01 - Underworld

by Greg Cox

  “You should have listened to me and stayed out of this,” he scolded her petulantly. “Now you’ll be lucky if I can convince the Council to spare your life.”

  When Selene declined to reply, let alone plead for clemency, he whirled around and stomped toward the door. To her surprise, Selene discovered she still had loathing enough to fire off a parting shot.

  “Tell me,” she asked him coldly, “did you have the nerve to cut the skin from his arm, or did Lucian do it for you?”

  Kraven stumbled, missing his stride. He spun around in stunned chagrin, glaring at her as though he had just been sucker-punched. His stricken expression instantly confirmed what Selene already had concluded: Kraven was in league with Lucian and had been for a long time.

  Traitor! Her pitiless eyes accused him.

  Kraven gulped, then, with great effort, regained his composure. He somehow managed a sneering grin. “Mark my words. Soon you’ll be seeing things my way.”

  He fled the room, unwilling to give Selene a chance to have the last word. The door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the light fixtures on the wall. Selene heard a key lock the door from the outside, making her a prisoner in her own chambers. Metal shutters covered the window Michael had shattered when he first fled the mansion. The shuttered aperture held no escape for her, not while the sun was shining brightly outdoors.

  Knowing better, she approached the door to the hall, unable to resist the temptation to try the lock. She laid her hand on the crystal doorknob.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Soren said gruffly from the other side.

  * * *

  The door banged shut, making Erika jump. Still hidden in the gloomy alcove, she listened carefully as Kraven issued instructions to Soren and his men.

  “No one opens this door, understood? I can’t afford to have my future queen running off with that lycan again.”

  Kraven’s words stabbed Erika like a wooden stake through her heart.

  Future queen.

  Nothing had changed, she realized. Even after all of Selene’s rejections and betrayals, after Erika had given freely of her own precious blood and body, Kraven was still obsessed with Selene.

  Always Selene.

  Erika retreated into the sheltering alcove, blending with the shadows as Kraven stormed past her down the hall. The betrayed and brokenhearted servant girl felt the last ember of her devotion die, replaced by a longing for something very new and different from what she always craved before.

  Revenge.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sunlight poured through the window of the safe house, warming Michael’s bones but doing little to exorcise the fears and frustrations tormenting his febrile mind, which finally had drifted into unconsciousness after long, agonizing hours spent handcuffed to the massive chair. Drenched in sweat, he shifted uneasily in his seat, as another round of disturbing images invaded his dreams.

  A spinelike whip forged of gleaming silver vertebrae lashes out at him, stripping the flesh from his bones…

  Tears course down the face of his beloved Sonja as she struggles futilely against the iron torture device confining her. Her unearthly white eyes lock onto his, filled with a poignant mixture of fear and sorrow…

  Like a flock of malignant gargoyles, the vampire Council perch atop regal stone pillars, glaring down at the prisoners with utter contempt. Their bone-white faces hold no mercy for either him or Sonja as they contemplate their captives’ respective tortures with icy disdain…

  Not far away, trapped behind bars of silver-iron alloy, Michael’s pack brothers snarl and growl in protest. They hurl their weak human bodies against the bars of the dungeon, desperate to come to his aid, but their frenzied efforts come to naught…

  The silver whip cracks forth again…

  Michael jerked awake, his back still feeling the savage bite of the lash. He blinked in confusion, uncertain of his location. It took him several heartbeats to realize that the murky, torchlit dungeon was gone, replaced by the more mundane environment of Selene’s safe house in Budapest. Without thinking, he tried to rub his eyes with his knuckles, only to have the motion halted abruptly by the metal chain cuffing him to the chair.

  That’s right, he remembered. I’m trapped.

  The realization provoked an irate response. Grunting in exertion, he tugged furiously on the chain cuffing him to the chair. He rocked back and forth in the seat, throwing his entire body into the effort.

  The cuffs didn’t yield by even a fraction of an inch.

  “Son of a bitch!” Michael gasped, out of breath from his exertions. It was no use; he and the heavy titanium chair were stuck together.

  Thanks to Selene.

  What was she thinking, leaving him trapped like this? Oh, yeah, he recalled. She was afraid I was going to get all fanged and furry out when the full moon rose tonight.

  “Werewolf, my ass,” he muttered. He refused to accept Selene’s insane prognosis. True, he was definitely coming down with something—he still felt queasy and feverish—but lycanthropy? Give me a break!

  As he looked around for some way out, his gaze fell on the automatic pistol resting in his lap. Loaded with silver bullets, no less, more evidence of how completely preposterous his life had become. Michael remembered using a similar gun to free himself from Selene’s sinking Jaguar two nights ago.

  Wait a second, he thought, as a wild idea struck him. It was a desperate, possibly dangerous measure, but what other options did he have?

  Trembling, he lifted the gun from his lap. His sweaty palm wrapped around the cold steel grip of the weapon. Acting quickly, before he had a chance to talk himself out of what he had in mind, he pressed the muzzle of the gun against the implacable metal chain. He closed his eyes, turned his head, and pulled the trigger.

  BANG!

  The recoil and loud report were too much for Michael, who flinched spasmodically, dropping the gun. The falling weapon skittered across the naked wooden floor, eventually coming to rest a foot beyond Michael’s reach. Just as well, he figured, opening his eyes; he doubted he had the nerve to try this harebrained stunt again. He had half expected to be killed instantly by a ricochet.

  But had it worked? Breathing hard, he turned to inspect the maddeningly stubborn cuffs. His heart sank immediately.

  The chain wasn’t even scratched.

  Kahn paced the floor of the dojo as his troops prepared for duty. A full score of Death Dealers, male and female alike, loaded their weapons with solid silver cartridges. Amelia was due to arrive at the train station within hours, shortly after sundown, and Kahn intended to make sure that the Elder was greeted by a full security detail. With all the lycan activity over the last few nights, nothing could be left to chance.

  A pity, he thought, that there hasn’t been time to mass-produce the new silver nitrate rounds. So far, the gun on his workbench was the only working prototype.

  One face was conspicuously absent from the assembled brigade: Selene’s. Kahn couldn’t help wondering what had become of the resourceful Englishwoman, whom he had always considered one of his most steadfast and determined comrades. Is it true what they’re saying about her? he thought, hiding his doubts behind a mask of cool professionalism. He found it hard to believe that Selene, of all immortals, would betray them out of love for a lycan.

  Yet that was what Kraven had declared, presumably with the full backing of Viktor himself. Kahn had yet to confer with Viktor directly, since Kahn had restricted access to the crypt during the Elder’s period of recuperation, but he couldn’t imagine that even Kraven would be so arrogant as to accuse Selene of treason without Viktor’s tacit approval.

  And who am I to question the judgment of an Elder? Kahn shook his head, allowing a slight scowl to convey his unhappiness. Something was not right here; it had been Selene, after all, who had stood in this very loft only two nights ago, arguing vehemently that the lycans were up to something big. How could she have completely switched her loyalties over the last forty hours or
so—unless her heated show of concern had been meant to divert suspicion from herself?

  Kahn angrily inserted a cartridge into his own modified AK-47 assault rifle. He hated all this double-agent espionage bullshit; he was a soldier, not a spymaster. Just give me something howling and hairy to shoot, he thought sourly. Preferably at close range.

  Footsteps on the stairs alerted Kahn to the arrival of Kraven to the dojo. The regent was dressed to the nines, no doubt in anticipation of Amelia’s approaching advent. His silky black suit stood in marked contrast to the reinforced leather gear of Kahn and his fellow Death Dealers.

  Kahn hefted his rifle, cradling it against his chest. “We’re ready,” he informed Kraven.

  “Change of plans,” the regent announced offhandedly. A self-satisfied smirk was Kahn’s first warning that something was amiss. “The Lady Amelia will be picked up by Soren and his team.”

  Kahn’s jaw dropped. “That’s our job,” he insisted, and with good reason; he had personally overseen the security at the last five Awakenings.

  “Not anymore,” Kraven said smugly, not even bothering to conceal his perverse enjoyment of the other vampire’s consternation. It seemed unthinkable that Kraven had ever been a Death Dealer, let alone the esteemed slayer of Lucian.

  How can he do this, Kahn thought in disbelief, and why? The safety of Amelia was too important to play political power games with. Wheels of suspicion began to churn behind Kahn’s shrewd brown eyes as Kraven turned his back on the mansion’s military commander and blithely strolled away.

  Perhaps Selene was not the traitor in their ranks?

  The sun set on the Nyugati train station in the northwestern corner of Pest. A row of black limousines was parked beside a glassed-in platform that had been expressly cleared of humankind. Seated within the lead limousine, Soren watched the sinking sun through the dark, polarized windows of the car, waiting until the last traces of daylight had vanished from the sky before emerging from the limo, an unreadable expression on his face.

  Flanked on both sides by armed security forces, he stared expectantly at the empty platform. Off in the distance, from somewhere to the west, he heard the unmistakable rumbling of an approaching steam engine.

  Right on time, he thought coldly.

  Within seconds, a jet-black passenger train chugged into view, pulled by a vintage 1930s locomotive, impeccably maintained. An old-fashioned steam engine powered the locomotive’s chugging pistons and connecting rods as the privately owned train came roaring into the station amidst squealing brakes and scalding blasts of steam.

  Soren retrieved a laser pointer from his pocket and, as agreed, fired off three quick ruby pulses as the train slowed to a stop. The pulses were to assure Amelia’s bodyguards that the station had been secured and vetted by Kraven’s security forces.

  His signal was promptly acknowledged by an answering pulse, visible through the tinted window of the forward passenger car. Soren visualized his counterpart aboard the train, signaling Amelia’s entourage that the platform was safe. So far, all was going according to plan.

  Soren’s stolid features gave no indication that anything exceptional was occurring, not even as a hairy claw broke through the steam fogging the platform. He watched cold-bloodedly as four enormous werewolves, black fur bristling from their grotesque, subhuman bodies, stealthily crept up the side of the train and onto its roof.

  Although nearly fifteen centuries old, the Lady Amelia had the youthful beauty and haughty carriage of an international supermodel. Her lustrous black hair bound tightly on her gracefully sculpted head, she looked out at the world through imperious green eyes. A strapless satin gown exposed slender white shoulders, while a jeweled silver pendant, large enough to shame the crown jewels of many a mortal kingdom, rested on the flawless ivory expanse of her bosom.

  Accompanied by her entourage and bodyguards, she strode down the center of a plushly fitted dining car toward the exit ahead. The trip from New York, by way of Vienna, had been a long one, and she looked forward to arriving at Ordoghaz before too much time passed. There, in accordance with their ancient traditions, she would go down into the earth for another two hundred years of tranquil repose.

  In truth, she yearned for the unbroken quiet of the crypt. The twentieth century had been a wearying one, rife with war and turmoil among the mortal world, and the present era looked to be no less trying. She was happy to let Marcus cope with the challenges to come. Perhaps the world would be a more orderly place when next she rose from the tomb, two centuries hence.

  I rather doubt it, she lamented inwardly. Immortality had taught her realism, among other things.

  The regal procession swept down the passageway, past rich cherrywood panels with polished gold fittings. Tinted orange light bulbs mimicked dancing flames atop gilded electric lamps fashioned in the shape of antique candelabra, the ersatz candlelight casting a gentle glow over the train’s interior. A leather-clad Death Dealer led the way, cradling a loaded submachine gun against his chest, while Amelia’s neatly groomed attendants and ladies-in-waiting trailed dutifully behind her. Distinguished members of the Council, their elegant attire adorned by badges and emblems that signified their illustrious status, kept pace with the Elder and her retinue. The oldest among them already had attended many previous Awakenings. No doubt, they expected the transition to proceed as smoothly as ever.

  A peculiar noise, like something scratching at the roof of the car, caught the attention of Amelia and her attendants. She glanced up briefly at the ceiling, as did several of her ladies-in-waiting. For a second, a flicker of apprehension passed through the aristocratic immortal. Was something amiss?

  She swiftly dismissed the notion. Kraven and his people had already secured the platform outside. Between her own complement of bodyguards and the additional Death Dealers from the mansion, it was foolish to imagine that any danger could await her here.

  It has been an interminable journey, she reflected. I must not let my chafed nerves get the better of me at the very end of my travels.

  At the far end of the lushly appointed dining car, a narrow vestibule preceded the car’s closed steel door. Amelia waited with superhuman patience as the leader of her Death Dealers unlocked the compartment and slid open the door.

  She expected to see a moonlit platform, peopled only by those vampires who had been honored with the task of transporting her to Ordoghaz She wondered briefly if Kraven would be present to greet her personally or if he awaited her back at the mansion. It mattered little to her; Kraven was Viktor’s prot�g�, not hers.

  Instead of a welcoming party however, the sliding door opened to reveal the gigantic form of a ravening werewolf clinging to the side of the train. Saliva dripped from the monster’s gaping jaws, even as two more man-beasts dropped loudly onto the platform behind him. A foul, musky scent invaded the vestibule, while bestial growls broke the silence.

  By the Blood of the Ancestor! A flicker of surprise registered on Amelia’s immaculate features, less than a heartbeat before the creature lunged at her with terrifying speed, throwing the startled Death Dealer effortlessly aside. Knifelike claws and teeth tore into immortal flesh…

  * * *

  On the platform, Soren and his so-called security team watched impassively as the grisly sounds of a massacre escaped the train. Anguished screams mixed with the roar of both gunfire and rampaging beasts. Immortal blood sprayed the polarized windows from inside, painting abstract designs of crimson on the tinted glass.

  Soren made no attempt to intervene in the lycanthropic feeding frenzy, even as the pitiful cries of Amelia and her entourage gave way to a wet, sticky symphony of crunching bones and tearing flesh.

  Yes, he thought once more. All was going exactly according to plan.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  With the fall of night, the metal shutters rose from Selene’s windows, permitting her a view of the grounds outside the mansion. Armed sentries—Soren’s people, not Kahn’s—prowled the spacious front y
ard, each of the soldiers armed to the teeth, while two more guards were stationed directly beneath her window. Kraven clearly had no intention of letting her slip away again.

  When did Ordoghaz become a police state? she thought bitterly. And why has Viktor sided with Kraven against me?

  Her gaze shifted from the lawn below to the starry night sky The storm clouds of the previous nights finally had blown away so that nothing obscured the eerie silver radiance of the moon, which hung large and full above the horizon.

  The sight of the moon instantly turned her thoughts to Michael—and to the vile infection transforming him from within. I left him the gun, she remembered grimly, and the silver bullets.

  But would Michael have the wisdom to use the Beretta in time?

  * * *

  Still cuffed to the titanium chair, Michael dozed uncomfortably on the bare wooden floor, his back propped up against the immovable seat. He twitched and moaned fitfully as he slept, besieged by alien thoughts and memories.

  Running madly through the dense Carpathian forest, the silver arrows of his enemies flying past his head like angry wasps…

  Feeling the Change upon him, gaining strength and vigor as he gladly sheds his clumsy human form. Growing claws and fangs to match the bloodthirsty fury in his soul…

  Moonlight fell upon Michael’s unconscious form, and every hair on his body leaped up as though electrified.

  The dusty utility closet was tucked away in an unfrequented corner of Ordoghaz, known only to the mansion’s staff of menials. Erika doubted that Kraven could have found the closet—and the fuse box within—even if his eternal life depended on it.

  Sometimes there are advantages to being at the bottom of the pecking order, the red-eyed servant girl thought. Dried tears stained her alabaster cheeks, while the sting of her shoddy treatment at Kraven’s hands festered deep inside her broken heart. If he thinks he can just throw me over in favor of Selene, well, he’s got another think coming.