03 - Evolution (11 page)

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 dragged 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 new 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.

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.

Not that she could blame him. What Michael had gone
through over the last three nights would be enough to traumatize any
mortal. She was impressed that he was coping as well as he was.