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  Baffled by the mystery, he turned his attention to the final body bag. Inside he found the remains of Viktor, along with the severed half of the warlord’s skull. The gruesome sight did not repel Macaro; he had seen too much of life—and death—to be taken aback by such things. In his time, he had looked on far greater horrors and expected to do so again.

  Such was his curse.

  Still, the realization that both Viktor and Lucian now rested in this morgue was enough to give him pause. This is a historic night, he realized, for those few of us who know the truth. In many ways, Lucian and Viktor had been the architects and prime movers of the immortal war that had raged in the shadows of human history for the better part of a millennium. Does this mean that the war is finally over? Macaro would have liked to believe so, but the carnage at the vampires’ mansion belied that comforting supposition. I fear that this is merely the beginning of a new chapter in the endless conflict, God help us all.

  In the meantime, there were serious matters to be dealt with. He glanced at one of the X-rays mounted upon the wall. The glowing film clearly revealed a small, round object attached to one of Viktor’s ribs. Interesting, Macaro mused. He opened Viktor’s embossed leather tunic, exposing the Elder’s bare chest, and dragged his fingertips across the cold, stiff flesh. Aha, he thought as his fingers detected a peculiar lump just below Viktor’s rib cage. Macaro nodded in satisfaction. This time he had found what he was looking for.

  Donning a pair of latex gloves, he plucked a scalpel from a nearby tray and rested the tip of the blade against the dead Elder’s chest. Macaro’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he sliced open the vampire’s flesh, creating an incision large enough for him to thrust his fingers inside the unprotesting body. His fingers closed around a small, solid object that seemed to have been deliberately attached to the Elder’s ribs.

  There you are, Macaro thought. Viktor hid you well, but not well enough.

  It took a bit of effort to disengage the object from the vampire’s ribs, but the Old Man soon succeeded in dragging his prize out into the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. He held the object up for his inspection.

  The lights exposed an ornate, circular bronze device. Intricate runes were inscribed upon the metal ring, whose complexity was matched only by its unsettling beauty. Macaro wiped the device off with a silk handkerchief, then safely tucked it away in his clothes.

  A cryptic smile lifted the corners of his lips.

  Chapter Eight

  The abandoned mine felt much more desolate now that Selene was gone.

  Michael stared at the blood-filled packet in his hand. The warmth of his body was already causing the frozen blood to thaw. Reddish purple fluid sloshed inside the sealed plastic bag. Did Selene expect him to drink it cold, or should he zap it in a microwave first? Either way, the very thought of consuming the blood turned his stomach.

  Can I actually do this? he thought dubiously. As a doctor, and a surgeon, he had performed numerous blood transfusions, but he had never asked a patient to swallow the blood whole. For a moment, he considered setting up an IV and transfusing the blood into his own veins; at least that didn’t seem as gross and unnatural as pouring the stuff down his throat. But would that satisfy the growing ache in his stomach? Michael tried to remember the last time he had eaten anything. It had to have been a day or so. One way or another, he had been on the run ever since Lucian had bitten him three nights ago.

  No wonder I’m starving.

  He contemplated the blood some more. Technically, it was only cloned blood, but it looked real enough to him. All he needed to do, according to Selene, was rip open the packet and gulp the blood down. He had to assume she knew what she was talking about. For all he knew, she drank this stuff every day.

  He gagged at the thought.

  “Forget it!” he blurted. There was no way he could go through with it. Besides, maybe Selene was wrong. She said herself that he was unique, that nobody really understood how this whole hybrid business was supposed to work. Maybe he didn’t need blood after all.

  He tossed the bag away in disgust. It plopped onto a nearby counter.

  That’s better, he thought. He definitely felt weak, though, and light-headed. I need food. Real food.

  On impulse, he threw his leather jacket back on. Selene would not be back until nightfall, if she returned at all. He had plenty of time to go find something to eat and still get back to the bunker before she came looking for him. Besides, he’d go stir-crazy if he had to stay cooped up here all day, alone with his thoughts.

  Time for a breakfast run.

  He passed a weapons rack on his way to the door. Should he grab a gun or two? The idea made him uncomfortable. He had gone his whole life without packing heat, and he resisted the idea that he had to go armed from now on. The sun will be coming up in an hour or so, he rationalized, so I’m not likely to run into any insomniac vampires or werewolves. Plus, he could always change into his hybrid form if he had to. He hadn’t needed any firepower to defend himself against Viktor before….

  Leaving the weapons behind, he exited the safe house. It was still dark outside, and the snow was falling nonstop. A bumpy mountain road, all but buried beneath the frozen precipitation, led away from the deserted mine. Michael figured the road had to connect with civilization at some point. He trudged down the road, feeling the cold night wind blowing against his face. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets in a futile attempt to keep warm.

  It was a miserable night for a hike. The arctic wind nipped at his exposed face. The chill seeped into his bones. His jacket lacked a hood, so the snow fell directly onto his head and shoulders. Melting snowflakes slipped beneath his collar, causing ice water to trickle down his spine. He kept his eyes peeled for headlights, hoping that maybe he could hitch a ride to the nearest bar or diner, but apparently nobody was stupid enough to try driving through the blizzard. The only bright side to the storm was that there didn’t seem to be any hostile monsters out prowling around either. The only thing taking a bite out of him was the cold.

  Was Selene enduring an equally uncomfortable trek? He wondered if she had made it back to the vampires’ mansion yet, and, if so, what sort of reception she had run into. Dammit, he thought, I should have gone with her. He hated the idea of her facing this other Elder, Marcus, alone. She had sliced Viktor’s head in two. Did she really think the other vampires were going to forgive that? What if I never see her again?

  No, he couldn’t allow himself to think like that. Selene had to come back, and not just because she was his only guide to this strange, secret world of hers. Michael was surprised by the intensity of his feelings. He had known Selene for less than a week, yet already he couldn’t imagine going on without her. Selene was nothing like Samantha, the fiancée he had lost so many years ago. Yet somehow he felt closer to her than he had to any woman since Sam’s death.

  Guess that’s what happens when you go through hell together.

  By the time he spied the lights up ahead, he felt as if he had been slogging through the snow for ages, even though it had only been about fifteen minutes, tops. His face burned from the cold, and he had lost all feeling in his fingers and toes. Hunger still gnawed at his stomach, but the need for warmth was rapidly overtaking his appetite as a priority. Hopefully, the lights meant that he could take care of both needs simultaneously.

  Picking up the pace, he staggered out of the forest. He found himself on the outskirts of a small mountain town consisting of a meager collection of run-down, weather-beaten buildings running along a single main street; you could probably drive from one end of the town to the other in less than two minutes. Michael spotted a service station, some darkened storefronts, and—thank God!—a tavern. Most of the town looked as if it hadn’t woken up yet, but Michael was relieved to see lights burning inside the tavern. He mentally thanked the bar’s customers for staying up into the wee hours of the morning.

  Cars and pickup trucks were parked outside the tavern. Michael dr
agged himself across the snow-covered parking lot. A neon sign informed him in Hungarian that the place was open all night, which was the best news he had heard all week. He yanked open the front door and was greeted by a rush of hot air. All right, he thought, basking in the sudden warmth. Just what the doctor ordered.

  The interior of the tavern was rustic in the extreme. The patrons sat on wooden benches in front of crude log tables. Kerosene lanterns glowed atop the tables, while a single lamp hung from one of the thick oak beams supporting the ceiling. Sawdust covered the floor. Old-fashioned cracker barrels were stacked in the corners. A horizontal mirror, mounted behind the rough-hewn bar, reflected Michael’s bedraggled features. He brushed his hair back in an attempt to look a little less pathetic. A neon sign advertised Kobanyai brand beer. A silent jukebox occupied the back wall, next to a flashing pinball machine. A TV set, propped up in one corner, was tuned to a local news station. A Hungarian weatherman predicted snow.

  No shit, Michael thought.

  His entrance attracted a few curious stares. Michael guessed they didn’t get a lot of strangers in these parts, especially at this godforsaken hour. His heart stopped momentarily as he spotted a pair of uniformed policemen sitting at one of the tables. Just my luck, he thought bitterly. Were the police still looking for him concerning that shoot-out in the Metro station? The last two police officers who had picked Michael up for questioning had turned out to be a couple of lycans in disguise, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t still in hot water with the authorities. Hell, he had practically attacked one of his fellow residents back at the hospital, while raving incoherently about bite marks and hallucinations. How could the police not be after him? He swallowed hard and tried not to look too guilty.

  Damn, he thought. I should have checked out the parking lot more carefully.

  Selene would never have made a mistake like this.

  As always, Marcus was amazed at how much the world had changed in two hundred years. When last he had gone into the earth, at the dawn of the nineteenth century, Buda and Pest had been two separate cities, divided by the winding waters of the mighty Danube. Now a unified capital, linked by many imposing bridges, lay beneath him as he soared through the frigid night sky. The modern miracle of “electricity” lit up the sprawling metropolis, so that the city glittered like a crystal chandelier, outshining the full moon above. Even though Kraven’s stolen memories had prepared him for the sight, the revived Elder gaped in wonder nonetheless.

  Truly, this brave new millennium had wrought many changes, not the least of which was his own unexpected metamorphosis. Leathery wings carried his wizened form above the transformed city. Although his mummified appearance testified to the fact that he had not yet fully recovered from his long repose, despite the blood of Kraven and his decadent underlings, Marcus had wasted no time embarking on this vital quest. With Viktor dead at last, the time had finally come to fulfill an ancient vow, solemnly sworn upon a bygone night of blood and fire. For over eight hundred years he had bided his time, but now the long wait was over.

  But first I must find this errant kinsman of mine.

  “Michael Corvin.”

  Following Kraven’s blood memories, he swooped down from the sky toward an unprepossessing neighborhood in central Pest. Night’s umbrageous cloak, and the swirling snow, concealed his descent from whatever mortals might be awake at this ungodly hour. His eyes fell upon his destination: a broken-down, old brownstone on a dimly lit block in a bad part of town. The lonely streets looked devoid of life.

  In contrast to the city’s starry appearance from on high, this region of Pest had declined dramatically since Marcus had last walked these streets. Little remained of the gorgeous baroque architecture erected by the Hapsburgs after over a century of Turkish occupation. The dilapidated brownstone was an ugly pile of bricks, blackened by decades of smog and soot. Steel-shuttered windows and garish graffiti suggested that the homely edifice had been abandoned for some time.

  Which was not exactly the case.

  Marcus touched down upon the snow-covered roof of the building. According to Kraven, this site was often used by the Death Dealers as a “safe house.” A locked door barred entrance to the brownstone, but the Elder easily ripped the door from its hinges. He tucked his wings against his shoulder blades as he passed through the narrow portal.

  The smell of rotting corpses and foul lycan blood struck him the minute he entered the building. Descending a flight of stairs, he found a scene of utter carnage. Lycan bodies littered the floor, surrounded by pools of clotting blood. Broken glass, chipped plaster, and bullet shells added to the clutter. Many of the lycan soldiers still clutched their formidable-looking modern muskets in their lifeless hands. Marcus was saddened, but not surprised, to see with his own eyes that William’s subhuman spawn still infected the earth. Over the centuries, they had proven damnably hard to exterminate, especially after the coven’s ill-advised attempt to domesticate them back in the Dark Ages. Lucian had taught them the folly of that enterprise.

  Perhaps it is just as well, he mused. Destiny surely has its own plan for William and his breed.

  Turning his thoughts away from the past, Marcus contemplated the bloody detritus before him. Obviously, a battle had been fought here, mere hours ago. He searched the faces of the dead lycans but was disappointed to discover that Michael Corvin was not among them. That would have been too easy, I suppose.

  Broken glass crunched beneath the leathery soles of his taloned feet as he strode through the gory debris. Crates and cardboard boxes cluttered the suite. An interrogation chamber boasted chains, shackles, and a heavy steel chair. Snow blew in through a shattered window. Bloody torture implements rested upon trays and counters. A weapons locker contained an arsenal of modern firearms. Fluorescent lights glowed overhead.

  He scanned the aftermath of the battle, looking for…ah, yes! Black eyes widened at the sight of illuminated screens, consoles, and keyboards. Glowing images shifted upon the screen, as if by sorcery. Marcus quickened his pace as he approached the futuristic communications station. His sharpened nails tapped experimentally at the keyboard.

  Now came the difficult part. “Computers” and “linked networks” were two hundred years after his time. Ideally, Amelia would have transferred her own blood memories to him upon his Awakening, ensuring a smooth transition into the present, but Amelia was dead, a victim of Kraven’s treachery. He would have to rely on the turncoat’s own memories instead.

  Closing his eyes, he rifled through Kraven’s memories at lightning speed. Repetitive images of ceaseless blood orgies and self-important posturing made him despair for the sorry state of the coven under Kraven’s regency. Clandestine meetings with Lucian emphasized once again the full extent of Kraven’s perfidy. In retrospect, Marcus found it hard to believe that he and the other Elders had ever taken Kraven’s lies about killing Lucian at face value. What fools we were to trust him! He experienced Kraven’s unrequited lust for Selene and recalled that the female Death Dealer, Viktor’s beloved protégée, was still on the loose, most likely in the company of Michael Corvin. He owed Selene a debt for slaying Viktor, but that would not spare her if she dared to come between him and his prize. He had already killed an entire coven tonight. The death of one more vampire meant nothing to him.

  Only the quest mattered.

  It took Marcus only seconds to settle on the memory he required. In his mind’s eye, he saw Kraven seated before a similar station. Gold rings, studded with precious gems, glittered upon the regent’s fingers as he tapped upon a keyboard. Marcus perused the thoughts that had passed through Kraven’s brain at that moment, extracting from them the knowledge he now required. He was gratified to discover that the network had been designed to be “user-friendly.”

  How very convenient.

  Hesitantly at first, but with increasing confidence, Marcus worked the keyboard. A series of graphic interfaces flashed across the monitor in front of him. Pleased by the speed of this ingenious n
ew technology, he quickly located what he was looking for: a digital map displaying the location of various other safe houses employed by the coven. A flashing red icon indicated that one such sanctuary was currently in use.

  Withered lips turned upward in a smile. The site in question was not far from here.

  No, not far at all.

  “There you are,” he pronounced.

  Chapter Nine

  Selene marched through the snowy forest at a brisk pace. She was cold and exhausted from the night’s trials, but she could not afford to rest, not even for a second. She had to reach Ordoghaz by dawn or risk being caught out in the open when the sun rose. The daylight would kill her just as readily as any voracious werewolf or vindictive Elder. She glanced up through the canopy of tree branches overhead. From what she could see of it, the sky did not appear to be lightening yet. She still had time to get to the mansion.

  I hope.

  Granted, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was trying so hard to survive, given that her entire reason for being had gone up in flames over the past seventy-two hours, like a vampire in the sun. Her family’s deaths had finally been avenged, but at the cost of learning that her entire immortal life had been a lie. So why bother to go on living?

  Habit, I suppose.

  And Michael.

  A frown crossed her face at the thought of the young American doctor. She knew she should be focused on her upcoming encounter with Marcus, but her thoughts kept gravitating back to the flustered young man she had left behind in the bunker. Would he muster the courage to drink the cloned blood as she had instructed? She could tell that he was still struggling to come to terms with his new condition.