpha-male like Raze. With the last of her ammunition buried deeply in the corpse of the smaller lycan, discretion was clearly the better part of valor.
Killing Raze would have to wait for another night. At least I avenged Rigel, she thought, her boots splashing through the muddy rainwater. She only hoped that Nathaniel had survived as well.
Selene ran for her life, undead veins surging with adrenaline. Listening carefully for any signs of pursuit, she was surprised to hear a burst of frenzied growls and wild human cheers coming from somewhere nearby. What in the world? she thought.
Darting around a corner, she spotted rays of filtered light shining up through a rusted metal grate, not unlike the one she had used to enter the decaying drainage system. The boisterous roars and shouts seemed to be coming from the same direction as the unknown light.
Curious despite her present jeopardy, Selene warily stepped toward the grate, trying to peer downward through the moldy iron slats. Before she could see anything, however, she heard heavy paws tramping noisily through the tunnel behind her, accompanied by a rumbling growl that was growing louder and more inescapable by the second.
Raze, getting closer.
Damn, she thought, realizing that there was no time to investigate whatever was creating all that commotion on the other side of the metal grating. Escaping Raze had to be her first and only priority.
But I’ll be back, she vowed, running like mad away from the oncoming werewolf. Monstrous claws scraped against the floor of th
e tunnel behind her as she searched for the quickest available route back to the surface. I’m going to find out everything that’s hiding down here, assuming I ever get out of these tunnels alive!
Chapter Five
The abandoned tunnel was packed with lycans, both male and female. Hooting and hollering, they crowded the underground ruins, which were lit by the erratic light of crude torches wedged here and there into the crumbling brick walls. Water dripped from the ceiling, and the musky air was pungent with the smell of smoke, sweat, pheromones, and blood. The greasy, unwashed clothing of the lycans added to the general stench. Anthropomorphic shadows danced wildly on the cobweb-covered walls, and gnawed white bones, human and otherwise, littered the rocky floor. Rats scuttled around the edges of the tunnel, feeding on the lycans’ grisly leavings. Empty bottles of beer and Tokay clinked loudly as they rolled between the revelers’ feet. The entire scene had the riotous, unruly frenzy of a Hell’s Angels rally or perhaps an eighteenth-century pirate bacchanal.
Animalistic growls and snarls came from the center of the commotion, as the riled lycans clustered in a ring around an irresistible entertainment, rudely jostling each other for a better view.
Two gigantic male werewolves were locked in fierce combat, snapping and clawing as they circled each other like enraged pit bulls. Tufts of gray-black fur went flying as the frothing beasts traded gouging slashes and bites, lunging savagely at each other, to the tumultuous delight of the crowd. Fresh blood splattered the thrilled faces of the lycan spectators, who were dwarfed by the seven-foot-tall werewolves. The fur-crested skulls of the creatures towered above the heads of the mostly humanoid audience.
“Go get ’im!” a jubilant lycan shouted, although it was unclear which monstrous man-beast she was cheering for. “Tear ’im apart!”
“That’s it!” another onlooker called out loudly stomping his boots on the floor. A plump black rat scurried for safety. “Don’t back off! Go for his throat!”
Disgraceful, Lucian thought, observing the sorry spectacle. With a weary sigh, he raised his shotgun.
BLAM! The resounding blast of the rifle cut through the echoing yells and growls like a silver blade slicing through a werewolf’s heart. The obstreperous mob fell silent, and even the two battling lycanthropes halted their brutal clash. Startled eyes, both human and lupine, turned toward the solitary figure standing at the rear of the dilapidated tunnel.
Although deceptively slight in appearance, Lucian carried himself with the carriage and bearing of a true leader. The unquestioned master of the lycan horde, he had an air of polished cultivation that his uncouth subjects sorely lacked. His expressive gray eyes, long black hair, and neatly trimmed beard and mustache gave him the look of a somewhat urbane Jesus. His hair was combed back in a widow’s peak, exposing a lofty brow of Shakespearean proportions. He looked to be in his early thirties, although his true origins were lost in the impenetrable mists of history. He was also very much alive, despite his supposed death nearly six centuries ago.
His dark brown attire was also significantly more expensive and stylish than the cheap, thrift-store wear that draped his subjects. The tail of his oiled leather coat flapped behind him like a monarch’s robes. His gloves and boots were equally slick and polished. A crest-shaped pendant hung from a chain around his neck. The gleaming medallion reflected the torchlight, throwing dazzling beams about the dimly lit catacomb.
Cowed lycans edged nervously from his path as he strode confidently into the crowd, a smoking shotgun resting lightly upon his shoulder. His disapproving eyes raked across the faces of his gathered minions, who shrank back in apprehension. They bowed their heads in submission to their leader.
“You’re acting like a pack of rabid hounds,” he said disdainfully, speaking Hungarian with a crisp British accent. “And that, gentlemen, simply will not do. Not if you expect to defeat the vampires on their own ground. Not if you expect to survive at all.” He looked over the drooping heads of the blood-spattered spectators to where the two mighty hell-beasts had been contending. “Pierce! Taylor!”
The crowd parted entirely to reveal two human gladiators, their naked bodies slick with blood and perspiration. Nasty cuts and scratches marred their heaving chests as they panted in exhaustion. Both men looked as though they had just run a marathon through a field of thorny rose bushes, but their eyes still glowed with feral glee and rapacity.
They should save their predatory zeal for our foes, Lucian thought, appalled at such a pointless waste of blood and energy. And the truly sad thing was, these were two of his more reliable lieutenants.
Cold gray eyes regarded the brawling pair with open contempt. Pierce, the taller of the two, was a brawny Caucasian whose uncombed, shoulder-length black hair made him look like a comic-book barbarian. Taylor, his partner, was also white, with reddish-brown hair and whiskers. They stood stiffly at attention, their heads hunched below their shoulders and their arms and fingers extended at their sides, as though their hands still sported dagger-sized talons.
Lucian shook his head. You can take the man out of the wolf, he thought philosophically, but you can’t take the wolf out of the man. “Put some clothes on, will you?”
The Ferenciek Square subway station, recently the site of so much gunfire and bloodshed, was now swarming with Hungarian police officers and forensic examiners. Like their American counterparts, the local cops wore navy-blue uniforms and stony, hard-boiled expressions. Michael watched a pair of forensic assistants examine the charred remains of what looked like a burn victim. Funny, he thought, blinking in confusion, I don’t remember a fire breaking out…
Pale-faced and shaken, Michael leaned against a chipped and bullet-riddled support column as a chunky police officer, who had identified himself as Sergeant Hunyadi, took his statement. The dazed young American’s pants and T-shirt were still soaked through with blood. Amazingly, none of it was his own.
“Tattoos, scars, any other identifying marks?” the cop asked, hoping for a description of the assailants.
Michael shook his head. “No, like I said, it happened too fast.” His gaze drifted over the officer’s shoulder, to where a couple of paramedics were strapping the injured Hungarian girl to a gurney. The unlucky teen had lost a lot of blood, but it looked as though she was probably going to make it. He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that he had managed to keep the girl alive until help could get to her. No wonder I can’t remember what the shooters, looked like, he thought. I was too busy dealing with a severed artery!
Hunyadi nodded, jotting something down in his notebook. Behind him, the medics started wheeling the girl toward the handicapped elevator. “Doctor!” one of the EMTs called out to Michael. “If you want a ride, you better hurry!”
The cop glanced down at the hospital ID badge pinned to the young American’s jacket. “Sorry,” Michael said with a shrug. “Gotta run.”
Thank God! he thought, anxious to leave the violated subway station. He shouted back over his shoulder as he hurried after the medics. “I’ll give you a call if I remember anything useful!”
As if there was any way he could ever make sense of what had happened here tonight.
The mansion, long known as Ordoghaz (“Devil’s House”), was located about an hour north of downtown Budapest, outside the picturesque little town of Szentendre on the western bank of the Danube. Pounding rain still streamed down the tinted windshield of Selene’s Jaguar XJR as she neared the intimidating cast-iron gates of Viktor’s vast estate. Mounted security cameras scoped her out thoroughly before the spike-crowned gates swung open automatically.
Despite the slippery conditions, the Jag raced down the long paved driveway as quickly as its driver dared. Kahn and the others needed to know what had transpired in the city as soon as possible, although Selene was not looking forward to returning without either Rigel, whose blackened corpse she had been forced to leave behind, or Nathaniel, who was missing and presumed dead as well. Two Death Dealers laid low in a single night, she po
ndered in dismay. Kraven will have to take this seriously… I hope.
Ordoghaz loomed before her, a sprawling Gothic edifice dating back to the days when feudal warlords ruled Hungary with fists of iron. Jagged spires and battlements rose atop its looming stone walls, while majestic columns and pointed arches adorned its brooding facade. The lambent glow of candlelight could be glimpsed through the mansion’s narrow lancet windows, suggesting that Ordoghaz’s lively nocturnal activities were still going strong. A circular fountain, situated across the drive from the wide arched doorway, sprayed a plume of churning white water into the cold night air.
Home sweet home, Selene thought without much enthusiasm.
Parking right outside the main entrance, she stormed up the marble steps and through the heavy oaken doors. Fledgling vampires, waiting at the door, offered to take her coat and gear, but she brushed past them, intent on getting the word to those who mattered. The disk from Rigel’s camera rested securely in her pocket, holding vital photographic evidence of his killers.
The foyer was as impressive as the mansion’s exterior. Priceless tapestries and oil paintings hung upon lustrous oak-paneled walls. Marble tiles stretched across the floor to where the sweeping main stairway rose majestically toward the upper reaches of Ordoghaz. An immense crystal chandelier glittered above the stately entry hall, welcoming Selene in from the night.
Brushing aside a hanging tapestry, she stepped briskly into the grand salon, which was decorated in tastefully subdued tones of black and red and rich walnut brown. Lighted candelabras were mounted along the wall and hanging from the ceiling, shining down on a rose-colored wool carpet bearing a floral design. Ornamental brass lamps with opaque black shades rested upon antique mahogany end tables, beneath the elaborately carved wooden moldings running along the borders of the ceiling. Heavy velvet curtains of deepest burgundy were draped over the windows, keeping out any prying eyes whose owners might have made it past the gates outside.
