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  Drago had little time to savor his victory. With a savage roar, a third werewolf pounced from the roof of a smoldering cottage. The beast tackled Drago, knocking the startled Death Dealer to the ground. He landed hard amidst the bloody slush, with the berserk werewolf right on top of him. The impact drove the breath from Drago’s lungs. His mighty battle-axe slipped from his fingers.

  “Drago!” Amelia cried out. Her finger hesitated upon the trigger of her crossbow. The Death Dealer and his subhuman attacker were so close together that she feared she might hit Drago instead. Her horse backed away from the thrashing figures. She peered anxiously down the stock of the crossbow, waiting for a clear shot.

  But the maniacal werewolf never gave her a chance. A voracious maw closed on Drago’s face, crushing it between two powerful jaws. Bone crunched loudly. A geyser of cold vampire blood exploded over the werewolf’s snout and furry pelt.

  No! Amelia thought, shocked by Drago’s sudden demise. The death of mortals was bad enough, but the death of yet another immortal…! The valiant young Death Dealer might well have lived for centuries if not for the werewolf’s mindless savagery, yet he had been cut down as readily as any short-lived human. What an appalling waste!

  What pity she had for the transformed villager vanished in an instant. An icy fury raced through her veins. Her finger squeezed tightly on the trigger.

  A silver-tipped bolt avenged Drago’s murder.

  But there were still many more beasts to slay…including the foul originator of this obscene contagion.

  One way or another, she vowed, this plague ends tonight.

  Chapter Three

  Elsewhere in the village, another corpse lurched to life, well on its way toward joining the pack of freshly created werewolves. The man-beast leapt to his feet. Yellow fangs gleamed between his jaws as he threw back his head to keen at the moon…only to have his howl cut short by the bloodstained silver blade that suddenly erupted from his chest. Eyes wide, he looked down to find himself impaled upon a vampire’s sword.

  Only a death rattle escaped his throat.

  One down, Marcus thought. With a grunt of satisfaction, he withdrew his blade from between the dead lycan’s shoulder blades. The werewolf dropped onto the snow like a marionette whose strings had been cut. How many more to go?

  His horse pawed at the bloody slush as Marcus sat astride his steed at the fringe of the conflict. He removed his helmet to better survey the brutal fray unfolding before him. His hair was combed back from his high, pale forehead. Reddish brown tresses fell past his shoulders. Marcus had been called handsome in his time, but vanity was the least of his concerns at the moment. He frowned at the riotous melee greeting his eyes.

  Their tardy attempt to cleanse the contaminated village had turned into a debacle. Everywhere he looked, Death Dealers battled reanimated corpses in various stages of transformation. Driven berserk by the moon and the vile taint in their blood, the former inhabitants of the village sought to tear the vampire warriors apart, pitting their untested claws and fangs against the Death Dealers’ arms and armor. Fully transformed werewolves towered about their vampiric foes, taking advantage of their superior size and strength. They sprang from the rooftops and from beneath heavy snowdrifts. Packs of werewolves attacked in numbers, converging on the embattled Death Dealers from all directions.

  A female werewolf, still wearing the tattered remains of a linen nightgown, jabbed her claws into the eyes of an unlucky Death Dealer whose helmet failed to save him from her attack. Blinded, he swung out wildly with a mace studded with silver spikes. The mace smashed in the left side of the she-wolf’s face, knocking her to the ground. Her agonized yelps steered his hand as, blood streaming from the slit in his helmet, he hammered her with his mace again and again, until two more werewolves pounced on him from behind….

  It was chaos.

  Around the outskirts of the village, a few mutilated bodies remained inert. These, Marcus guessed, had been the last to die, their attacker striking them down as the poor mortals had fled for the dubious shelter of the surrounding woods. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before they, too, rose as werewolves.

  This foul contagion spreads like the plague.

  Viktor rode up beside Marcus. Behind his helmet, his face was grim. He shouted to be heard above the fray. “Retreat to the woods!”

  “No!” Marcus yelled back. “I will stay and fight.” He brandished his bloody sword. “You need my help.”

  Viktor shook his head. “If you die, we all die. Now go!”

  For the second time that night, Marcus contemplated defying Viktor’s command. It went against his grain to abandon their men in the heat of battle. But Viktor was correct in one respect; larger matters were at stake than the outcome of this single skirmish, no matter how perilous it might be.

  William, he thought. What of William? Where does my greater duty lie?

  Viktor saw the hesitation in his face. “Go!”

  Unhappily, Marcus dug his spurs into his horse’s side. Torn between competing loyalties, he galloped into the woods.

  At his back, the battle raged on without him.

  Istvan looked about him warily. With a torch in one hand and a sword in the other, he stood outside a burning cottage. The heat from the fire was such that he found himself baking within his metal armor. The snow beneath his boots melted into a frigid puddle. He stepped away from the blaze, but was grateful for the fire nonetheless. With any luck, the raging conflagration would consume any infected mortals that might have lain within.

  We’ve got enough of these mangy bastards to deal with already.

  A headless lycan lay at his feet. Istvan braced himself for the next attack, uncertain whence it would come. Flames, smoke, and drifting snow obscured his view of the bloody tumult going on all around him. Screams, growls, and angry shouting added to the confusion. Shadowy figures contended in the murky haze, stabbing and slashing at each other without mercy. Blood, both lycan and vampiric, splattered the snowy landscape. Istvan could practically taste it in the air. Thatch roofs collapsed as fire devoured the timbers supporting them. The Death Dealer’s black armor was liberally bedecked with gore.

  He glimpsed an indistinct figure coming toward him. “Radu?” he called out, having lost track of his comrade in the pandemonium. “Is that you?”

  A canine roar suggested otherwise. Moving with preternatural speed, an immense werewolf came charging out of the snow. The beast’s body struck Istvan like a battering ram and his boots took leave of the ground. He crashed through a wall of burning wattles into the smoky interior of the blazing cottage. The harsh fumes stung his lungs, throat, and nostrils. Burning embers scattered in his wake.

  His collision with the floor left his head ringing. Nevertheless, he leaped to his feet, sword in hand. And well it was that he did so, for two more werewolves lunged out of the shadows at him.

  Hellfire! he cursed inwardly. The odds were two to one against him, leaving a swift response his only recourse. Thrusting with his arm, he stabbed the first beast so hard that the tip of his silver blade punched out through the monster’s back. He hastily tugged on the hilt of the sword, praying that the blade would not get stuck between the creature’s ribs. To his relief, the sword came free easily enough, and he swung it around in one smooth, continuous movement. With lethal precision, the blade sliced through the second werewolf’s head, cutting the monster’s skull in half. Lycan brains spilled onto the floor of the hut.

  Istvan could not believe his luck. It seemed his immortality would not end this night after all. “Praise the Elders,” he murmured.

  Holding his sword before him, he groped through the smoke for a way out of the burning cottage. His overheated armor felt like an oven.

  Despite Viktor’s urgent instructions, Marcus had not gone far. A stand of snow-covered firs and pines concealed him from view as he watched the battle from the edge of the woods. His steed pawed the ground impatiently, eager to leave the blood and chaos behind, but M
arcus compelled the horse to stay where it was. He stroked its mane to calm it.

  William is nearby, he thought. I can feel it in my bones.

  Pounding hoofbeats caught his attention. He watched with interest as a lone rider came galloping out of the forest to the north. Marcus recognized the rider as yet another Death Dealer engaged in the hunt. The vampire rode into the village and alongside Viktor. Marcus strained his ears to hear what the man had to report.

  “We found him!” the Death Dealer exclaimed.

  Viktor instantly gave the rider his full attention. “And?”

  “We need more men.”

  That was all Viktor needed to hear. “Find Amelia!”

  Marcus looked on in secret as the female Elder withdrew a wet blade from her latest kill. Responding to Viktor’s summons, she hurried to confer with the other Elder. They spoke in hushed tones too low for Marcus to make out, but within seconds a decision appeared to have been reached. Rounding up a half dozen Death Dealers to accompany her, Amelia galloped off into the very woods from which the rider had emerged, leaving Viktor and the remainder of their forces behind to contend with the transformed villagers. Marcus watched as Amelia and her men disappeared into the forest.

  He had no doubt as to whom she sought, or why such reinforcements were required.

  They have found William…at last.

  He knew also where he needed to be. Shooting a glance at Viktor, he saw that the undead warlord was fully engaged in the ongoing battle against the newborn werewolves. Astride his armored destrier, Viktor hacked away at his foes with his broadsword, while simultaneously shouting out commands to his beleaguered troops. “Show no mercy!” he cried out imperiously. “Let not a single mongrel escape!”

  He’s far too busy to look this way, Marcus realized.

  Confident that Viktor was preoccupied with other matters, Marcus took off after Amelia and the others. He rode briskly through the nocturnal forest, ducking the branches that threatened to unhorse him. Small animals scurried away as the charger’s hooves pounded through the underbrush after the earlier riders. An owl hooted shrilly overhead.

  Broken branches and trampled brush testified to the Death Dealers’ passage. The trail would have been ridiculously easy to follow even if the fallen snow had not preserved the overlapping hoofprints of numerous riders. Marcus knew he was heading in the right direction.

  He only prayed that he could catch up with Amelia and the others before events passed beyond his control. Much was at stake, not the least of which was his brother’s ultimate fate.

  I’m coming, William, he promised silently. I’m coming!

  As if in response to his fevered thoughts, a deafening roar shook the forest. The roar bore some kinship to the growls of the werewolves back in the village, but was deeper in timbre and far louder. Compared to this thundering roar, those earlier growls were like the yelps of newborn puppies.

  The colossal roar brought Marcus to a momentary halt. Even though he knew full well who—and what—had produced the roar, the blood-chilling sound was enough to daunt even the most determined spirit. He paused to steady his nerves, only to feel the ground tremble beneath his horse’s hooves. The tremor shook accumulations of snow from the treetops, causing avalanches of white powder to rain down upon the floor of the forest. He brushed the icy flakes away from his face.

  What the devil?

  The source of the tremor was revealed as a knot of riderless horses exploded from the brush. They stampeded past Marcus, their eyes wide with panic. He held firmly on to the reins of his own steed, struggling to keep the anxious horse under control, while the other chargers fled for their lives. The saddles upon the horses’ backs were ominously empty. Claw marks scarred the thick metal plates protecting the destriers’ heads, necks, and chests. Steam jetted from their nostrils. Foam flecked their lips.

  Marcus could not help wondering what had become of the horses’ riders.

  Another fearsome growl echoed through the night, followed by agitated screams and shouts. Heavy chains clattered in the distance.

  It was all too much for Marcus’s frightened steed. He dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, but the terrified destrier would go no farther. Marcus could hardly blame the animal, knowing what lay ahead.

  Very well, he resolved. Dismounting, he tied the horse’s reins to a nearby tree trunk, then set off on foot through the wintry woods. His boots sank deep into the fallen snow.

  He did not have far to go. Within minutes, he emerged from the brush and bracken into a forest clearing deeply buried in snow. He froze in his tracks, taken aback by the nightmarish spectacle before him.

  Under Amelia’s command, a complement of Death Dealers vied against a huge albino werewolf, larger and more formidable than any of the misbegotten beasts back at the village. His thick, matted pelt was the color of the pristine snow. Rheumy pink eyes glared out from the creature’s wolfen face. Herculean muscles bulged beneath his milky fur. His hot breath steamed the air.

  William. Marcus gasped in recognition. My brother.

  If the werewolf noted his sibling’s arrival, he gave no evidence of it. Instead the titanic beast roared defiantly at the Death Dealers seeking to bring him down. The undead soldiers were spread out in a circle around their formidable quarry, blocking his escape in every direction. Taking care to stay out of reach of William’s claws, they fired upon the werewolf with iron spears attached to links of heavy chain.

  Crossbows, specially crafted for this purpose, launched the spears at William with tremendous force. The silver tips of the spears lodged deep within his flesh. He flailed about wildly as the chains snapped taut against steel spikes anchored to the ground and surrounding tree trunks. William howled in pain and fury.

  Another archer took aim at the thrashing werewolf. A vicious-looking spear sprang from a crossbow, striking William just below his ribs. Dark blood stained the werewolf’s pure white fur.

  That the Death Dealers seemed intent on capturing William, not slaying him, provided Marcus with scant comfort. The sight of his ill-starred brother being tormented by the soldiers’ lances was more than he could bear.

  “No!” he cried out. “Leave him be!”

  Distracted by the Elder’s cry, the archer failed to unhook the chain from his crossbow quickly enough. William grabbed hold of the links and jerked them violently, flinging the hapless Death Dealer into the air. The soldier’s body slammed against a massive tree trunk with bone-crushing force. He slid down onto the ground beneath the tree and did not rise up again. Marcus feared that the vampire’s neck had been shattered beyond repair.

  One more life lost to the madness that had consumed his brother.

  William roared in triumph, but his victory was short-lived. Marcus heard the twang of a crossbow being fired and watched in horror as a well-aimed spear pierced William’s shoulder, passing all the way through the bleeding meat and gristle. Vicious silver hooks sprang to life at the exposed tip of the spear. The second archer yanked back on the chain and the cruel barbs sank into William’s leathery hide. The werewolf could not tug the spear free without tearing his flesh to ribbons.

  The crossbow’s chain feeder spun rapidly as William reared back on his hind legs and let loose an anguished roar. The second archer hit a switch on his crossbow and the chain came free. Another Death Dealer grabbed hold of the links and hastily secured them to the frozen earth. The chain snapped taut as William tried in vain to tug it loose.

  “Stop this!” Marcus shouted. He felt his brother’s wounds as though they were his own. “You’re killing him!”

  Standing apart from the battle, Amelia looked at her fellow Elder. She had removed her helmet, which rested on the snow beside her feet. Her elegant face held a cold, inscrutable expression. Snowflakes glistened in her lustrous black hair. Her eyes locked briefly with Marcus’s before she turned back toward her troops.

  “More!” she commanded.

  Ignoring Marcus, the Death Dealers fired spear after spear a
t their outnumbered prey. More chains were anchored to the ground, trapping the werewolf within the clearing. His brawny shoulders drooped beneath the weight of abundant chains, which hung tangled about him like a spider’s web. His breaths grew ragged. He whimpered in pain and exhaustion.

  Marcus could stand it no more. Furious, he grabbed one of the archers and hurled him aside with an Elder’s strength. The armored soldier landed in a snowdrift over a dozen yards away. Fearful eyes peered from behind the Death Dealer’s black helmet as he scrambled toward Amelia, seeking the other Elder’s protection. His petrified expression betrayed his terror at being caught between two clashing Elders.

  “Enough, Marcus,” Amelia said.

  Turning his gaze back toward his persecuted brother, Marcus saw that the deed was done. The spears and chains had done their work, overcoming even William’s preternatural strength and endurance. Enmeshed in his chains, the werewolf collapsed onto the snow, beaten and bleeding. His chest rose and fell beneath his heavy bonds. Only this labored breathing assured Marcus that his unfortunate brother still lived.

  “William,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Mixed emotions warred within his chest. It could not be denied that his brother had posed a dire threat to them all. His depredations had ravaged the countryside for years now, costing the lives of countless innocent vampires and mortals. Worse yet, his hellish curse had proven damnably contagious, creating an entire breed of subhuman monsters like himself. Before William had succumbed to the primeval infection in his blood, the world had never heard of werewolves. He had become the progenitor of a loathsome new species.

  And yet, William could not be blamed for what he had become. Marcus stared in sorrow at his vanquished brother. If not for a capricious twist of fate, their destinies might have been reversed. He might have been born a vampire, Marcus thought, and I…an animal. He alone understood how hard his brother had fought against the curse.