by Greg Cox
But Selene gave him no time to consider his options. Grabbing his arm, she jabbed her fingers into an open bullet wound in his shoulder.
“Ahhhh!” he yelped shrilly. The excruciating pain almost made him pass out. “All right! All right!” There was no way he could resist this torture for long; it seemed he had no choice but to tell the bloodsuckers everything.
Selene loosened her grip but did not let go of his arm.
She kept her fingers in the wound, as a tactile reminder of what Singe had in store should the injured lycan defy her again. Gasping from the traumatic shock to his system, Singe had to take a deep breath before speaking.
“For years,” he began, “we’ve been trying to combine the bloodlines…”
Doped up and groggy, Michael was only half aware of being dragged down a dank, murky tunnel somewhere beneath the city. A subway train thundered by several feet overhead, rattling the crumbling brick catacombs. If he’d been more alert and clear-headed, Michael might have worried about getting buried alive.
His wrists were handcuffed tightly behind his back, while a thick piece of nylon webbing was wrapped around the lower half of his face, gagging him. On the brighter side, whatever he’d been dosed with had apparently reversed, at least for now, the grotesque metamorphosis brought on by the moonlight. He was fully human once more. Do I need a prescription for that stuff, he wondered fuzzily, or can I get it over the counter?
The alleged cops—Pierce and Taylor—said nothing as they hauled Michael through a maze of subterranean corridors, merely grunting in exertion as they each held onto their prisoner by one arm. Michael dimly glimpsed, out of the corners of his eyes, other brutish figures going about their business in this stygian underworld. Shadowy men and women, their eyes and teeth gleaming vibrantly in the dark, prowled through the tunnels, sometimes gnawing on disturbingly human-looking bones. A few of the women clasped nursing infants to their exposed breasts, but the misshapen babies struck Michael as more canine than hominid. Feral children chased one another past their elders, yipping and squealing like overexcited pups, while here and there throughout the twisting labyrinth, Michael occasionally glimpsed wild-eyed men and women copulating openly. Their bestial pants and moans added to the barbaric ambience of the catacombs as the frenzied lovers mounted each other with abandon, clawing and nipping at their mates’ quivering flesh. The musky atmosphere was redolent of sweat and fur and filth.
Michael’s eyes blinked blurrily in their sockets as he gradually shook off the narcosis clouding his mind, becoming more and more aware of his bizarre surroundings. The stench of the tunnels reached even through the nylon gag over his mouth.
Where am I, he wondered, frightened and disoriented, and what the hell am I doing here?
“…trying to combine the bloodlines,” Singe continued, his memory taking him back to his cramped, cluttered laboratory under the city. He remembered placing a drop of lycan blood on a slide, then peering at the sample through the lenses of a powerful microscope.
Then he’d added another drop of blood, this time from a plastic dropper labeled “Vampyre.” Through the microscope, he could discern the physical characteristics that distinguished vampiric blood cells from lycan. Both species briefly coexisted within a minute sea of plasma.
Then, just as it always did, an instant reaction occurred: the opposing blood cells turned on each other, consuming the enemy hemoglobin in a pyrrhic orgy of mutual destruction until not a single viable cell remained.
“…and for years we failed,” Singe confessed. “It was useless. Even at a cellular level, our two species seemed destined to annihilate each other.” He paused in somber contemplation of innumerable failed experiments, until a painful twist of Selene’s fingers prompted him to continue. “That is, until we found Michael.”
A complicated genealogical chart, spanning several generations, was posted to the wall of the subway station, which appeared to have been converted into some sort of improvised laboratory or infirmary. A banner printed along the top of the chart read “Corvinus Family Tree”.
Michael stared in confusion at the yellowed chart even as Pierce and Taylor strapped him to a swiveling examination table. Taking no chances on Michael escaping, the men crisscrossed Michael’s body with heavy-duty strips of nylon webbing, similar to the sturdy tape stretched tightly over his mouth. Michael’s wrists were cuffed behind the cold metal table, so that his arms were bent at very uncomfortable angles.
This looks bad, Michael thought. So which side were his captors on, the vampires or the werewolves? Judging from the animalistic behavior he had glimpsed on his way here, Michael guessed the latter. Werewolves, he marveled bleakly, having passed beyond disbelief. His near transformation back in the squad car had wrung the last drops of skepticism from his mind. I’ve been captured by werewolves.
And he was one of them, sort of.
Shit, he thought wryly, finding a trace of dark humor in his outr� situation. Eight years of schooling, a mountain of debt, and now I’m doomed to become a werewolf. He shook his aching head in disbelief. Un-fucking-believable.
The two lycans, as Selene called them, swung the table upward, elevating Michael’s head, so that he found himself directly facing the elaborate family tree. Many of the names on the chart had an inky black line running through them, as though they had been stricken from the list for some reason. His baffled gaze dropped quickly to the very bottom of the chart—where an extremely familiar name was circled in red.
“A very special specimen,” Singe continued, his shoulder still throbbing where Selene had cruelly dug her fingers into the wound. “A direct descendant of Alexander Corvinus, a Hungarian warlord who came to power during the early seasons of the fifth century… just in time to watch a plague ravage his village.”
The lycan captive kept one eye on Kraven as he spoke, curious to observe the effect of his words on the double-dealing vampire regent. Kraven was figuratively sweating bullets, no doubt terrified that Singe would implicate him in the conspiracy. Singe caught the fearful vampire shooting a nervous look at the exit.
As well he should, the lycan thought.
“Corvinus alone survived the plague. His body was somehow able to mutate the disease, mold it to his benefit. He became the first true immortal.” Singe grimaced in pain, acutely aware that his own prospects for eternal life were diminishing by the second. “And years later, he fathered at least two children who inherited the same trait.”
Behind the transparent barrier, Viktor nodded impatiently. “The three sons of the Corvinus Clan,” he observed with a tone of wry amusement. “One bitten by bat, one by wolf, one to walk the lonely road of mortality as an ordinary human.” The Elder snorted scornfully. “A ridiculous legend, nothing more.”
“That may be,” Singe conceded, “but our two species unquestionably have a common ancestor… and the mutation of the original virus is directly linked to the bloodline of Alexander Corvinus.”
Seated upon his throne, Viktor motioned toward the floor of the crypt, where a polished bronze hatch was emblazoned with an ornate letter M. “An heir to Corvinus lies there, not three feet from you.”
Singe knew Viktor was referring to the undead Elder known as Marcus. “Yes,” he replied, “but he is already a vampire. We need a pure source, untainted. An exact duplicate of the original mutated virus which we learned was hidden away in the genetic code of Alexander Corvinus’ human descendants.”
He remembered that glorious moment, when Michael’s blood had tested positive back in his lab, before the jubilant eyes of both Singe and Lucian. He quickly had confirmed the results by placing a small sample of Michael’s blood on a slide, then mixing it with an equal quantity of preserved vampire blood.
Through the microscope, he had watched intently as the vampiric blood cells swiftly bonded with Michael’s mortal hemoglobin, producing unique two-celled platelets. The entire process had taken place in seconds, astonishing Singe with its speed.
But that was not t
he end of the experiment. Singe immediately had introduced a drop of lycan blood to the sample. Just as he had always envisioned, the double platelets bonded with the lycan cells, yielding the desired product: a singular-looking triple-celled platelet. Super blood, in other words, melding the best characteristics of all three species.
“The Corvinus strain allows for a perfect union,” he explained to the attentive vampires.
Viktor’s ancient face contorted in disgust. “There can be no such union,” he declared emphatically, “and to speak so is heresy.”
Singe lifted his head as much as his shackles allowed, looking Viktor in the eye rebelliously. “We’ll see about that,” he chortled, “once Lucian has inject—”
“Lucian is dead,” the Elder interrupted, cutting Singe off.
A crafty smirk crossed Singe’s face. “According to whom?”
Selene’s tormenting fingers withdrew from Singe’s arm as she whirled around to confront Kraven. To her surprise, if not the lycan scientist’s, the nefarious regent had vanished.
The female vampire clenched her fists in frustration, taking Kraven’s escape as the ultimate admission of guilt.
“I knew it!”
Chapter Twenty-six
Kraven raced up the stairs from the crypt, fearful of Viktor’s wrath. His face was drawn and slick with perspiration. Paranoid imaginings filled his brain. Once that loose-lipped lycan revealed that Lucian was still alive, that Kraven had not truly killed the illustrious lycan commander six centuries ago, there would be no safety for Kraven at Ordoghaz or beyond.
Once again, it was all Selene’s fault. God damn that ungrateful witch! Kraven thought furiously. If only she had accepted his generous offer to rule at his side, none of these catastrophes would have occurred. And all because she chose a mangy, flea-bitten lycan over me!
He barged breathlessly into the grand salon. As usual, the opulent chamber was packed with stylish undead socialites. In anticipation of Amelia’s overdue arrival, the languid sophisticates were wearing their finest evening attire. Expensively tasteful jewelry sparkled upon the throats and ears of the sleek vampire women, while their gentlemen companions sported medals and decorations acquired over centuries of faithful service to the coven and its Elders. The muted babel of numerous animated conversations was accompanied by the delicate melody of Bartok’s String Quartet No. 1 playing softly in the background. Goblets of cloned blood were refilled dutifully by a discreet complement of serving girls bearing crystal pitchers of warm crimson plasma.
Ordinarily, Kraven would have been quite at home in this milieu, but now he eyed the chattering immortals with fear and suspicion. Are they whispering about me? he fretted. Have I already fallen out of favor with my own kind, thanks to Selene and her perfidy? Wringing his hands nervously, he noticed Amelia’s envoy, Dmitri, standing vigilantly by the window that looked out upon the mansion’s front yard. An impatient frown on his bony features, the ageless diplomat alternated between glancing at his gilded pocket watch and peering anxiously through the heavy velvet drapes at the driveway outside. No doubt, he was wondering what had become of his exalted mistress. How long would it be before he blamed Kraven for Amelia’s nonarrival?
Kraven looked away, not wanting to make eye contact with the worried envoy. After all, he could hardly explain to Dmitri that Amelia had been met at the train station by a pack of ravening werewolves—especially since Kraven’s original plans for a coup d’�tat were rapidly going down in flames. This should have been my moment of glory, he thought rancorously, boldly taking charge of the vampire nation at the height of a historic crisis.
Instead, it had become his Waterloo.
His eyes searched the crowded salon, looking for a minion he could rely on. Soren and his men, alas, had not returned from their mission in the city, leaving Kraven woefully short of allies. At first, he saw nothing but feckless libertines and voluptuaries, who would surely turn on him once his collusion with Lucian was exposed. Then, to his relief, he spotted Erika, serving drinks at the far end of the salon. The lissome servant girl, whom Kraven had last seen naked in his sumptuous boudoir, once again wore a sequined black maid’s outfit. Her ivory skin was notably paler than usual, suggesting that she had not yet recovered from Kraven’s voracious attentions.
Of course, he thought, recalling the girl’s lovesick devotion. She was no Soren, to be sure, but then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Weaving hurriedly through the crush of undead bodies, he came up behind Erika and possessively grabbed her arm. The petite blond vampiress started, almost spilling a flagon of blood, then gazed up at Kraven with wide violet eyes.
He bent toward her, the better to whisper softly in her ear.
In the frigid atmosphere of the recovery chamber, Selene finished disconnecting the IV tubing from Viktor’s arms, back, and chest. The Elder rose from his chair with obvious difficulty; it was clear that he had not yet regained his full strength. Fossilized bones creaked like rusty hinges.
“I can assure you, my child,” he stated solemnly, “Kraven will pay with his life.”
Selene was more concerned with Michael’s life at the moment but shrewdly held her tongue. In the aftermath of Kraven’s guilty flight from the crypt, Viktor appeared to have forgotten her own recent transgressions. She wisely judged that now was not the time to remind the Elder of her determined efforts to keep Michael out of the hands of the lycans. Later, after Kraven and Lucian are dealt with, I can convince him that Michael is blameless in this affair.
By contrast, her lycan prisoner—who apparently went by the name of Singe—felt free to speak his mind. Chained to the floor on the other side of the plexiglass divider, he grinned maliciously at his vampiric captors. “Soon this house will lie in ruins,” he prophesied with a chuckle.
“Not before you,” Selene stated darkly, as Viktor shot her a meaningful look. Alert to his wishes, she promptly exited the recovery chamber and seized Singe by the throat. Her face a mask of implacable hatred, she throttled the imprisoned lycan, fully prepared to choke the life from his worthless body.
“No, wait!” Singe croaked, barely able to speak. His bulging red eyes appealed frantically to Viktor. “You and you alone will know the truth of this!”
What truth? Selene wondered. She glanced back at Viktor, who raised his hand in reply. She obediently loosened her grip on the lycan’s scrawny neck.
Singe coughed and gasped, sucking the cool air of the crypt into his famished lungs, before commencing to explain: “If Lucian is able to get his hands on the blood of an Elder, such as Amelia or yourself, Michael’s blood will allow him to absorb the vampire blood without harm, joining it to his own lycanthropic hemoglobin.”
Viktor reacted with horror and revulsion. “Abomination,” he whispered hoarsely. The color drained from his already ashen features.
Selene felt lost. Viktor seemed to know what the lycan scientist was implying, but her own comprehension was lagging a few steps behind. Dammit, she thought. I’m a warrior, not a biologist.
“Lucian will become the first of a new order of being,” Singe lectured, his Austrian accent torturing the Hungarian language. Despite his grievous injuries and the silver slowly poisoning his body, his eyes held a gleam of scientific enthusiasm as he warmed to his subject. “Half vampire, half lycan, but stronger than both.” His gaze switched from Viktor to Selene. “The thing he’s feared for centuries. A new breed.” He nodded in Viktor’s direction. “Look at him.”
Selene turned her head toward Viktor. To her consternation, the kingly Elder looked just as worried as Singe foretold. Viktor’s white vampiric eyes stared bleakly into space as though his very worst fears had been realized.
Is that what this is all about? she wondered, a chill running down her spine. Lucian’s desire to become some sort of hybrid monster?
And Michael’s blood was the key.
Flashlight beams raked the interior of the antique dining car, exposing a scene of ghastly carnage. Blood spatter
ed the floor, walls, windows, and ceiling, while the ravaged bodies of Amelia and her entourage were strewn about like scraps from a cannibalistic feast. High-ranking members of the New World coven and Council had been torn apart and disemboweled, their mutilated remains testifying to the ferocity of their attackers’ unleashed claws and teeth.
Mason, a veteran Death Dealer loyal to Kahn, had never seen anything like it. Although he had witnessed much violence during the long campaign against the lycans, the sheer ghastly enormity of the massacre shook him deeply. He glanced at the faces of the other two Death Dealers present and saw that they looked just as disturbed by what they had discovered aboard the violated train. The very air was thick with the smell of raw meat and blood. Vampire blood, spilled and wasted.
His appalled gaze turned reluctantly back to the ice-cold body at his feet. The Lady Amelia, oldest and most powerful of all female vampires, lay lifeless upon the floor of her private train, her bone-white body completely drained of blood. An expression of utter horror was etched upon her face.
Mason looked away. He decided that he had seen enough.
Extracting a cell phone from his long black trench coat, he speed-dialed the mansion.
“Mason here,” he said curtly into the phone. “I need to speak with Kahn.”
The heavy oak doors of the grand salon burst open. The booming noise silenced both conversation and Bartok, throwing a startled hush over the reception. The throng of elegantly tailored vampires parted like the Red Sea as Kahn marched into the chamber, flanked by a cadre of fully armed Death Dealers.
Cowering at the back of the crowded chamber, Kraven knew at once for whom Kahn had come. Judging from the smoldering fury in Kahn’s dark eyes, Kraven knew he could expect no mercy at the hands of his former compatriots. They know, he thought with a certainty. His immortal heart pounded like the hooves of a runaway horse. They know everything!
