Chapter 3
Voodoo raised himself to a crouch when the doors opened and the first of them began to arrive. From his vantage point he could observe without being discovered and what he saw now was more than satisfying.
A group of loyals entered the hall with their eyes scanning every shadow and corner, sporting at least one gun each that they pointed steadily at everything they found suspicious. Behind them walked the cause for Voodoo's smile; five of the council members all dressed in dark, depressing colors and with stiff, dead expressions on their pale faces. Five was good. Enough to grant him peace for the rest of his life, only there were twelve chairs set out on the podium and that meant all twelve of them would show up. So he restrained his eagerness and sat back down.
Lowbloods began to arrive soon and among them one or another highblood. When the second group of heavily armed loyals entered the hall, all of the arrivals rose and bowed their heads in what could have been respect.
Voodoo checked the remote detonator to make sure all grenades were still on standby mode and hadn't been detected. There were a satisfying number of red dots shining back at him.
He peeked back out over the hall again and almost reached for his guns as he recognized the newest arrival on the floor. The black clad, tall figure was one he had expected to see, one he had wanted to see very badly, but now that he did the feelings that rushed through him, wreaking havoc on coherent thought and tightly restrained control, were all the most confusing feelings he had ever felt. The wrong ones.
He forced himself to sit back again to calm his pounding heart and hitching breath. What was it with this one that made him feel so out of control?
Only after he had pried his fingers open around the handle of a gun and absently wiped a sweaty palm against a thigh, did he lean back out to look more closely at the man from his nightmares.
More and more lowbloods and highbloods arrived and began to fill the empty seats, and all the while the black dressed figure sat back in his chair with apparent ease. It made Voodoo grind his teeth together, to have his revenge so close and yet so far away.
Father Morris' words ran over and over in his head. Don't follow your heart. You mustn't follow your heart. Don't follow your heart. A pain began to thump slowly at Voodoo's temples from the firm clench of his teeth.
A tall, proud woman slid up behind the highblood and laid a long-nailed hand on one shoulder. Judging by the looks they shared they knew each other well and Voodoo was not surprised; the highblood seemed to be one of those who was very picky in his choices of women and only took those who he deemed good enough for him. This one would be one of them; her features would make any supermodel green with envy. Voodoo snorted disgusted, many young women had had to pay with their lifeblood to let that bitch maintain her appearance. She would pay for every one of them, he vowed.
They were soon joined by yet another new arrival, a blond young man that for no other reason than his presence by the other two could be a highblood himself; he was worse dressed than even the gang-bangers in the streets.
The three of them sat close together and whatever the subject of their conversation they seemed a bit uneasy, a subtle tension rising between them. The black-haired man seemed restless; he cast several glances up at the podium and made one or two sharp gestures at his friends.
Voodoo hoped that whatever it was would cause great, dark, horrifying nightmares to the black-hair, just like he had nightmares. But he would soon rid himself of them with one well-aimed bullet.
The meeting began and the low, lifeless voices of the council began their monotone grind as they went through whatever it was they deemed important. Voodoo snorted and his lips twisted into a crooked smile when he heard something about a disease that they wanted to get off the streets; Mo would like to hear that since he always sought new ways to fight them. Even though a disease would be hazardous to the civilian population, it would take out many of the leeches down on the floor if spread among the group of people they usually favored for their meals.
A few lowbloods had apparently moved here from other cities and Voodoo grinned grimly when he added them to his body count as well. He'd send messages through the right channels later to report to the hunters in those cities that they could strike them from their lists. If he got out of here, otherwise the "Tizers" would do it for him.
He checked his weapons again out of habit and then started, his spine stiff, when he recognized what they were speaking about now. A new discipline? Pupils? They were discussing Voodoo and his companions and the Fathers that had raised them all. He began to feel a bit uneasy then. They seemed to know so much about the church. And then again hardly anything, if what they were saying was true. They didn't know which church accommodated them or who they were; though by the way they spoke Voodoo just knew something was not quite right. They didn't seem as upset as they should be. He sniffed a rat in its hole.
And how right he was. He bared his clenched teeth when the black-hair stood elegantly. He stared down at the man's back and fisted his hands on his thighs not to reach for his guns. Words drifted up to him and penetrated the rushing of blood in his ears. Skilled. Respected. Damn him! His death was so much more imminent for those words; he knew nothing of respect or skill other than what he used when he killed to feed himself. Damn him. And there was never any skill in those slaughters.
They discussed his encounter with the black-hair. Voodoo shivered involuntarily. Mark and incapacitate. He knew what that meant. During the first year of their training Father Mo had taken him and his companions to see one of the men that had been a hunter several years ago. He had been nothing more than a walking shell of a man. His skin grey and lifeless, his gaze dull and glazed, and what remained of his once vibrant auburn hair were now tattered and balding. The man had barely seen Nike when she had stepped in front of him to introduce herself, and she was used to being seen since she was so very nice to look at.
Father Mo had explained what had happened, in startlingly exact details, and they had all been very subdued when they left. Nike had cried herself to sleep that night. Not even Iason's strong arms around her or his smooth voice in her ear had calmed her. Voodoo swallowed and pushed the memory back down behind door and lock.
They wanted him found, he heard. The black-hair consented to this with reluctance, which caught Voodoo off guard. He hadn't known the black-hair to be possessive or unwilling to aid his council. Odd. Was there a rift forming between the casts? That could come to great advantage. If they got a hold of some of the more important loyals and roughed them up a bit, they might get the information they needed to confirm this.
There was a tension in the air when the black-hair sat back down, and Voodoo smiled, grimly satisfied that the man had gotten a first taste of his nightmare. The rest was waiting for him at the end of Voodoo's guns.
Staring at the buttons on the remote it was just a matter of deciding which one to press first. He decided to take out the tunnels below the hall to make sure he got them all trapped here or above surface, and the floor heaved and shook with the force.
The mayhem was instant. The freaks down there were on their feet and doing their tricks to determine the threat and deal with it. Or just to hide, to survive. They could try, he mused coldly.
Voodoo pulled two deep breaths, reveling in the adrenaline that coursed through him before the first move, and then bolted from his hideout. As soon as he got a clear shot he took out three of them with one bullet each and then two more before they could pinpoint his location.
He ducked into an alcove to take a breath and a moment to recount the casualties he had caused. He knew three of the bullets had been lethal and a fourth bad enough to cause silver poisoning. The last one didn't matter in the long scheme of things, plenty enough would die tonight.
He reached down to his belt to flick another few buttons and dust rained down from the ceiling when more bombs exploded. He hoped any civilians above ground had long since been gone. That was the last thought he gave anyone other than himself and the hunt, battle mode took over and he took off along the gallery again.
The loyals down on the floor were much more easily scared; they ran around like ants in a trampled anthill, trying to find their masters that had made themselves scares at the first sign of disturbance. But as the tunnels came down, the number of occupants in the hall remained very much the same. Voodoo grinned in grim satisfaction – Mo had helped him come up with a good plan – and made his way for the stairs. He needed to be down on the floor, that's where the true killing would begin.
Five of the council's loyals came charging up the stairs and tried to bring him down. They were not a problem. Five well aimed bullets ensured no more involvement from them.
As expected, the freaks kept as far away from him as possible in the beginning, sending loyals to deal with him. He didn't waste any more bullets on them, instead taking them out with every instinctual move his martial arts trained body would lead him to. He squeezed off a few rounds in-between kicking ass, and two more freaks dropped. Dead or not, he couldn't tell, but either way, silver poisoning would give them hell for the next few weeks.
There was a moment of stillness in the charging of desperate loyals and he took the chance to press the last buttons on the remote. Somewhere someone screamed in rage and he stifled a chuckle. Trapped. No way but up into the oncoming dawn. That or stay here and eat bullets.
A flash of deep black in the corner of his eye took the breath out of him, and he spun around to train his guns in that direction. The past few nights' dreams came back to him in a rush and the cold, calculative shell of battle cracked around him. There was a slight tremble in his right hand, but he discarded it as a muscle spasm due to straining from the fight.
There it was again, the black just out of his line of sight, and he cursed. Where was that damned highblood! The black-hair was dead the moment Voodoo laid eyes on him. He moved away from the unconscious bodies around him and scanned every nook and cranny with vigilant eyes. But the man had disappeared. Voodoo remembered how the freak had melted away in the shadows last time they met. The coward was probably long gone by now. Voodoo ground his teeth together at the bitter taste of lost vengeance.
A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw the last of the council leaving the hall through a side door. When a few lowbloods tried to follow they were stopped by a barrage of bullets from the council's loyals and then the door slammed shut behind them.
Voodoo stared. He hadn't known about that tunnel, it hadn't been on the blueprints, had it? The council was going to get away.
With a snarl he lunged at the door, shooting wildly at anything that moved, a few bodies dropping, others moving too fast for the bullets to hit. To his utter surprise the door opened when he tried the handle and he became instantly on guard. Why would they have left it unlocked? Setting a trap of their own, most likely. Well, he wouldn't want to disappoint them. Stealthily making his way along the tunnel, he put new clips in his guns and pulled calming, deep breaths. He needed to use his head now, to take out as many of them as possible before he went down.
There were wire wrapped lamps in the ceiling every hundred feet or so, casting the walls in shadow and irritating his eyes when he stepped between the dark and light.
After only a few hundred feet the tunnel divided in two, heading in opposite directions and he stopped, hesitating for a moment. The chances were fifty-fifty whichever way he chose to go; the council may have split up here or had gone the same way. He cursed under his breath and turned to the right.
"Well, well. What have we here?" a hissing voice said from the left hand tunnel and he reacted instinctively, spinning around and training both guns at the shadowed, slim form.
His heart made a painful thump when he for a moment thought he had come across the black-hair. But then the shape moved closer with a wavelike motion – like a lizard – and he realized this was not the freak from his nightmares.
"How nice," the thin man said and bared pointed teeth in a wide grin. "The council has granted me my wish to play with you after they are done with their interrogation, and here you are, running straight into my arms." He took a step closer.
Voodoo didn't even blink as he pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the tunnel and the bullet ricocheted off the wall where the freak had been only moments ago.
"Now, that wasn't very nice." He tilted his head, thin brownish hair falling across his pale forehead, and bared his fangs. "Here I am, trying to make conversation and have some fun. And you shoot at me."
"You're dead, freak. Now, don't move and let me end this already." Voodoo aimed both guns – high and low – and tightened his trigger fingers.
But this time he didn't have the chance to shoot. The man lunged at him with a snarl and only his fast reflexes saved him from having his throat slit open.
A lowblood. There would have been no way for him to dodge that move if it had been a highblood – they were much faster than this. His wrists were grabbed and he jammed a knee up between their bodies, aiming for the most vulnerable body part. He was yanked forward and he moved with it, momentarily throwing his opponent off balance. He took his chance and tore his hands free, at the same moment kicking out with a foot.
It would have hit dead center if the slithering little weasel hadn't been so darn fast. And he didn't see the kick to his hands either. His guns rattled away along the floor out of his reach but he didn't pay them much heed. Keeping the lowblood in sight he drew the wakizashi from its sheath on his back and the hunting knife from the scabbard on his thigh. The freak only grinned at him.
"So, you've got fangs as well," he said and laughed, the sound more of a hiss. "Let's compare size, shall we?"
"Let's." Voodoo took a ready stance, ignoring the little voice in his head that said he wouldn't make it.
They stared at each other for a long moment, tension vibrating through the air. And then the lowblood flowed into motion.
********
Dain had hid in the shadows, well aware of the taint it would leave on his reputation in doing so, but not willing to risk getting shot. He had watched the hunter with fascination; the skill and economy of his movements, how relatively easy he conducted his kills. Yes, indeed a hunter to respect.
When the hunter disappeared after the council Dain stepped out of his hiding place and looked around at the chaos left in the hunter's wake. He saw at least five loyals dead, nine or so more seriously injured. They would require help to get out of here. Dain was glad he had told Tuck to stay outside this time.
A few of the other highbloods and lowbloods stepped out into the hall as well, all of them eyeing the bleeding, dying bodies of their shot mates with distaste and revulsion. Dain imagined he even saw fear in the younger ones' eyes as one of the victims cried out in pain when the silver from the bullet tore through her body.
Dain couldn't see Shiva or Paris anywhere. They might have left as soon as the first blast had gone off, as any smart man or woman would have done. Shiva at least would have made it out, too. She had probably taken Paris with her; she had invested too much in the young man not to take care of him when needed.
Then Dain heard the gunshot from the corridor where the council had disappeared. He waited a moment to see if anything else happened, but when nothing did, he slowly walked that way. No other vampire dared take the same route. Only death could lie that way. But Dain had a challenge to meet and he didn't want to give this one up to chance.
Dain stepped warily into the tunnel, his eyes easily piercing the dusky lighting. Stalking quietly down the hallway he soon smelled the sweet, alluring scent of blood freshly spilled. He bared his teeth and hurried his stride.
He came upon Lupus sucking from the hunter's neck, red spilling everywhere. And he couldn't help but feel jealous at the lowblood for having the hunter's first taste.
Lupus hissed out a warning when Dain stepped closer, a predator protecting its feed from another. That snapped Dain out of the hunger that had risen in him and he pierced the lowblood with a cold stare. Lupus stopped hissing and grinned at him instead, blood-smeared teeth and lips, blood soaking into his coat and dripping from the hunter's hand.
Dain took in the hunter's torn shirt and pants, the jacket lying discarded not far away. They had gone hand to hand, Dain realized and his respect for the hunter rose to a whole new level.
"You have no finesse, Lupus," Dain said in a low voice and began to slowly circle closer to the lowblood and his prey. "Such sloppy table manners. No wonder you will never hold a highblood title, no one would believe your claim."
"I might just ask for you rank when they strip you of it, Dain of the Dark," the little weasel hissed back. His pale eyes followed Dain's every move and he became increasingly wary the closer the highblood got. "It would give me great pleasure to have your little loyal wait on me, hand and foot. And perhaps some other body part as well," he said with a disgusting grin.
That did it for Dain. Tuck was too important to him to let anyone mock him like this. He bared his elongated fangs and lunged for the lowblood. Lupus yelped and dropped the hunter's lifeless body, retreating far enough to avoid Dain's slashing hands. They gauged each other then, none of them moving or it might set the other off.
Dain recovered his senses first. "Leave here or I will personally see to it that the council has to look for another lapdog."
Lupus pressed his lips together tightly, not liking the threat in the least, but unable to keep his ground in a fight against a highblood. "I will have my fun, Dain," Lupus spat out his name. "And the council will hear of your transgression."
"I'm sure they will. Now, run along, like a good little dog."
Lupus sneered at him and disappeared down the right hand corridor with a few parting remarks that Dain didn't care to hear.
He shook his head, both to clear it of the last, lingering vestiges of battle ardor as well as at the lowblood's stupidity. But then again, he was being stupid too, he mused. And then his eye fell on the battered body lying gracelessly in a pool of blood.
The hunter was unconscious and bleeding. The smell of fresh blood set Dain's senses on edge and he bared his fangs yet again. He wondered if he dared deal with this, his senses were already worn raw as it was and his control wasn't the best with all that had happened.
But what were his choices? He had expressed an interest in this hunter and the challenge he stood for. Dain wouldn't let go of that so easily. A gleam of metal caught his eye and he crouched to pick up a long blade. Foreign in its design, Japanese if he wasn't mistaken. A wakizashi. Dain smiled. Yes, there was more to this hunter than first met the eye. How could he let that slip through his fingers?
He would wonder later how he had gotten them both out, the tunnels had been littered with traps and bombs – most of them already detonated – but the debris had given him equal cause for concern as he made his way across it.
Tuck had waited for him where he had parked the car earlier, his young face pale with worry and his hands fisted in the pockets of his jacket like he always did when he didn't wish to show his nervousness.
Then he had taken in the state of his master; dusted, dirty clothes, blood soaked. And the hunter in his arms. Without a word he had opened the backseat door for Dain and he had slid inside with a sigh of relief, and then they were on their way. Exactly to where, he couldn't be bothered to care, just that Tuck was taking them away from this mess.
The car drove over a bump in the road and the jarring made Dain growl deep in his throat. Too low for Tuck to hear, but judging by the infrequent wide-eyed glances the kid gave him in the review mirror, he probably knew.
Dain was fighting blood fever, the hunger rising to a fever pitch with every breath he pulled filled with the warm, coppery scent of the blood-soaked body lying limp in his arms.
The hunter could already be dead. The pale, lifeless face and the unresisting limbs when he clutched the body tighter was enough to make any man believe so. But not him. No, he heard the heart beating still. Every slow, struggling thud was like an invitation for him to end this life, to sink his teeth into firm, youthful flesh and sate the hunger tearing through him. But he didn't.
He should push the body as far away from himself as he could instead of fighting this battle with his nature that he in the end couldn't win. But he didn't.
To let go now was to deny himself a glimpse of something he hadn't had in so many years. Not the challenge or games he had claimed to Shiva and Paris, even though they were true enough and the young hunter could provide them easily. But warmth. Life. He was always surrounded by death now and he wanted something to break the cold monotony.
He looked down at the man in his arms. Blood seeping from a wound somewhere in his hair, red running lazily down his temple. The bite marks on his shoulder underneath the shredded shirt were bruises now, swollen and dripping blood of their own to add to the stains soaking the hunter's clothes.
Lupus' marks. They mustn't be allowed to remain. This body belonged to Dain. He was Dain's to play with as he pleased. Lupus must be punished for laying hands on what belonged to Dain and the hunter be properly claimed for all to see.
The smell of blood fresh with his next breath tore him out of the blood fever and he jerked upright from where he had bent down to add his mark to the bites on the hunter's neck. He was panting heavily with the effort to resist the need, his pupils dilated to eclipse the green blazing with hunger and his body aching for the blood to sate it. So close. Too close to ending a life he had every intention of prolonging. He couldn't fight it back much longer.
"Are we there yet?" he growled out and Tuck met his eyes in the review mirror. Dain saw the muscles in his throat move as the kid swallowed thickly.
"Soon. Just two more blocks." The kid was afraid; Dain could smell it. A sweetness added to the copper-salty scent of blood, and it conspired to pull him under.
"Run the damn lights if you have to. I cannot fight this," he ground out. Tuck nodded and stepped on the gas.
Dain tilted his head back against the backseat and concentrated on just breathing, his treacherous arms clutching the hunter closer.
Not soon enough the car screeched to a stop outside the dark back entrance of an old church and Tuck scrambled out to open the door for him. Dain struggled out, stubbornly holding on to the hunter though it made his movements clumsy. He lay him down on the top of the stairs, stealing one last breath of the alluring scent of his body, one last caress of too pale, blood drained skin.
"See you soon, hunter," he whispered and turned away.
Tuck followed his movements with wary, wide eyes, staying by the still open car door. Dain gave him a grim look.
"Make sure they find him quickly. Get rid of the car if you can't clean it." He looked out over the empty, dark street. Already his senses were readying for the hunt. "Don't wait up. I won't be home until the sun rises."
Tuck only nodded and caught his coat as he tore it off with impatient moves; it reeked of blood.
He set off down the street without caring if Tuck would manage on his own, melting in with the shadows between one step and the next. He needed to feed. Anything would do now. Anyone who was unfortunate to cross his path. He had no patience for smooth talk or sweet wooing. There would be no seduction this time. The hunger clamored to be sated and he intended to do so. And it wouldn't be pretty.
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