Part 6 (1/2)

”There you are,” he p.r.o.nounced.

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 fl.u.s.tered 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.

He might not be a warrior, she thought, but he's not without courage.

Unlike, say, Kraven.

She pushed herself to walk faster, determined to reach Ordoghaz before the treacherous regent. She couldn't allow Kraven to destroy Marcus and take control of the coven. Then she and Michael would truly be fugitives for all eternity.

I almost hope Kraven and I arrive at the mansion at the same time,she thought,just so I can have the pleasure of personally blowing his head off. Her cold blood seethed at the memory of Kraven shooting Michael in the chest with the silver-nitrate gun. Kraven would pay for that unprovoked a.s.sault, as well as for his copious other crimes. I'll see to that myself.

She smiled at the thought, more comfortable hating Kraven than dealing with her confusing feelings regarding Michael. She tried again to push the American from her thoughts. He was attractive, yes, and compa.s.sionate, but she was a soldier on a mission, not a lovesick damsel from one of the romantic ballads she'd heard as a child. Besides, he was at least six hundred years too young for her.

So why couldn't she forget the warmth of his blood within her mouth, the taste of his skin beneath her lips? She remembered the thrill she had felt as her fangs had slid gently into his tender flesh....

A flapping sound intruded upon her sensual reverie. Looking up through the snow-laden branches, she was astounded to see a winged figure, like some terrible dark angel, soaring over the treetops. Her jaw dropped and her brown eyes opened wide.

What in the Elders' name...?

Centuries of prowling the shadows had not prepared Selene for the sight of the airborne apparition above her. She had never seen anything like this creature, in either the mortal or immortal spheres. Scalloped bat-wings swiftly carried the figure out of view as it flew south, back the way she had come.

Selene froze in her tracks as a terrifying thought awoke inside her. Could that have been...Marcus? She had only glimpsed the winged creature for a few seconds, but something about it set off alarm bells at the back of her mind. The Elders did not possess wings, at least not before tonight, but many things had changed over the last several hours. A sudden chill ran down her spine as she remembered Singe's blood spreading across the floor of the Elders' crypt, beneath which Marcus hung in repose. What had Viktor said again, shortly before he'd crushed the lycan scientist's skull?

”An heir to Corvinus lies there, not three feet from you.”

He had been referring to Marcus himself. Was it possible that the lone Elder indeed possessed the same genetic quirk as Michael? Had Marcus also become a hybrid?

The very idea filled her with dread, especially when she recalled that the winged ent.i.ty had been flying southwest.

Toward Michael.

Possessed of a sudden fearful premonition, she spun around and started racing back the way she had come. Her boots trampled over the deep tracks she had previously left in the snow, as she sprinted through the forest as fast as her athletic legs could carry her. All thought of reaching Ordoghaz was forgotten. Over the centuries, Selene had learned to trust her instincts, and right now those instincts told her that Michael was in deadly danger. Kraven and the mansion would have to wait.

I'm coming, Michael! she thought fiercely. The winged apparition had a head start on her, but Selene kept on running regardless. She wasn't going to surrender Michael without a fight, no matter what sort of ent.i.ty was after him. She prayed that he was still safely locked away in the hidden bunker. Watch yourself, she entreated him silently. Don't take any reckless chances.

The tail of her black trench coat flapped behind her as she ran.

To Michael's relief, the cops gave him only a cursory glance, before turning back to their meals. They seemed more interested in their breakfasts than in the new arrival. The tavern's other patrons left him alone as well.

Thank heaven for small favors,he thought.

Finding an empty table, he dropped down onto a bench. After his long hike through the snow, it felt good to be out of the cold. A weary-looking barmaid took his order and he waited impatiently for his food. His stomach growled like a hungry werewolf. He licked his lips in antic.i.p.ation.

G.o.d, I feel as if I could eat a horse. He shuddered at the thought of the plasma bag he had left behind at the old mine. He was starving, but he wasn't that hungry.

Yet.

The feeling was starting to return to his fingers and toes by the time the barmaid returned with his order. She slid a large plate of paprikas krumpli in front of him, along with a mug of hot coffee. He couldn't complain about the size of the portions; the diced potatoes and peppery sauce was practically overflowing the plate. The spicy smell of paprika overpowered his nostrils. It was rich, heavy fare, exactly what he was in the mood for.

And yet...he hesitated before digging in. Selene's words came back to him: ”Normal food would be lethal.” Did she mean that literally?

Best to take it slow. He speared a chunk of potato with his fork and cautiously took a bite. He chewed the food slowly, ready to spit it out at once if he experienced any adverse effects. Contrary to Selene's warning, however, the savory dish went down fine. Better than fine, in fact; it tasted delicious. Throwing caution to the wind, he start shoveling the food into his mouth, wolfing it down ravenously. He couldn't eat the stuff fast enough. Within moments, he had finished half the plate and was thinking about ordering a second helping.

Keep it coming, he thought.

Then it hit him. A sudden wave of nausea washed over him, causing him to choke and sputter. The hot meal started climbing back up his throat. He gulped the entire mug of coffee to try to wash it back down, but the nausea only got worse. He clenched his jaws to keep from vomiting all over the table.

Oh, s.h.i.+t! he thought. Selene was right .

His body was rejecting the food.

The TV news program continued to drone in the background. Michael ignored the broadcast until two English words rang out amidst the Hungarian: ”Michael Corvin.”

What the f.u.c.k? Despite his churning guts, Michael looked up to see his hospital ID photo plastered all over the TV screen. The anchorwoman said something about ”wanted for questioning” and ”possibly dangerous.”

I'm screwed.

Sure enough, the two cops had not missed the news bulletin. Looking away from the TV, Michael saw that the policemen were already out of their seats and headed toward him, guns drawn. ”Don't move!” the lead cop yelled at him in Hungarian. He was a stocky-looking Slav wearing a blue winter jacket and a black fur cap. His partner was slimmer and younger. ”Hands over your head!”

A spasm twisted Michael's guts. He clutched his stomach, his face contorted in agony. Another seizure rocked his body. A cold sweat broke out over his body. He felt hot...feverish. It was kind of like the ordeal he had gone through when he'd first started to change into a werewolf, back in that squad car in Budapest, but different, too. He clutched the side of the table until his knuckles turned white. The veins on his neck stood out like cables. His legs vibrated restlessly beneath the table. His teeth tugged at his gums. He slumped forward, resting his head against the coa.r.s.e wooden tabletop. More of Selene's warning flashed through his brain: ”If you don't antic.i.p.ate your cravings, you will attack humans.”

”Please,” he begged the cops. ”Get away.”

This was clearly more than the two men had bargained for tonight. ”What's the matter?” the younger cop asked, a note of panic in his voice. His gun hand trembled alarmingly. ”Is he on drugs?”

”Or just crazy,” the older cop said. His aim was steadier. ”Go call for backup.”

The young cop didn't need to be asked twice. He scrambled toward the front door, leaving his senior partner to deal with the distraught American. ”I said, put up your hands!” the older cop repeated. He stepped closer to the table. Michael's head began to pound as the cop approached. It felt as if someone were beating on a war drum inside his skull. His temples throbbed to the same relentless drumbeat.

”What's the matter? Are you deaf?” the cop snarled, waving his gun in Michael's face. ”Don't give me any trouble!”