01 - Underworld

by Greg Cox

  Decades of hard-won battle experience kicked in, and Selene sprang into the air, soaring just below the vaulted ceiling of the macabre tunnel. She arced over the looming werewolf, firing her gun as she smoothly tumbled head over heels.

  Silver riddled the beast’s skull, and he dropped to his death only a heartbeat before Selene’s boots splashed down less than a meter past the exterminated creature. Landing squarely on the floor, she expertly ejected an empty magazine from her Beretta and slammed a fresh one into place.

  Two down, one to go. She turned around with deadly speed and opened fire on the onrushing werewolf. White-hot death flared from the muzzle of the Beretta as she nailed the creature in the air above the second lupine fatality. Scarlet flowers blossomed across the monster’s furry chest.

  The werewolf crashed to earth, twitching spasmodically not twenty paces away from her. Jagged claws flailed wildly, and furious jaws snapped at empty air. The spewing foam around the beast’s muzzle took on a crimson hue, but still the creature refused to die.

  Selene stepped forward calmly and delivered two point-blank shots to his skull.

  Three down.

  Kraven nervously inched his way toward the entrance shaft leading back up into the city’s Metro system. Judging from the butchered lycan and werewolf corpses strewn about the access corridor, Kahn and his Death Dealers already had blasted their way through this particular stretch of tunnel, making it unlikely that Kraven would run into them on his way out of the underworld.

  Or so he hoped.

  Bullet holes and fragmented silver shrapnel bore mute evidence to the fighting the corridor had seen. The welter of blood and body parts grew deeper the closer Kraven came to the abandoned elevator shaft, so that he found himself knee-deep in gore, wading through the gruesome leavings of the Death Dealers’ passage.

  Few would have recognized the once-dashing regent of Ordoghaz. Sweat, mud, and blood dripped from his designer clothes, while his flowing Byronic locks were disordered and plastered to his skull. Jewel-studded rings glittered ironically upon his trembling fingers, multifaceted reminders of just how far he had fallen. He gripped the stolen silver nitrate gun in his sweaty fist.

  Selene will pay for this humiliation, he vowed, a truculent expression on his face as he arrived at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Lycan corpses, including two he recognized as Pierce and Taylor, lay in pieces beneath the rising ladders. The brutal deaths of so many vile lycans did little to appease Kraven’s sense of righteous indignation. They will all pay, Kahn and Viktor and the rest. Just as Lucian did.

  Tucking the gun into his belt, Kraven began to climb up the rusty metal ladder. This close to safety, his brain raced ahead, plotting his next move. From the Metro, he reasoned, he could reach the bus to Ferihegy Airport, where any number of escape options presented themselves. (Best to avoid the train station, where Kahn’s agents still might be investigating Amelia’s death.) As for final destinations, he was probably better off fleeing eastern Europe altogether, perhaps even the Continent. Asia maybe, or South America. Once I’m safely barricaded in an impenetrable fortress somewhere, he schemed, I can begin to rebuild my power. Soren can assist me, if he survives tonight’s bloodbath, or perhaps that idiot servant girl back at the mansion…

  Climbing hand over hand, he finally reached the top of the elevator shaft. He peeked warily over the edge of the shaft, and his face turned white as a ghost.

  There, striding ominously toward the open pit, was Viktor himself. The mighty Elder, restored at last to his full strength, wore the garments and trappings of a medieval monarch, complete with a huge two-handed sword. A dark red robe, brocaded with an intricate design not unlike a spiders web, was draped upon Viktor’s regal form. His sacred medallion rested on his exposed chest, and a pair of sharp silver daggers adorned his belt. He advanced from the shadows of the decrepit drainage tunnel as though emerging triumphantly out of the bygone reaches of history.

  Three modern-day Death Dealers, clad in contemporary leather attire, marched behind Viktor, but Kraven barely noticed the superfluous warriors. Viktor alone was enough to strike terror into his heart.

  Biting down on his lip to keep from gasping out loud, Kraven let go of the ladder, plummeting more than six meters in the space of a second. He landed with a splat in the muck and gore below, his fall cushioned only by the putrefying heap of dead lycans at the foot of the shaft. Rising quickly, he made a move toward the exit, only to slip on the abundant blood and viscera. His feet careened out from beneath him, and he fell backward into the nauseating pool of carnage.

  Only the night before, he had sipped cool, refreshing blood from the naked breast of a beautiful vampiress. Now he found himself sprawling gracelessly at the bottom of a stinking sewer, soaked in the unclean blood and filth of butchered, subhuman animals. Could anything be more unfair?

  But there was no time to reflect on the gross ignominy of his downfall. Viktor was coming, sword in hand, and Kraven knew he had to get away. After scrabbling through the muck on his hands and knees, Kraven clumsily staggered to his feet. His drenched clothing, which was liberally bedecked with a revolting mixture of blood and sludge, weighed heavily on his shaking frame as he hastened away from the pit into the shattered wreckage of the adjacent corridor.

  Selene will pay for this, he vowed once more, and her lycan lover, too!

  Lucian’s quarters.

  Every muscle ached as Lucian climbed painfully to his feet. His head spun, and he slumped against the wall, waiting for the dizziness to subside. He could feel the liquid silver burning away at him from the inside out.

  Steeling himself to face the worst, he raised his arm in front of his face. The distended veins bubbled and squirmed beneath his skin like wriggling worms. He winced in agony as his hand curled into an arthritic claw. In his heart, he knew it was too late for him; not even Amelia’s blood could save him now.

  Soon he would join his beloved Sonja in eternity.

  “Not… yet,” he grunted. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he lurched away from the wall. Darkness encroached on his vision, yet he refused to black out. Slowly, one halting step at a time, he staggered out of the dismal chamber.

  The end was near, but he had something important to do first: kill Kraven.

  The infirmary.

  Snapping apart the handcuffs was not enough. Michael still had to break loose from the thick nylon straps binding him to the table. He strained with all his might, calling upon whatever atavistic potential the distant moon had awakened in him, until finally several overlapping strips gave way, freeing his right hand.

  That’s more like it! Michael thought, elated by his victory. Maybe I’m actually going to get away from this madhouse.

  A rusty creak interrupted his moment of triumph. At the rear of the lab, beyond the translucent plastic curtain, the door slowly swung open. Heavy footprints, not unlike the ones he had heard on the roof of his apartment two nights ago, stomped on the floor of the dimly lit subway station. A monstrous shape entered the infirmary, its half-human silhouette obscured by the curtain.

  Dread washed over Michael. Despite everything that had happened to him over the past few nights, he had yet to lay eyes on a bona fide werewolf. Now, it seemed, his luck was about to run out.

  The nightmarish intruder crept forward, audibly sniffing the faintly medicinal odor of the makeshift laboratory. Michael could hear the beast breathing. Its unseen claws scraped noisily at the floor. A musky animal smell filled Michael’s nose and throat.

  Overcoming his horrified paralysis, the terrified American desperately groped at the remaining nylon straps, trying to peel them away from his body before whatever was on the other side of the grungy curtain caught up with him.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  Emitting a fearsome roar, the werewolf reared up behind the curtain, raising claws like scalpels. Michael guessed that the monster had to be seven feet tall at least. If a werewolf eats another werewolf, he wondered irrationally, does
that count as cannibalism?

  The creature surged toward him. Michael flinched in anticipation of slashing claws and teeth, then stiffened in surprise as a deafening burst of gunfire splattered werewolf blood all over the dingy shower curtain. The bullet-stricken beast tore right through the plastic sheet and crashed to the floor only inches from Michael, who looked up to see Selene standing a few yards away, smoke issuing from the muzzle of her gun.

  Talk about a sight for sore eyes!

  Wasting no time, she ran forward and slammed her boot down on the werewolf’s neck, cracking vertebrae. The downed creature convulsed reflexively and Selene methodically fired three more shots into the monster’s skull.

  “I need to get you out of here,” she said to Michael, before he could even lift his jaw from the floor. “Viktor is on his way, and he won’t be satisfied until every lycan is dead.”

  Michael flinched at her terse declaration; it felt weird to be referred to as a lycan. His gaze shifted involuntarily to the monstrous carcass lying bleeding on the floor. Please tell me I’m not one of those!

  Although he was still in over his head, he understood enough about this insane war to appreciate what Selene was doing for him. “They’ll kill you, too,” he whispered. “Just for helping me.”

  “I know,” she said, tearing off the last of his restraints. The heavy nylon wrappings succumbed readily to her un-dead strength, and Michael was free at last. His feet slid from the examination table onto the floor, and he found himself standing in front of Selene, staring into her inscrutable brown eyes. He reached out to her and fell into her passionate embrace.

  Her lips found his, and, for a precious instant, they escaped the bloodshed and madness surrounding them. She kissed him hungrily, and Michael was stirred in ways he hadn’t felt since Samantha’s death. It was almost worth being bitten by a werewolf, he thought rapturously, just to experience this kiss and this woman. I don’t care if she’s a vampire…

  Gunfire blared outside the infirmary, and Selene reluctantly pulled away from him. They both knew the bloody conflict would not leave them alone much longer. An ancient conflict was barreling toward its genocidal conclusion, unless something could be done to stop it.

  “I know why the war began,” he told her.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Viktor and his hand-picked team of Death Dealers paraded through the battle-scarred tunnels, encountering zero resistance. The bodies of exterminated lycan soldiers were strewn before his path like rose petals.

  Kahn and Selene have done well, he noted approvingly. He had confidence that the advance squad of Death Dealers could clear out this rat’s nest without his assistance, yet it felt good to go into battle again after fully a century spent interred beneath the earth. He hoped that Selene and the others had left him a few stragglers to dispose of, before he was called upon to exact final justice on both Lucian and the traitor, Kraven.

  That, more than anything else, was what had lured him from the familiar comforts of Ordoghaz to this abominable, rat-infested breeding ground of lycan filth. In truth, he had been pleased to learn that Lucian still lived, because it meant that he might once more have Sonja’s vile seducer in his power.

  I have waited six hundred years, he reflected, to punish Lucian for desecrating my daughter and inciting this damnable war, but tonight my vengeance will not be denied.

  He looked forward, too, to watching Selene restore herself to his good graces by eliminating the threat of this Michael Corvin. She had been like a daughter to him, ever since he had first granted her immortality, and he could not imagine that she would ever truly betray him for the sake of some meaningless infatuation.

  I know her better than that, he mused. In fact, I created her.

  Where the hell are you, Selene? Kahn wondered as he led the remainder of the assault team deeper into the enemy’s lair. It wasn’t like Selene to abandon her comrades in the middle of a mission. There’s something going on here I don’t understand.

  His rifle ready, Kahn inched his way down yet another unmarked corridor. It had been several minutes since they had encountered any serious lycan resistance, yet Kahn was not about to let down his guard, not while a single werewolf was still breathing.

  For perhaps the hundredth time since descending into the underworld, he regretted again that there hadn’t been time to manufacture more silver nitrate cartridges before this raid. He and the others were stuck with the old-fashioned, slower-acting silver rounds while that thieving bastard Kraven apparently had pinched the only working prototype of the special silver nitrate gun.

  One more reason to string him up like a side of beef when we catch him, Kahn thought vindictively, Slow impalement on a wooden spike will be too good for him.

  A soft clattering noise caught his attention, and he flashed a hand signal to the commandos behind him. The alert Death Dealers came to an immediate halt while Kahn suspiciously scouted the desolate passage ahead.

  Raising the muzzle of his weapon higher, he took a leery step forward. Something small and insubstantial hit the floor just in front of the toe of his boot, and he glanced upward, searching for its point of origin. His probing eyes, now well adjusted to the murk of the tunnels, spotted bits of dust and powdered mortar sprinkling from the ceiling.

  “Watch out!” he shouted. “We’re not alone!”

  But his warning came too late. With a tremendous roar, a homicidal werewolf came smashing through the exploding brick wall. Kahn spun toward the attacking beast, but before he could shoot, a second werewolf dropped through the crumbling ceiling in a shower of dust and debris.

  Caught between the frenzied creatures, Kahn had less than a second to react before the werewolves’ claws tore into him, rending leather and undead flesh like tissue paper. The other Death Dealers gaped in horror, watching their esteemed commander get ripped to shreds before their eyes, then opened fire on both victim and predators alike. The last thing Kahn heard, before his immortal life came to a violent end, was the roar of automatic weapons fire cutting down the two werewolves in a hail of unleashed silver.

  It seemed a fitting eulogy.

  Kraven scurried through the dark underground labyrinth like a frightened rat trapped in a maze. He didn’t care where he was going, as long as it was away from Viktor. A blood-soaked parody of his usual elegant self, he held onto the silver nitrate gun for dear life, not that he expected it would do much good against the enraged Elder. Would even ultraviolet ammunition be enough to stop Viktor now that the all-powerful immortal had been restored to his accustomed prowess?

  Kraven didn’t feel like finding out.

  Displaced entrails and ordure squished beneath Kraven’s boots as he treaded softly down a narrow catacomb that seemed to have witnessed its fair share of carnage. The disparate scents of blood, putrefaction, and gunpowder formed a malodorous medley in the smoky atmosphere, and Kraven wondered vaguely who might have won the battle, the Death Dealers or the lycans?

  It doesn’t matter, Kraven recognized bleakly. Both sides want me dead.

  He glanced nervously back over his shoulder, watching warily for the silver glint of Viktor’s mighty sword, then turned his eyes back toward the winding path ahead. His undead heart missed a beat as he suddenly spotted a crouching werewolf only a few centimeters in front of him.

  Kraven swallowed hard. His mouth turned dry as chalk. By the gods, he was practically on top of the hellspawn.

  The beast’s back was to Kraven, and he appeared to be busily consuming the flesh of a fallen Death Dealer. The bodies of two other werewolves lay crumpled on the floor nearby, their shaggy carcasses bearing the bloody bootprints of a retreating force of vampires or lycans. Grotesque crunching and slurping sounds emanated from the slavering maw of the preoccupied monster as he enthusiastically feasted on the mangled remains of one of Kraven’s fellow immortals.

  Whom exactly was the beast devouring so voraciously? Kraven was not going to linger in hopes of catching a glimpse of the dead vampire’s face
. Holding his breath, he stepped backward as softly and silently as he could, retreating the way he had come. He prayed that the gluttonous beast was too immersed in his carnivorous repast to notice his arrival—and abrupt departure.

  As quiet as the fleeing vampire was, some stray sound or scent attracted the werewolf’s interest. He lifted his massive head from the ravaged torso of his meal and rotated his shaggy ears in Kraven’s direction. A second later, he spun around on all fours and attentively sniffed the tunnel behind him.

  Kraven was nowhere in sight. His entire brawny physique was squeezed into a dark alcove smaller than even the most minuscule closet back at the mansion. He pressed himself tightly against the slimy, mildewed walls, trying to make himself infinitely smaller and less noticeable. Alas, unlike the colorful vampires of fiction, he could not just turn into a bat and fly away.

  He stood there, drenched in sweat and biting down on his own hand to keep from whimpering out loud, until the hungry animal turned back to his grisly feast. The sound of cracking bones and exploding organs followed Kraven away from the horrid scene of the slaughter.

  The main chamber.

  Soren backed up involuntarily as Raze completed his obscene metamorphosis. The muscular black lycan no longer looked remotely human; instead, an all-out werewolf faced Soren across the muddy floor of the forgotten bunker. Icy water rained down on them, and they splashed through greasy, iridescent puddles as they circled each other in a lethal dance of fangs, claws, and darting silver whips.

  That’s right, animal, Soren silently dared him. Just try to get past my whips! He felt like a lion tamer holding a rebellious carnivore at bay. Gripping a whip in each hand, he snapped the silver lashes in the air between him and the beast. Bright lycan blood stained the tips of the twin scourges. Let’s settle this once and for all.