The Lycan Society (The Flux Age Book 1) (14 page)

“Next time you question my ability to protect this girl, I’m gonna rip your balls out, Jack, I swear it.”

Florence was surprised by the venom in her voice. She meant every word - years of frustration had come to a head. She was tired of Jack Foley’s arrogance, his imperious belief that everything he did was perfect.
No more
.

The tall werewolf stiffened, his own anger at boiling point. All he could do for several seconds was breathe deeply. He seemed about to say something but decided against it. Florence thought she saw a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. An operative of his experience could surely see how emotionally compromised he was.

Yasmin appeared by his side, hooking her arm through his. The action seemed to calm him down a little, but it annoyed Florence. Did they
really
have to be so embarrassing? She stepped away.

“Besides,” she said, the heat gone from the room. “I’ll be with Yasmin.”

Jack looked at Florence incredulously. “You’ll just march on into the trap?”

Florence nodded. “As far as I know there isn’t a guest list. If the shit hits the fan I want to be as close as possible.”

Jack nodded slowly, glad to hear that Yasmin would have a modicum of protection.

“Me and the boys can take high positions,” he said grimly. “Scope the building for snipers. Eddison will have his sniper rifle.”

Florence nodded. It seemed they were actually settling on a workable plan. For her part, Yasmin looked afraid, but determined. The poor girl wanted so desperately to join the Society. Florence’s job was to hear the diviner’s answer and get Yasmin the hell out of there. Somehow she doubted the Berlin Club would let them stroll out through the doors. Her stomach lurched when she realized that blood would be spilled very soon. She just hoped it wasn’t lycan.

The Hotel Grand Ferdinand was grey and resilient through the misty rain. The flags out the front hung limp. An oppressive gloom had settled over the graceful German capital, doing nothing to set Florence’s mind at ease. She crouched with Yasmin, Jack and the other werewolves on the top of the Exeter building diagonally opposite the hotel. Adam had a pair of binoculars trained on the hotel facade.

“No sign of guards,” he muttered. “But I haven’t seen a civilian walk in or out for ten minutes.”

“Something’s going on, that’s for sure,” said Nightjar with a frown. “Use extreme caution, Florence.”

Florence smiled at her. “I will. Time to go.”

She made eye contact with Yasmin. The girl looked as ready as she’d ever be. Eyes aflame with intense focus, Jack looked into Yasmin’s eyes and nodded. The gesture seemed to give her steel.

“I’m ready,” she said firmly.

Florence gave the girl a hug as they rode an elevator to street level.

“I’ll be on your shoulder,” she said reassuringly. “Whatever happens, I’ll be close.”

“Thanks, Florence,” she said with tears in her eyes. “For everything.”

The pair hurried through the rain and climbed the hotel’s front steps. Florence’s heart was beating wildly as they approached a concierge’s desk.

Florence had rehearsed this moment several times. There was no point in being cryptic or cute. The Berlin Club was certain to have the hotel locked down.

“We’re here to see a young girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen,” said Florence with as much confidence as she could muster. “I’m lead to believe she’s very special.”

The concierge nodded knowingly.

“But of course, Miss, right this way.”

Florence took a deep breath as the concierge lead the pair around a huge stone column. The expansive hotel foyer spread out before them. At any other time Florence might’ve enjoyed the old world charm of this place. As it was she kept her eyes peeled for threats, both hidden and obvious. The first thing she noticed was the complete lack of human activity. The foyer was unnaturally quiet, far quieter than an international hotel had any right to be at five in the afternoon.

The concierge glided past a gilded partition, behind which sat a greasy young woman on a faded divan.

She was alone.

In her mind Florence had pictured many scenarios, but not
this
. The girl’s isolation was troubling, disturbing even.

Before Florence could say anything, the girl spoke.

“I’ve been waiting for you Yasmin,” she said calmly.

Florence took a moment to appraise her. She looked like one of those tragic young whores she often saw in Hell’s Kitchen. Though this one was in a poorer condition than any of those girls. Her clothes were tattered and dirty, her makeup smeared across her face as if she hadn’t changed it for days.

“My name is Mischa .”

The girl gestured for Yasmin to sit at the divan opposite her. Florence resisted an impulse to drag Yasmin away and never look back. How did she know her name? More importantly, what was the nature of her interest in Yasmin?

The only reason Florence didn’t cut and run was the look of determination on Yasmin’s face as she sat down. Florence doubted she’d be able to pull Yasmin free even if she tried. The kid was hellbent on becoming a lycan. Florence stood to the side, her eyes darting from Yasmin to the strange diviner. The air was pregnant, as if some kind of energy was begging to be released.

The diviner rested her hands in her lap as she looked intently at Yasmin. The posture seemed mature beyond her years. Yasmin could do no more than return the unnerving gaze. Florence felt dread rising in the back of her throat. She threw a look over her shoulders, hoping against hope that Jack and his boys had managed to infiltrate the hotel foyer. Things definitely didn’t smell right.

The diviner’s cheeks began to tremble, her gaze never leaving Yasmin. Her slight frame stiffened and she leaned forward as if drawn to the platinum-haired girl.

Florence’s fear bloomed as the diviner began shaking her head slowly and muttering to herself. With a start the werewolf realized she was talking in Latin. She had never gotten around to studying Latin but recognized the words for ‘ruler’ and ‘leech’. What did this mean?

The diviner’s voice got louder and louder until she was almost screaming. She formed a cross with her index fingers as if to ward off an evil spirit.

Frightened, Yasmin shrank back in her chair, tears sliding down her cheeks. This meeting was most definitely
not
going to plan.

Florence felt her fear hardening into something more usable. She dropped into a crouching position, knowing two things for certain. 1) She was about to shift. 2) Yasmin was not a lycan. She was probably the furthest thing from a lycan. If Florence’s assessment of the diviner’s Latin was correct, Yasmin’s spirit beast was capable of breathing new life into the long-dead vampyra. She’d just gone from nervous New York girl to potentially the most important player in the Flux Age.

Mother Aurora would know more - if Florence could get Yasmin back to New York. As she felt her tendons lengthen into rippling cords, she sensed the approaching gunmen before they appeared.

By the time they arrived she was ready.

In times like these it was useful to have a solid tactical mind. And to be a werewolf.

Florence knew that Herr X and his lackeys from the Berlin Club would not want to touch Yasmin or the diviner. They were valuable commodities and were more likely to be kidnapped than anything else.

Which meant that Florence could confidently use them as cover and not feel bad about it. She crouched low, feeling that familiar vibration in the back of her throat that slowly rolled into a vicious snarl. Yasmin saw that Florence had shifted and simply held on tightly to the edge of the divan. She had a glazed look about her that suggested her subconscious was processing what the diviner had said.

Florence’s world became tightly focused as her werewolf senses took over. Judging from the footfall, there were two or three men approaching from the rear, from the direction she’d entered. Somewhat surprised at the token force, Florence decided to ambush them.

There wasn’t a second to lose. Rushing forward at breakneck speed, she crashed through one of the bordering partitions. It was only a thin sheet of wood and was no problem for an adult werewolf. She felt contact immediately, bringing a man down and causing his shotgun to slide across the floor.

There was no room for mercy here - it was kill or be killed. She lowered her snout and tore out the man’s throat in a smooth motion. She was always amazed at how incredibly soft and vulnerable human necks were. A second gunmen pumped his shotgun and raised it.

He got a shot off, but only where Florence had been a split second before. In her experience almost all first shots were too high - especially out in the open or in a high-ceilinged room. She had slid under the blast and was now raking her claws down the man’s fleshy thigh. She could feel his tendons pop open as if they were made of wet tissue paper.

There was no need to eviscerate this one. Already off-balance, all she needed to do was strong-arm his across the back of the head. The man’s temple collided with a table corner on the way down. Probably dead, then.

A third gunman sagged back and gave Florence a very wide berth. He was professional enough to keep his gun trained on her as he moved. At a range of fifteen yards he stood a good chance of hitting a human, but Florence was simply too fast. She rolled under a table as the inevitable shotgun blast thundered into the wood above her head.

A modern pump action shotgun takes a half second to reload, perhaps a little less. Pretty good, but not good enough. Florence erupted from under the table, bounced off another and was plunging feet first into the gunman before he could bring his weapon to bear a second time. He careened off a partition and stumbled into Florence’s lethal killing move - a balled fist to the throat. His windpipe smashed, he sank to the floor.

The smooth click of yet another weapon being primed turned Florence’s head. A fourth gunman had wisely taken a rear sniping position and had Florence flush in his sights. In the nano second before the blast Florence realized she would have to take a hit, so she dipped to the side at the last instant. The blow took her in the shoulder, knocking her across several tables.

Werewolves are as tough as leather, and pretty much impervious to most ammunition, but not immune to the laws of physics. And definitely not immune to pain. A rolling wave of agony passed from Florence’s shoulder right down her spine and she winced as she came to a halt under a table several meters away.

Just as she was calculating her strategy for dealing with the last gunman she heard an unexpected snarling. For a moment she thought the gunman was shifting into a creature of some kind. She realized she wasn’t quite ready for
that
kind of fighting.

But when she peered over the table the man was being summarily gutted by a large werewolf with jet black fur.
Max
. Jack himself appeared by her side, a bass rumble emanating from deep within his throat. A sigh he was really pissed.

“More goons coming in from the street,” he growled.

“They’re herding us,” Florence said, scanning the huge foyer carefully. It was quiet for the moment.

“No shit,” Jack said worriedly, beckoning Max, Eddison, Paulie and the two Berlin werewolves to catch up. “What do we do with the girl?”

“I need to save both of them,” Florence said, only realizing that fact as she said it. “You need to cover me.”

Jack looked at Florence with grave respect before nodding curtly.

“Yes,” he said in a flat tone. “That’s exactly what we need to do.”

At that moment a chittering metallic sound erupted from a raised stage area. Where a grand piano might normally have been a velvet blanket was now being whisked aside to reveal a man behind a gun. Not just any gun. It was a M61 Gatling fed by an ominously large ammo belt. Florence met Jack’s eye with genuine fear - those 7.62mm rounds packed enough punch to penetrate werewolf skin. But that wasn’t the kicker. Those rounds looked like they were made from sterling silver - just one of those things would be enough to shut down a werewolf’s circulatory system within seconds. A werewolf’s kryptonite.

“Down!” Jack screamed.

The Gatling opened fire as Florence threw herself to the plush carpet. As she launched into a furiously desperate crawl she realized that tables and chairs were not gonna cut it - the cream of the Lycan Society was about to be slaughtered.

Berlin, Germany

TOMAS PACED UP and down a corridor somewhere in the bowels of the Grand Ferdinand. The sound of the Gatling opening fire somewhere above him did nothing to calm his nerves. He could only wonder at how many lycans Herr X had lured into his trap this day. Considering the prize at stake - a diviner - it was probably the cream of the entire New York Chapter.

He would never admit it to his master, but Herr X was taking a big risk. If the werewolves somehow survived the Gatling, there was a chance the diviner would be lost to the enemy. And Herr X had barely had a chance to use the girl’s extraordinary powers. Sure,
he’d
been divined, but he was trying not to think about that.

No, Herr X seemed more intent on using the diviner as bait than for what she was born to do. He didn’t even seem interested in his
own
spirit beast. Or perhaps he had gotten himself divined in secret. It was hard to tell. The Berlin Club was a most unpredictable entity.