01 - Underworld

by Greg Cox

  Livid red scars marked the werewolf’s snout where Soren had slashed Raze’s face with his whips. The lycan’s clothing lay in a shredded heap at the creature’s feet, replaced by a bristling coat of coarse black fur. Cobalt-blue eyes glared at Soren with predatory intent. A low, basso growl rumbled from the depths of the werewolf’s ample chest.

  Taking the offensive, Soren lashed out with his whips again. The silver cables whistled through the rain, but, instead of flinching away from the bite of the striking lashes, the scarred werewolf reached out and grabbed onto a whip with each gnarled claw. Smoke rose from the monsters hairy mitts, as the caustic silver burned the leathery pads of his paws, yet Raze held onto the captured lashes long enough to yank them both from Soren’s grasp.

  Hellfire! The dark-haired vampire suddenly found himself empty-handed. He reached automatically for his gun, only to remember that the suspicious lycans had confiscated it earlier.

  I’m done for, he realized, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let any slobbering cur see me afraid.

  “Come on, you motherfucker!” he challenged Raze.

  Roaring like an entire pack of lycanthropes, the werewolf lunged at Soren with demonic speed. He slammed into the waiting vampire like a bullet train, knocking him backward into an ankle-deep puddle of turbid water. Soren fought back with everything he had as the two immortals thrashed violently in the sludge. The vampire sank his fingers into the beast’s furry neck, trying to keep Raze’s snapping maw away from his throat, but the werewolf’s heavy forepaws pushed Soren’s head and shoulders beneath the surface of the pooling water, causing the vampire to cough and sputter as he lost his hold on the monster’s neck.

  Raze’s lupine snout darted into the shallow depths of the puddle, like a bird of prey diving for a fishy snack, and the turbulent water turned brightly incarnadine as powerful jaws crunched down on Soren’s centuries-old skull.

  The faithful janissary didn’t even have time to wonder how Lord Kraven would survive without him.

  Savoring the strength and speed of his wolfen body, Raze exulted as he tasted Soren’s brains. The savage joy of the kill delighted the beast Raze had become, and he raised his blood-smeared muzzle from the crimson puddle as his eyes and nose and ears searched avidly for fresh prey.

  His bestial prayers were answered by the sight, through a gap in a broken wall, of four more Death Dealers sweeping down the adjacent passageway, led by none other than Viktor himself. His aroused senses registered that the Elder was garbed in the archaic vestments and gilt adornments of a previous era, but the transformed shape-shifter was less interested in Viktor’s antiquated apparel than in the savory meat and blood beneath the vampire’s robes.

  Soren was just an appetizer; Raze wanted more.

  Fangs bared, he burst through the wall at the unsuspecting bloods. He pounced first at Viktor, eager to tear out the ancient blood’s throat with his teeth. Then he would rip apart the other vampires, just as he had slaughtered Soren and that Death Dealer on the subway tracks two nights ago.

  Life was good…

  But, without so much as batting an eye, Viktor reached out and grabbed Raze by the throat. He effortlessly lifted the startled werewolf with one hand, holding him up and away from him as Raze flailed and twisted in the vampire’s grip, snapping fruitlessly at the empty air. He clawed at the outstretched arm keeping him aloft, but his slashing talons had no effect on the impervious Elder. Cold, crystalline eyes regarded him with detached amusement.

  What the hell are you? Raze’s animalistic brain struggled to comprehend. This was impossible; he had never feared a vampire before. Until now.

  CRACK!

  Viktor snapped the brute’s neck in an instant, then dropped the lifeless animal to the floor and casually kicked the carcass to the side.

  Interesting, he reflected calmly. It had been more than a century since he had killed a werewolf with his bare hands. He was pleased to discover that he still enjoyed the experience. Some things never grow stale, it appears.

  A chorus of angry shouts disturbed his nostalgic musings. A quartet of bellowing lycans, clad in drab modern clothing, charged around the corner at Viktor and his cohorts. Their grimy faces were contorted with rage, and they brandished their guns and rifles in a berserk fury. “Throw down your weapons!” a particularly unkempt specimen shouted belligerently, aiming the muzzle of a futuristic firearm at Viktor. “We have you covered!”

  They want to take me hostage, Viktor realized, grasping the lycans’ intentions. A thin smile appeared on his lean, austere features. How amusing.

  He moved with preternatural speed, so quickly that he appeared to be nothing but a blur of motion. Unsheathing his double-edged sword in a single fluid motion, he surged forward and cleaved the startled lycans into pieces before they could fire a single shot from their superfluously modern weapons. Within an instant, all four insurgents lay in fragments on the gritty concrete floor.

  Viktor lowered his sword, his effortless task complete. The resurrected Elder was not even breathing hard, nor had his sluggish pulse quickened at all during the brief, uneven contest. He glanced back at his retinue of Death Dealers and found the younger vampires staring at him wide-eyed. They fumbled with their own firearms sheepishly, embarrassed to have been proven so thoroughly extraneous.

  Clearly, it had been too long since these callow Death Dealers had last seen an Elder in action. Viktor hoped that standards had not become too lax during his century-long hibernation. Yet another lapse to hold Kraven accountable for, he decided, once the traitor is cornered at last.

  Stepping over the diced remains of the four lycans, not to mention the dead werewolf to one side, he strode deeper into the enemy’s lair. He had wasted too much time in these petty altercations. There were more pressing matters to deal with, now and for all time.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Hand in hand, Michael and Selene hustled through a chain of interlocking bunkers. Through the cracked and unwashed windows of the forgotten chambers, they glimpsed flashes of the brutal conflict being waged throughout the sprawling bunker by vampires, werewolves, and humanoid lycans. Gunshots punctuated the strident screams, curses, and growls coming from all around them. The air reeked of blood, death, and gunpowder.

  I don’t believe this, Michael thought, aghast at the appalling carnage. It was all he could do to keep his mind on their circuitous trek through the underworld, despite the frightful spectacle confronting him at every turn. It’s like some twisted Transylvanian version of D-Day!

  They emerged from the back of a derelict bomb shelter to find themselves at the foot of a winding metal staircase leading up into the higher reaches of the vast underground complex. A leather-clad vampire lay on the bottom step of the stairway, his blackened body carbonized by a barrage of UV shells. The charred remains were barely recognizable.

  “One of Soren’s men,” Selene pronounced without sympathy. She bent down and plucked a semiautomatic handgun from the corpse’s fingers. She tugged back the slide, and an enormous 50-caliber silver bullet racked into position. “Good. It’s loaded.”

  She pressed the heavy weapon, weighing at least four pounds, into Michael’s hands. He stared numbly, feeling the unaccustomed weight of it in his hand. Before a few days ago, he had barely ever handled a gun before, let alone been expected to fire it at another living being. I’m a doctor, his brain objected silently. I should be playing medic, not soldier.

  But apparently there was no other choice, not if he and Selene wanted to get out of this freaky bloodbath alive. And Michael found that he very much wanted to keep living, lycanthropy and all, if only to explore this strange new love he had found with Selene.

  They cautiously climbed the stairs, coming finally to an arched doorway maybe fifteen feet above the main floor of the bunker. Icy water continued to fall from the ceiling of the central excavation, and Michael hoped they wouldn’t have to go out under the deluge.

  Leading the way, Selene coolly entered the shadowy chamber
beyond the doorway. A cacophonous roar greeted Michael’s ears, and a werewolf exploded from the darkness. His razor-sharp claws sliced downward, right through Selene’s shoulder and into her left thigh.

  She shrieked in pain, dropping to one knee. Her gun went flying off down the stairs, rattling loudly against the descending steel steps. Reacting instinctively, Michael fired his own pistol at the attacking monster, who yelped sharply as the silver bullets struck him directly in the chest. Blood spouted from his furry coat, and the wounded werewolf jerked frenetically, the flash of the muzzle blasts creating a strobe effect as the beast went through its violent death throes.

  By the time the werewolf thumped, lifeless, to the floor, Michael felt as though he had been firing at the monster forever. Convinced the creature was really dead, he dropped down beside Selene and frantically checked her wounds. Her ivory skin pulled tightly over her graceful features, Selene sucked down the pain and tried to minimize her injuries.

  “I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

  The gaping red gashes would be enough to send an ordinary human being into shock. Michael prayed that Selene knew what she was talking about.

  “I’ve heard that before,” he said drily. As he recalled, she’d said pretty much the same thing before collapsing at the wheel of her Jaguar and driving them straight into the Danube. Let’s hope this turns out a little better, he mused.

  Selene smirked and took his hand. As gently as he could manage, Michael helped her to her feet, and they stumbled together past the deceased werewolf. Selene hobbled badly, despite her best efforts, but they pressed onward, lacking any better alternative. Michael wondered if he dared take the injured vampiress to an emergency room if and when they made it back to the surface.

  I suppose an immediate transfusion would be the best prescription, he speculated, thinking like a doctor. How else did you treat a wounded vampire except with plenty of fresh blood? Courtesy of her good friends at Ziodex, no doubt.

  “Come on,” she murmured weakly. “This way.”

  A rusty iron door led to what appeared to be a working generator room. A blocky, diesel-powered generator, about four feet tall and ten feet long, chugged away at the other side of the bare, utilitarian compartment. Michael guessed that this was where the lycans got the power to run the underworld’s meager lighting. The room’s walls had seen better days; broken gaps in the brickwork offered unobstructed views of the bunkers main chamber, where the unchecked rain could be seen pouring past the open windows toward the ground floor fifteen feet below.

  Ironically, the generator room itself was lit by a single naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. Michael couldn’t tell at first if they had hit a dead end or not. He peered into the unlit room, looking for another exit, only to find himself face-to-face with a vengeful-looking apparition covered from head to toe in dirt and blood.

  Who? he wondered.

  Kraven! Selene gasped.

  The treacherous regent looked like hell, his once fine apparel literally caked with mud and gore. Selene’s eyes widened in alarm as she spotted the stolen silver nitrate gun in his right hand.

  She tried to lunge for the gun, but she was too weak. Before she could warn Michael, or even try to reason with Kraven, the experimental pistol whipped upward and fired point-blank into Michael’s chest.

  Blam-blam-blam! Michael fell backward onto the floor, three grisly bullet wounds showing through his punctured T-shirt. He began convulsing immediately, as the liquid silver raced through his veins. Volcanic tremors rocked his body, and an anguished grimace disfigured his face. Bloody foam bubbled up through his lips, signifying serious internal injuries as well as the corrosive silver poisoning.

  Her moist brown eyes gleaming like gemstones, Selene collapsed next to Michael. Her own grievous injuries were forgotten as she stared in abject horror at the swollen silver veins creeping across his cheeks and forehead. He moaned piteously as Kraven’s poison spread remorselessly through his body.

  For one heartbreaking instant, he managed to meet her grief-stricken eyes, then his own bloodshot orbs rolled upward in their sockets, exposing their whites. His muscles sagged as he slipped into unconsciousness, looking only moments from death itself.

  No! Selene thought in despair. You can’t die now. Not when I’ve finally found you! She felt her only hope for love and happiness dying with Michael. I never even knew what I was missing before!

  Who would have guessed that the imminent death of a lycan could affect her so? Despite my so-called immortality, she realized bitterly, I haven’t really been alive since my family died more than a century ago. I have been just what the mortals think we are, one of the living dead.

  Her unconcealed sorrow infuriated Kraven, who grabbed her roughly by her injured shoulder and tried to haul her to her feet. “That’s enough!” He sneered in disgust. “You’re coming with me!”

  Selene couldn’t believe that Kraven still thought she belonged to him. “Never!” she answered. Only the smoking gun in Kraven’s hand, and the fact that her own gun had been lost on the stairs, kept her from killing him where he stood, despite her injuries. “I only hope I live long enough to watch Viktor slowly choke the life from you.”

  Hatred blazed in Kraven’s eyes. “I’ll bet you do, but let me tell you a little something about your beloved dark father. He’s the one who killed your family, not the lycans.”

  What? Selene had thought her life and beliefs could not be overturned even further, but she had been wrong. Kraven’s shocking declaration hit her like a blast of killing sunshine. Visions of her slaughtered family—her martyred mother, father, sister, and nieces—flashed through her memory like images from a never-ending nightmare. She saw once again her father’s skull broken open, exposing the bloody pulp inside.

  Viktor? she thought unsteadily. Viktor was responsible?

  “He never could follow his own rules,” Kraven elaborated. He grinned broadly, enjoying her distress. “No cattle blood for him, not when he thirsted for something more stimulating.” Kraven shrugged, taking Viktor’s alleged atrocities in stride. “I cleaned up the messes for him, kept his secrets.”

  No! Selene thought desperately. It can’t be true. She wanted to plug her ears, keep out Kraven’s horrendous accusations, but somehow, deep down inside, she knew he was telling the truth. The awful realization washed over her like a tidal wave. How could I have been so blind, so naive?

  “It was he who crept from room to room,” Kraven said gleefully, “dispatching everyone close to your heart. But when he got to you, he just couldn’t bear the thought of draining you dry like the others. You, who reminded him so much of his long-lost Sonja, the precious daughter he condemned to death.”

  Selene nodded, choking back a sob. I thought of him as a second father, she admitted, and for all these years, I never suspected him for a moment. I spent more than a century killing lycans for a crime they never committed.

  She felt utterly lost and defeated.

  But Kraven was not done with her yet. He tugged once more on her wounded shoulder, trying to force her to her feet. “Now, come. Your place is at my side.”

  My place is with Michael, she resolved. She glared up at the loathsome, blood-caked regent. No words were needed to convey the full extent of her disgust.

  “So be it,” Kraven said, abandoning his obscene infatuation at last. He pressed the muzzle of the silver nitrate gun against her temple.

  Do it! she dared him, her scornful gaze not faltering for a heartbeat. With Michael dying, she had nothing left to live for.

  Kraven nodded grimly. He slowly squeezed the trigger.

  A bloody hand grabbed his ankle, startling Selene and Kraven alike. He looked down in surprise to discover Lucian’s withered hand clutching him.

  The legendary lycan warrior looked much worse than Selene remembered him from their brief encounter at Michael’s apartment building. His bearded face was ashen and streaked with throbbing, dull-gray veins—just as Michael’s was. His breath
rattled hoarsely in his chest as he crawled pathetically on his hands and knees, shaking with violent tremors. Selene guessed at once that Michael had not been the first victim of the stolen silver nitrate gun.

  Kraven’s smug laughter confirmed her suspicions. He sneered at Lucian’s lamentable condition, taking pleasure in the lycan’s dying moments. It appeared that he finally had vanquished the infamous lycanthrope after all.

  But Lucian still had one more trick up his sleeve—literally. Biting down on his lip, he mustered his remaining strength and lifted his head to stare balefully into Kraven’s eyes. Then a spring-loaded black blade shot out of the sleeve of his jacket and into Kraven’s leg.

  A phantom pain stabbed Selene in the shoulder as she remembered the same blade coming through the roof of the Jaguar. She hoped that the vicious blade hurt Kraven as much as it had hurt her.

  Kraven collapsed to the ground, yelping in agony. As he fell, the blade twisted in his leg and snapped in half, sending another spasm of pain through the writhing vampire regent.

  Looking across Kraven’s fallen body, Selene and Lucian locked eyes uncertainly. The dying lycan’s gaze shifted from Selene to Michael and back again. A strangely wistful expression came over the dreaded warrior’s face, and Selene wondered just how much Lucian had seen and heard in the last few minutes.

  Her own gaze was drawn inevitably to the gleaming pendant around Lucian’s neck. Sonja’s pendant, she now knew, recalling the story Michael had hurriedly told her back in the infirmary, about how this hellish war had begun. Lucian and Sonja. They had also defied Viktor’s Draconian wrath to love each other despite the boundaries between their two species, and they had paid a terrible price for their passion, just as she and Michael were doing.

  Did Lucian understand how history was repeating itself?

  Perhaps.

  “Bite him,” he croaked hoarsely.

  At first, she didn’t know what he meant. Then she remembered what that captured lycan scientist had explained before: “Half vampire, half lycan. But stronger than both.”