Underworld: Blood Enemy (10 page)

A very human-sounding sigh of relief escaped his muzzle as Sonja slipped beneath the shade of an imposing portico. Kraven pounded with his fist on a pair of closed oak doors. “Open up!” he bellowed self-importantly. “The Lady Sonja desires admittance!”

A bewildered lycan retainer opened the doors, and Kraven barged into the foyer beyond. With a swooping bow, he graciously invited Sonja into her own ancestral manor. “Please, milady, enter freely and without fear.” He barked orders at the hapless retainer. “Summon Marcus at once—and someone fetch Lady Sonja a flagon of warm blood!”

Sonja stepped inside, but Kraven balked when Lucian attempted to follow her. He regarded the werewolf’s inhuman form with open disdain and wrinkled his nose at the pungent aroma of Lucian’s damp and dirty fur. “Excuse me, milady, but this beast simply cannot enter the manor—like that.”

“He goes where I go,” Sonja stated firmly. She looked back at the werewolf without hesitation.

“Please join us, Lucian.”

Kraven was visibly appalled but was not about to contradict an Elder’s daughter. Lucian enjoyed the Englishman’s discomfort as he stepped inside the mansion. His height was such that he had to duck his wolfen head beneath the archway, but he could already feel his spine contracting along with the rest of him.

Indeed, he barely made it past the threshold before the Change came over him completely. He grunted out loud as his snout retracted and his hairy pelt receded. Claws shrank back into fingers.

Canine fangs withdrew into gums. Mass and muscle evaporated into the ether. Cobalt eyes dimmed to brown.

Within moments, Lucian was a man once more. Panting with exhaustion, his body drenched in sweat, he stood naked in the spacious foyer, his pale white skin scratched and abraded from his rough trek through the countryside. His bare feet were dwarfed by the muddy pawprints beneath him.

I must look a very mess,
he realized.

His scruffy, denuded appearance contrasted sharply with the refined elegance of the mansion’s interior. Exquisite tapestries and paintings hung on lustrous, oak-paneled walls. Marble tiles, now tracked with mud, stretched across the floor to where the sweeping main stairway ascended toward the upper reaches of Ordoghaz. A hanging copper lamp supported the weight of a dozen beeswax candles.

“How fare you, Lucian?” Sonja asked. Brown eyes viewed him with concern, while demurely averting her eyes from his nakedness. Lucian felt a flush of embarrassment.

“Well enough, milady,” he assured her. Now that she was back among her peers, he could not dream of addressing her by her first name. “Although I fear you find me not at my best.”

His wry remark elicited a smile from her lips. “Likewise, to be sure,” she replied.

Not surprisingly, their unexpected arrival generated much commotion. A hubbub of excited voices filled the foyer. Lucian looked up to see numerous pale faces staring down at them from atop the stairs and landing. More faces peered from the adjacent salon and antechambers. Vampiric gentlemen and ladies, many of them attired for bed, gazed at the newcomers with frank curiosity while chattering enthusiastically among themselves.

Lucian briefly worried that some unseemly gossip might attach itself to him and Sonja, only to realize the sheer preposterousness of the notion. Who save he could ever imagine a liaison between Sonja and himself? Never mind that such unions were forbidden by the Covenant on pain of death, the very prospect of a pureblood princess—the only daughter of an Elder—dallying with a lycan vassal was too manifestly absurd to be believed.

Or was it?

Despite everything, he could not forget the touch of Sonja’s lips against his skin or the comforting feel of her beneath his arm. “Call me Sonja,” she had insisted repeatedly. Could it be that she truly saw him as an equal—and perhaps as a man? It might be worth risking torture and execution to find out….

A hush fell over the gawking vampires as the crowd upon the stairs parted to make way for Marcus, the reigning Elder of the coven.

The powerful vampire looked deceptively youthful, appearing as a clean-shaven young man with slick black hair, but there was no mistaking the ancient wisdom in his dark eyes or the unquestioned authority in his stride. A black velvet gown, embroidered with golden trim, draped his regal frame as he marched down the stairs. A golden pendant, bearing ancient runes that differed somewhat from those on Sonja’s own pendant, rested on his chest. Amazement transfigured his stern features as he spotted Sonja waiting in the foyer.

“Sonja! Dear maiden!” He took the last few steps in a rush and clasped Sonja’s shoulders with obvious delight. “You are indeed restored to us, against all odds!” A more sober expression came over his unlined face. “The loss of your esteemed mother is a great tragedy to us all.”

“Thank you, Lord Marcus,” Sonja answered. “I can still scarcely believe she is no more.”

Fatigue and sorrow were evident in her voice. She swayed unsteadily on her feet.

“Poor child!” Marcus intoned, offering her the support of his arm. “A chair and sustenance for the lady!”

Kraven snatched a steaming goblet from the hand of a newly arrived servant. He proffered the cup to Marcus with much fanfare. “As you command, great Elder! I took the liberty of requesting this libation mere minutes ago.”

Marcus accepted the goblet, then glanced at the eager Death Dealer without much interest. “And you are…?”

“Kraven of Leicester, Elder, but lately arrived from Britain.” He puffed out his chest. “I was standing guard at the gate when this precious lady came rushing out of the forest, in desperate need of deliverance.”

“Well, now she has found it.” Marcus gave the goblet of heated blood, tapped from the ready veins of the estates livestock, to Sonja. The smell of the blood made Lucian’s own mouth water.

“Drink deep, child. It will restore you.”

Another servant managed to deliver a chair to the foyer without Kraven intercepting it first.

Marcus helped Sonja onto the padded seat, then turned to find Kraven still standing at his elbow.

“You may go, sentry,” he said brusquely.

Kraven was unable to conceal a look of petulant disappointment. He stormed out of the foyer, unhappily thrust from the center of attention. He’s
an ambitious one,
Lucian noted quietly, with
aspirations quite beyond his present station.

The indignant Death Dealer passed from Lucian’s mind, however, as none other than Soren suddenly burst onto the scene. The beefy overseer came pushing his way through the excited throng crowding the corridors. A look of surprise—and perhaps chagrin—came over Soren’s bearded features as he spied first Sonja, then Lucian within the foyer.

So,
Lucian thought coldly.
You made it past the mob after all.
He wondered where Soren had managed to hide away from the sun yesterday. A cave? A hollowed-out tree trunk? Another corner of the monastery? Wherever he had hidden, the Irish vampire had obviously made it to Ordoghaz before them.

Soren scowled at Lucian, who got the distinct impression that the undead overseer was not entirely pleased to see that he had survived the ambush at the keep.
Perhaps,
Lucian speculated,
because I proved all too correct concerning the threat posed by Brother Ambrose and his
followers?

Sonja, on the other hand, was too good-hearted not to be thrilled that another member of their party had escaped death. “Soren!” she exclaimed happily. “You’re still alive!”

“Soren arrived on horseback several hours ago,” Marcus explained calmly. He turned his forbidding gaze on the newly arrived overseer. “I am a trifle confused, Soren. You said you were the only survivor.”

The Irishman placed a meaty hand over his heart. “Faith, Elder, I believed Lady Sonja killed along with her mother, else I would have never abandoned the fray!”

Lucian distinctly remembered calling out to Soren for assistance but held his tongue. As a lycan, he knew better than to challenge the veracity—or courage—of a vampire.

“’Twas a scene of utter tumult,” Sonja confirmed, quick to grant Soren the benefit of the doubt.

“I can well believe that amid such bloody chaos, Soren thought himself the only survivor.”

Marcus examined Soren through narrowed eyes. “Perhaps,” the Elder said guardedly.

“Ho! What’s all this commotion?” a sardonic voice interrupted. All heads turned to see Marcus’s son, Nicolae, descending the stairs with a giggling doxy on one arm and a goblet of spiced blood in the opposite hand.

A cascade of curly blond hair crowned the head of the Elder’s notoriously decadent heir. His ruddy complexion, quite literally flushed with blood, bespoke decades, if not centuries, of overindulgence. The sleeves of his plum-colored brocade tunic were fashionably slit, the better to display the expensive silk shirt underneath. His light purple hose was tucked into a pair of polished black boots. Sapphire and emerald rings glittered on his fingers.

His swooning companion, by contrast, wore little more than a skimpy linen shift, somewhat the worse for wear. She clung immodestly to Nicolae, as if too dissipated to stand without assistance.

Her skin was pale, even by undead standards, and dark circles shadowed her glassy green eyes.

Black hair fell in wanton abandon to her shoulders. A bawdy grin left little doubt about her virtue, or lack thereof.

Marcus regarded his heir without enthusiasm. “I should have known you would be the last to arrive,” he observed icily. The Elder’s disappointment with his wastrel son was common knowledge throughout the coven. “Behold your dear cousin, Sonja, whom we believed to have perished.”

Nicolae arched an indolent eyebrow. “Risen from the dead, have we?” he addressed Sonja.

“How terribly traditional of you. Small wonder the mortal riffraff insist on describing us as walking corpses.”

The doxy on his arm guffawed at his jest. She threw back a tangle of unbound hair, revealing fresh bite marks on her bruised throat. Lucian caught a whiff of blood beneath too much perfume and was startled to realize that the pallid strumpet was human. Rumor had it, he recalled, that the Elders jaded heir preferred the warm blood of willing mortals to the cooler blood and company of his own kind; apparently, gossip spoke truly in this instance.

Lucian could not help reflecting that such liaisons, although faintly scandalous, were not forbidden by the Covenant, provided the mortal was not taken unwillingly. For a lycan to love a vampire, on the other hand, was something else altogether; as far as Lucian knew, such a romance had never occurred in the entire history of their respective races.

’Tis not fair,
he thought.
Why must the Covenant keep us apart?

“Sonja’s mother has but recently met her end,” Marcus reminded Nicolae, clearly vexed by his offspring’s cavalier attitude. Lucian, too, was offended by the prince’s conspicuous lack of concern for Sonja’s feelings.

“Quite unfortunate, to be sure,” Nicolae conceded lightly before turning his attention to Lucian.

Sweaty, bare naked, and unkempt, the exhausted lycan stood in stark contrast to the impeccably groomed heir. “And who might this sorry specimen be?”

Soren spoke up before Lucian could identify himself. “Merely one of the castle servants, nothing more.”

“Nay, much more!” Sonja protested strenuously. “If not for this noble lycan, I would have most certainly never lived to enjoy your hospitality Lord Marcus. It was Lucian who rescued me from the mob and brought me safely to Ordoghaz.”

Nicolae chortled at her words. “A chivalrous wolf… how extraordinary! He should be pictured in a bestiary, alongside the phoenix and the unicorn!”

Marcus’s response was considerably more restrained. “I see,” he said flatly. “Very well. Escort him to the servants’ quarters,” he instructed Soren. “See to it that he is clothed and fed.”

With that, the Elder dismissed Lucian from his mind. “Come, child,” he said to Sonja in an avuncular tone that belied his apparent youth. “Let us see you to your chambers; where all your needs can be attended to. You must be exhausted from your ordeal, and I would not have my old comrade Viktor awaken to find you in such a state.”

Marcus personally helped Sonja up from her chair and guided her toward the grand stairway.

“Nicolae,” he barked at his wayward son. “Make yourself useful for once and assist me. Your whores and debaucheries can wait.”

“As you say, Father,” Nicolae assented, sighing heavily. He lapped at the mortal wench’s neck bites one last time before detaching his arm from her waist. The doxy tottered unsteadily, whether from inebriation or blood loss Lucian could not tell. Possibly both.

“Wait for me in my bedchamber,” the prince directed her, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“We’ll continue our revels later.”

“Aye, Nicky,” the tart slurred saucily. She staggered out of the foyer, her bare feet sliding on the marble floor.

Lucian paid the mortal trull no heed. His eyes saw only Sonja as Marcus and Nicolae escorted her up the stairs, away from him. She looked back over her shoulder, and their eyes met briefly, before Soren took Lucian roughly by the arm and dragged him away from the foyer.

“Come along, cur!” the overseer snapped. “It’s past time you got back to where you belong.”

Chapter Eight

ORDOGHAZ

The crypt of the Elders hid deep beneath Ordoghaz, many feet below even the lowest dungeons and cellars of the ancient mansion. The vast chamber was dominated by an elaborate mosaic floor in which three large bronze disks were embedded. Each disk bore complex Celtic patterns surrounding one of three ornate capital letters:

A
for
Amelia.

M
for
Marcus.

V
for
Viktor.

Ordinarily, silence ruled over the somber crypt, which was seldom visited by the inhabitants of the manor, but tonight, on the occasion of Viktor’s Awakening, the chamber held the entire Council along with various other dignitaries. These guests gathered just inside the entrance of the crypt, before the granite steps leading down to the bottommost floor, where Marcus himself waited at the center of the triangle of disks. Torches flickered in the arched alcoves lining the walls. A fourth bronze disk, bearing an intricate Celtic pattern, was mounted in the wall above the doorway.

Sonja stood at Marcus’s right hand. In her mother’s absence, she had been granted the honor of assisting the Elder in her father’s Awakening, a grave responsibility that weighed heavily upon her mind. She shivered beneath her burgundy satin gown, both from the chill of the crypt and in anticipation of the momentous events ahead. Excitement at the prospect of seeing her father again, for the first time in two centuries, was leavened by the sobering realization that he must soon learn of his wife’s untimely end.

Would that I could spare him so dreadful a revelation,
she mused,
at least until he can
recover fully from the Awakening.
Alas, as leader of the coven for the next hundred years, it was vital that he should know, as expeditiously as possible, all that had transpired during his long repose.

I
should be thankful, I suppose, that it shall not fall upon me to inform Father of the tragic
news.

That burden rested with Marcus alone.

Sonja observed the distinguished company that had assembled to witness the Awakening. Clad in their finest robes, the Council members chatted softly among themselves as they waited for the ceremony to begin. Nicolae stood amid the other guests, a bored expression on his face.

The prince’s blasé attitude insulted her. Although she had known Nicolae for many centuries, ever since they were both children, she had never liked him. Even as a toddler, he had cared for nothing except his own selfish desires.

Not for the first time, Sonja regretted that Lucian could not attend the Awakening. Certainly, he deserved the privilege more than the likes of Nicolae. She had even considered appealing to Marcus on Lucian’s behalf but had ultimately thought better of it. She was not so idealistic as to think that Marcus, or any other Elder, would ever countenance the presence of a mere lycan at an Awakening.

Not even a lycan as dashing and heroic as Lucian.

Thoughts of Lucian dispelled some of the chill seeping into her bones. Never had she met his like, vampire or lycan. He had the high brow and sensitive features of a poet yet the heart of a warrior as well. As a scholar and historian, she could not help comparing him to the legendary heroes of the past, such as Perseus, Galahad, or even King David. And yet he was condemned to eternal servitude for no other reason than the accident of his birth.

The sheer injustice of it all appalled her.
Something is profoundly awry with this twilight
world of ours,
she thought,
that so chivalrous a spirit cannot rise to the rank to which his
considerable gifts and fortitude entitle him.
A passionate conviction filled her heart.
I, for one,
will not be blinded to the true nobility of the man.

Bells tolled high overhead, marking the midnight hour. A hush fell over the assembly as Marcus addressed all present. The raised collar of his dark robe fanned out behind his head. A golden dagger resided in his belt.

“Members of the Council, honored guests,” he began. “Beyond these venerable walls, in the mortal world, petty despots constantly war for land and power. Kings and dynasties come and go in an endless and brutal cavalcade of conquest and usurpation. In contrast, we of the coven have known nothing but peace and stability for some five hundred years. Why is this?”

The other vampires, Sonja included, answered in unison: “Because of the Chain!”

Marcus nodded in acknowledgment. “We Elders—Viktor, Amelia, and myself—do not wage war against one another in pursuit of absolute power, nor do our differing views and instincts ever lead us into the conflict. Why?”

“Because of the Chain!” The ritual response echoed within the sepulchral confines of the crypt.

“Just so,” Marcus confirmed. “The coven exists in harmony because we Elders have wisely agreed to divide eternity among us, a century at a time. One Elder above the earth, two below; that is the way of things, so that the coven has never more than a single ruler in any given century. Thus is order maintained, through an eternal cycle of rebirth and rejuvenation. And why?”

“Because of the Chain!” the guests chanted for the third and final time.

Sonja’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to two of the three bronze disks on the floor. Beneath those circular markers, she knew, both her father and Amelia rested in their respective tombs. Marcus’s own sarcophagus was empty, awaiting his imminent return to unbroken darkness and solitude.

“Now is the appointed hour,” Marcus proclaimed. “Soon I will go into the earth again, confident that the destiny of our people will be safely guided by my fellow Elders for the next two hundred years—until I rise once more.”

Nicolae scowled at his fathers words. Sonja felt a twinge of sympathy for the frustrated prince; unlike any mortal heir, Nicolae could not look forward to ever inheriting his father’s exalted position in the coven. Marcus was immortal, after all, and not even his coming internment could ever disguise that inconvenient fact.
Small wonder,
she reflected,
that Nicolae wastes his nights in Mice and
revelry. He’s heir to a throne that shall never be his.

“Let the Awakening begin,” Marcus decreed. He nodded at Sonja and whispered, “You may proceed, child.”

“Yes, Lord Marcus.”

She knelt before the bronze disk that bore her father’s initial. The stylized
V,
which resembled the upraised wings of a bat, reminded her of the identical mark branded on Lucians upper arm, but she pushed the memory out of her mind; whatever her feelings for the handsome lycan, now was no time to be distracted by maidenly fancies.

Her fingers gripped the raised metal
V,
and she tried to rotate a circular segment of the disk, about ten inches in diameter. Untouched for precisely two centuries, the ancient hatch resisted her at first, but Sonja exerted her pureblood strength, and the miniature disk turned beneath her grasp, setting in motion a concealed clockwork mechanism. The intricate designs adorning the hatch shifted position as Sonja heard the muted rumble of long-dormant machinery awakening from slumber. The entire bronze disk sank into the floor, then split apart into four triangular segments that retracted from sight, exposing the top of the stone sarcophagus below. Another
V,
illuminated in lapis lazuli, identified the upright coffin as her fathers.

The ponderous sound of stone sliding across stone resounded within the crypt. Propelled by hidden counterweights, the vertical sarcophagus rose from the floor like the Devil ascending from beneath the stage of a traveling mystery play. The coffin thrust upward until it towered above Sonja like a pagan monolith. She waited for it to come to a halt, then stepped forward and released a catch concealed in the sarcophagus’s elaborately carved exterior. The coffin slowly pivoted on its axis, then snapped into place horizontal to the floor.

A supine figure was laid out within the sarcophagus, held in place by embossed metal bars.

Sonja stepped toward the bier, then placed a hand over her mouth. Although she had been cautioned about what to expect, she still had to hold back a gasp at what she beheld.

After two hundred years of hibernation, her father bore scant resemblance to the regal monarch she recalled. The skeletal figure within the coffin looked more like an ancient Egyptian mummy than a vampire: dry, withered, and seemingly lifeless. Sere gray skin was stretched over his bony frame like age-old parchment. The bones of his rib cage jutted beneath his skin like the flying buttresses of an abandoned cathedral long since fallen into ruin.

Her father’s pate was as bald as the skull his emaciated visage so resembled. Closed eyes rested at the bottom of sunken black sockets, while his desiccated lips had peeled away from his gums, revealing jagged fangs locked in a corpselike grimace.

A gilded pendant, akin to her own, rested on his still and silent chest. A jeweled belt and black satin leggings spared her the sight of his shriveled manhood.

Oh, Father!
she lamented silently.
What has become of you?

No sign of life, not a single breath or heartbeat, hinted that her sire yet lived. Any mortal observer would have readily believed her fathers body to be long dead. Even Sonja, knowing better, found it hard to accept that the horrid corpse before her would soon be walking among them once more.

“Well done, child,” Marcus said softly. “You may prepare for the transference.”

A polished metal rod, containing a hollow glass ampule at its center, stretched across the top of the open sarcophagus. Sonja guided the rod along a built-in track until the empty ampule was positioned directly above her fathers mouth. Then she stepped aside to allow Marcus to approach the bier.

“Now let the sacred rite proceed,” he declared. Drawing a golden dagger from his belt, he extended his left arm and drew the tip of the blade across his wrist. A streak of crimson blossomed on Marcus’s pale skin.

An audible gasp broke from the audience as the tangy scent of an Elders blood filled the air.

Nicolae licked his lips, and even Sonja’s mouth watered as she lusted for a taste of the potent nectar.

Ignoring the crowd’s visceral reaction, Marcus held his bleeding wrist above a series of shallow silver bowls embedded in the edge of the sarcophagus. Scarlet droplets fell into the first of the concave receptacles, beginning a gradual procession from bowl to bowl, where the spilled blood mixed with arcane catalytic residues to undergo a sublime alchemical transformation before flowing through the metal rod into the ampule above Viktor’s petrified jaws. Slowly, meticulously, Marcus’s blood dripped from the cavity into Viktor’s mouth.

“My blood to thee, my thoughts to thee,” Marcus chanted. “Partake of my memories, Viktor of Moldavia, and those of Amelia before me, so that the Chain shall not be broken.”

Sonja held her breath in awe. Only an Elder possessed the knowledge and concentration to accomplish what Marcus was now doing: transferring a complete and coherent record of the last two centuries into her father’s quiescent consciousness, so that Viktor would awaken with full knowledge of all that had taken place while he slumbered. Not only Marcus’s memories but also Amelia’s, passed on to Marcus at his own Awakening one hundred years prior, were being transmitted to Viktor by the absorption of Marcus’s immortal blood.

The scarlet teardrops elicited an immediate response from the apparent corpse. Viktor’s eyelids flickered as the blood trickled down his throat. A rattle escaped his withered lungs. Drawing away from the catalyst drip, Marcus placed his fingertips against Viktor’s throat. He nodded with satisfaction as he detected the faint pulse therein.

“The Elder awakes!” Marcus announced. A few stray drops of blood fell onto Viktor’s skin before Marcus’s sliced wrist healed itself. Minute patches of healthy pink skin appeared wherever the scarlet droplets touched Viktor’s epidermis. “The Chain endures!”

A full-throated cheer arose from the assembled vampires, albeit with a half-hearted huzzah from Nicolae. Sonja’s throat tightened with emotion. She wiped a bloodred tear from her eye.

Her beloved father was not yet himself, of course, but Sonja knew that he would recover quickly, given sufficient time and blood. The latter was already waiting for him in the private infirmary at the rear of the crypt. By this time tomorrow, he would once more be the proud and majestic father of her memories.

“Many thanks for attending this hallowed event,” Marcus informed the audience, “but now Viktor requires his privacy. You may all return to your various duties and diversions.”

One by one, the Council members and their associates filed out of the crypt. Nicolae exited the chamber with unseemly haste, but the rest took their leave in a measured and dignified manner. Only Sonja lingered behind, to further assist Marcus with her father’s restoration. Marcus waited until the last of the attendees had departed before beckoning to Sonja.

“So much for pomp and ceremony,” he remarked. “Let us now see to your noble father’s recovery.”

The infirmary was hidden behind a pair of thick oak doors directly opposite the front entrance of the crypt. While Sonja hurried to draw open the doors, Marcus slid the massive sarcophagus upon a set of tracks laid into the tiled floor. Within minutes, the bier rested at the threshold of the infirmary, between two colossal stone pillars.

A Roman-style bath waited within the infirmary, the rectangular marble pool filled to the halfway point by a tremendous quantity of steaming red blood. A brace of healthy bulls had been sacrificed to replenish the bath, while a furnace beneath the tub kept its sanguinary contents as warm as though freshly spilled. An ingenious potion, extracted from the maws of leeches, prevented the crimson pool from coagulating.

The aroma of so much fresh blood was intoxicating. Sonja tried to imagine what it would be like to bathe in such a tub; her skin tingled beneath her gown. It was said that Amelia herself sometimes indulged in such luxurious ablutions in order to enhance her beauty.