by D B Nielsen
At the mention of the dark mages and their Underground activities, Cole’s scared eyes flittered toward Aislinn as he opened his mouth to speak, but she gave a wary shake of her head which went unnoticed by the rest of their companions.
Play it cool.
Aislinn listened carefully, allowing the goons to talk freely. In the process, she learned many secrets—some useful, some interesting, and some she would have been happier not knowing.
But she had her secrets too.
She hadn’t been entirely honest with Cole when she had claimed they were doing Stanislav a favor. Not that she wasn’t doing Stanislav a favor, but that she had volunteered herself for this mission rather than sending Zhenya or another cutthroat member of Stanislav’s organization. She wanted to deal with the upstart, power-hungry Praetorian herself. The decision she had made seemed quite logical at the time, but logic was scant comfort now, especially as the Praetorian was involved with dark mages—something she suspected but had hoped was just an unfounded rumor spread by the douchebag himself to increase his reputation. Something he was more than likely to do.
The more she thought about it, the more insane her decision seemed, particularly with Cole in tow, but it was too late now.
Aislinn encouraged the other vampires to talk, picking up bits of gossip grounded in fact and important information—the only currency she was willing to deal in. As the goons continued to whine and bicker among themselves, they let things slip. She learned that the dark mages had appeared in the Underground around the same time as the Black Magic drug hit the streets almost a year ago and had coerced others to join them.
“Using forbidden dark magic,” muttered Jerry angrily.
“A lot of vampires died,” the heavy-set vampire agreed. “It was pretty messed up.”
“So, you wouldn’t mind some payback?” Aislinn asked with a speculative look in her eye.
“Oh, we’re waiting for the day,” Mike said, throwing caution to the wind. “This here’s our territory. It’s time the dark mages knew it.”
Aislinn nodded, satisfied.
Revolution was stirring. The scent of blood filled the air.
Chapter 11
The Underground vampires had a right to be angry.
When the dark mages first came down into their territory, the foul stench of shapeshifters accompanied them. The dark mages had been consorting with the shifters far longer than the other species who wouldn’t tolerate them. It immediately led to distrust, suspicion, and fear, as the shapeshifters were the mortal enemies of vampires.
The dark mages were initially driven off vampire territory, though at the cost of many vampires’ lives. But they returned. And in greater numbers, with more powerful, darker magic.
It fit with everything Aislinn already knew.
The Underground was a rogue nation, and like the surface, its territory was divided among the various vampire crime organizations. Perhaps the most powerful of these was Stanislav’s Russian vampire mafia. The other species didn’t venture into the Underground much—except for TransAlley—as most of them were surface dwellers. Besides, it was far easier to do business at Styx—and a lot safer.
Aislinn had never really thought much about the other species and their homelands. She’d grown up in a small village in Ireland and was later brought by Kayne to the London Coven, newly turned and ignorant but hellbent on revenge. So there wasn’t much she felt she needed to know about the fae or the angels. They weren’t her concern, unlike the human hunters and shapeshifters who always seemed to want to start a war with her kind. And as for the elves, well, no one had seen hide nor hair of them for centuries.
The mages mostly kept to Esper. Not many came to Earth, which was considered somehow inferior, both over-polluted and overpopulated with mundane, ordinary humans. For Aislinn, there were the eleven vampire covens, the vampire Underground, and the rest of the three realms—not including Demura, but then no sane person wanted to go there—yet only one caste of one race had captured her thoughts and attention to the point of obsession, the Druids.
But it was only in the past twelve months that sightings and information concerning the dark mages and their activities on Earth had become prolific, going from a drought to a flood. The Underground was changing. The cycle of death that winter brought to the Earth’s surface was now part of the world beneath. Time would tell what impact this would have on them all.
A shadowy shape scurried across the large train turntable and stopped. A Nubes stood in front of them, his form thin beneath stained clothes. His blond hair was unkempt and straggled into rattails past his shoulders.
The heavy-set vampire went to meet him. They spoke for a few moments and seemed to be arguing.
“My orders are from the Praetorian himself,” said Rattail, his voice carrying to where Aislinn and Cole waited. “I am commanded to deliver these two directly to him, immediately upon our arrival.”
“They will remain in my custody,” their escort said coldly.
Cole glanced nervously at Aislinn, silently mouthing the question, “Custody?”
She shrugged. They could call it whatever they liked, but in the end, she only cared about meeting the Praetorian.
“You don’t seem to understand my position,” Rattail said, his face a pale mask. “I’ve been waiting here for days. The dark mage foretold their coming.”
Anxiety and fear struggled in Cole’s mind. Despite having Aislinn by his side, he didn’t like the idea that the dark mages knew of their journey through the Underground. He had visions of some claustrophobic, rat-infested dungeon, complete with chains, a rack, and other unpleasant instruments of torture.
But Aislinn only laughed. “Well, he’s not a very good mage if he couldn’t give you an exact date and time. Perhaps I should gift him a crystal ball? Sounds like he could use one.”
Rattail was horrified. “Be careful what you say. These tunnels have ears. Wererats and other shapeshifter spies—you never know who’s listening.” His eyes darted warily up to the arched ceiling and down along the railway tracks. “Vincent, tell her.”
The heavy-set vampire turned toward her with a solemn nod. “He’s right.”
Aislinn shrugged. With her oversensitive sense of smell, she knew there weren’t any shapeshifters this far into the Underground, but it was as good a ruse as any to keep this lot in line. Little jobs required little men to keep an empire running smoothly—even a criminal one—and little men needed to be threatened or rewarded to perform their little jobs well.
“Come along, Cole. Let’s find out what the Praetorian wants with us.” Adding silently, Because I know what I want with him.
The train turntable connected five tunnels, four of which intersected from opposite sides. The main tunnel straight ahead of them continued toward another turntable and roundhouse of five berths where the old steam engines were once housed. This section of the Underground had been long abandoned and forgotten by the humans living above them.
Cole hung back and let Aislinn lead the way, whispering under his breath, “I thought you wanted to see the Praetorian. Now it seems he wants to see us too.”
“I told you we have some business to take care of, and even without a dark mage, the Praetorian knew we’d be coming.”
“How?” he asked, miserably.
“Look around. There’s surveillance all over these tunnels. It doesn’t take a dark mage or a crystal ball to predict what you can see. Stanislav had his own cameras put in ages ago. When they went dead, he sent his men to investigate. There’s a war brewing between the traditional custodians of the Underground and the new boys on the block. The old surveillance network has been compromised by the Praetorian who has the help of an influential backer—your boss Styx—and the dark mages.” At Aislinn’s words, Cole began to tremble. “But that’s not why we’re here. It gets tiresome running and forever looking over your shoulder. When you stop—and sooner or later you have to stop—it’s only a matter of time before what you’re r
unning from will catch up with you. And that’s me. I hope the Praetorian is ready for the fallout.”
“Holy Vlad,” Cole said, his imagination of the fallout enough to make him jumpy.
As the two of them started down the tunnel, Rattail, Vincent, and his men hastily scrambled themselves together and followed them in a kind of raggedy order.
“Hey! we’re supposed to take you to the Praetorian,” protested Mike.
“I’m supposed to escort them,” argued Rattail.
“I know the way, boys,” Aislinn stated without so much as turning her head.
“You’ve been here before?” Rattail asked, baffled by the unfolding events.
Aislinn laughed, tossing her long platinum-blonde locks over her shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “No, but I’d know that smell of guano anywhere. Shit is shit, boys. It sticks like mud, but it’s still reeks of muck—and the Praetorian’s full of it. Not to mention, he’s batshit crazy.”
Cole groaned. If he died down here, there would be nobody to compose an ode to him. It just wasn’t fair that his talents would be lost in such an ignoble manner.
Rattail tried to overtake their party, desiring to appear efficient before the Praetorian, running as fast as his scrawny Nubes legs would carry him, which wasn’t very fast at all. At the edge of the enormous train turntable, he began snapping his fingers at the uniformed men-at-arms standing guard outside the two massive titanium doors of the middle berth, instructing them to open the doors.
The throne room, once a steam engine shed with ash pits underneath, was vast and high with vaulted ceilings and walls covered with what seemed acres of heavy, red velvet hangings. There were candles everywhere. Two rows of guardsmen flanked the great hall to create a corridor leading up to a glowering individual who sat, rather inelegantly, on a high-backed, gilt throne upon a dais.
A terrible coldness struck at Cole’s stomach as he stopped dead in his tracks, hovering just inside the great doors. “Wait! What the Vlad? Marcellus?”
Marcellus’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Only my friends may call me by my name. I haven’t given you permission to do so. It will cost you dearly, Cole.”
Aislinn snickered, undaunted by Marcellus’s new status. “From what I’ve heard, Marcellus, you don’t have any friends. It’s a bit pretentious calling yourself ‘the Praetorian’ and sitting on a throne, isn’t it? Unless you consider yourself the King of the Rats. I always suspected vermin like yourself would find your way down here sooner or later. Seems it was sooner than I thought.” She threw back over her shoulder at her escorts. “No offense, boys.”
“None taken,” answered Mike thoughtlessly, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Vincent. He immediately fell silent.
Marcellus’s lips curled into a sneer, exposing his sharp incisors. “Some things never change. You’re still a stuck-up bitch, thinking you’re protected because you’re Daddy’s Girl.”
“And you still think you’re in Rome or Gaul or wherever Julius scraped you off the pavement from—or was it out of the gutter? You’re not even imaginative enough to see yourself as more than a soldier guard.” Aislinn stood her ground as he purposefully advanced. “You could have called yourself anything—Emperor, Consul, Tribune. Instead, you’re still the same pathetic individual you were as a human being. A Praetorian Guard. Nothing more—and you could hardly be anything less.”
The other vampires watched the exchange with an intense curiosity and wariness. Even Marcellus’s hired underlings shuffled nervously in their rigidly maintained rows, witnessing Aislinn taking on their boss, speaking down to him without fear he might call upon his men to defend him.
Most of them knew the truth of Marcellus’s human life. It was no secret he had once been a member of an elite unit of the Imperial Roman Army, handpicked by Julius who sired his rebirth. What they didn’t know was the full story of Marcellus’s fall from grace and how Aislinn was instrumental in ensuring he would remain unwelcome in the London Coven. And because of Aislinn, Marcellus was also unable to show his face at Styx’s nightclub without being called upon to serve his gambling debts in Styx’s basement—something he hoped to avoid. Yet somehow after their last encounter, Marcellus had managed to team up with the dark mages.
“How did you manage it? You don’t have a soul to sell,” Aislinn stated scathingly. “So, whose ass did you have to pucker up and smooch to get this gig?”
Marcellus gave a harsh laugh filled with genuine amusement and scorn, inviting the others to join in. When their merriment finally died down, he mocked, “Why don’t you ask your precious son?”
On his last word, his gaze snapped to Aislinn, and she shivered inwardly. His eyes were waxy and dull, not the shiny obsidian of most vampires. Aislinn guessed he was taking the Black Magic drug himself and was well on the way to an irreversible addiction. She wasn’t sure if his addiction was made worse due to his cruel and sadistic nature, which ran to a spiteful envy of Aislinn.
Despite his strength and superior martial skills, she was one of Kayne’s Twelve elect, his chosen disciple, and the last to be turned by their creator a millennium before. Marcellus hated the idea that a woman had been chosen by their creator and trained by Caleb to outperform many of the best fighters.
He wanted revenge.
The Black Magic drug enhanced his vicious qualities. He would say and do anything to harm her if he could.
“No, it’s a lie!” Cole spluttered in protest, looking around the room for confirmation. “It’s not me. I haven’t done anything. I swear.”
Marcellus laughed harder, stopping within striking distance. “You’re so lame. I can’t believe you’re a vampire. Don’t be such a dumbass.”
“He means Dorian.” Aislinn’s eyes momentarily flashed onyx at Marcellus’s taunt. “I’ll make sure to ask my wayward son who he screwed over to be lumped in your company when next I see him.”
Marcellus narrowed his eyes and walked to stand near the velvet drapery. He reached over and pulled a hidden cord, and the ruby-red velvet curtain behind him slid open. “Go ahead.”
Chapter 12
“Hello, Mother.” The smooth-as-chocolate voice belonged to Aislinn’s middle child.
“Dorian!” The happy exclamation came from Cole. Despite all of Dorian’s failings, Cole refused to see the bad in his younger brother.
Coming out from behind the curtains to stand beside Marcellus, Dorian looked as debonair as ever, even in this unlikely setting. He was wearing a tailored black suit, a black shirt with a red tie, and appeared as sartorially sharp and dangerous as a razor blade.
“Dorian. I should have recognized your foul stench immediately.” Aislinn’s tone was acerbic, unlike Cole’s, as she smiled at her Darkling wryly.
“She was right about the guano,” Mike whispered under his breath, earning him another elbow from Vincent.
“Shh, why don’t you make like a tree, or better still, a block of wood?” his gang leader asked.
Adjusting his cuff from under the sleeve of his coat, the white-gold cufflink winking in the light, Dorian said dismissively, “Charming, Mother. Dare I say it? You’re such a model of maternal devotion.”
“Do you really believe this is wise?” Aislinn asked, ignoring his taunt, her voice flat and emotionless. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, aligning yourself with this scumbag,” she briefly nodded in Marcellus’s direction, “and the dark mages, and Styx.”
“Wise? Please. Don’t lecture me, Mother. You repeatedly refuse my simple request.”
“More like your repeated demands. I know what you want, Dorian, and I refuse to yield to your anger and lust for power.”
“I want what’s rightfully mine, Mother.” Dorian swept a hand in front of him, an aura of evil ferocity surrounding him as he turned on Aislinn menacingly. “Bring me to Kayne. Summon him here.”
Dorian was a fool if he thought Kayne answered to her or anyone. She had no power over her Father, despite an obvious favoritism. Still, Dorian didn’t n
eed to know that.
She shrugged. “If Kayne wanted to meet you, he would.”
“He will. Soon. He won’t have a choice.” He threw a spiteful glare at Aislinn. If looks could kill, she would have been annihilated.
She didn’t like Dorian’s threat. She wondered just what he was up to with his new friends.
Marcellus laughed, and his words cut into their conversation. “Kayne’s temple is defiled. His covens are in chaos. His descendants are in anarchy.”
“Really?” Aislinn asked. “Doesn’t look that way to me. Don’t be such a drama queen—we have enough of them as it is. Seriously, folks. Just because vamps and dogs are living together in TransAlley does not mean there’s going to be an apocalypse or you should get your fangs in a furrow.” Aislinn rolled her eyes at them, ignoring Mike’s squawk. She bided her time, wanting them off guard. That was the plan. “Besides, Cole needs to get laid before that happens.”
“What the Vlad?” Cole protested. “Very funny. Are you trying to make my life excruciating?”
“Funny. I ask myself that question all the time,” murmured Dorian. “The answer is undoubtedly ‘yes’.”
Deliberately keeping her stance relaxed despite her inner guardedness turning up a notch, Aislinn said to Dorian, “The Atum Council will hear about this. This treason will cost you dearly.”
Dorian’s response was a cruel smile, which did nothing to mar the perfection of his fine features. Dismissively, he threw at her, “Let me worry about my own skin, Mother. Speaking of which,” Dorian briefly turned to acknowledge Marcellus, “I trust you can handle things on your own from here. I just wanted to be around long enough to gloat. But I shouldn’t linger. You understand. So, if you no longer have need of me, I have a facial booked at Espa Life.”
