Dracula Unleashed (4 page)

After all, he was easily bored.

 

 

Like jagged, lethal teeth, the Swiss Alps reached high into the dark night. The Milky Way brushed the tops of the mountains, making the deep snow look as though stars had poured down the peaks and coated them with thick, rich cream. One could imagine angels dancing on the smooth untrammeled snow, heralding the arrival of great events.

On the very highest tip on Monte Rosa, the very highest mountain of the range, Lance Soliel stretched his wings like a giant bird. Eight feet to either side of his body, his wings, more symmetrical and powerful than even the long perfection of the arctic tern's, thwarted the biting wind.

The resulting pocket of still air cradled a thin tent. Inside, ten humans, as fragile as eggs, huddled together, conserving what little warmth they had left. Lance extended his hands over the top of the tent. Up here, the cold killed.

As carefully as a lace maker over her pillow, he gathered the weak radio waves together into an intricate construction, creating a signal that guided the rescue team toward the lost climbers' battered tent.

The rescuers hadn't known they had been following an angel's light. Instead, they had heard the lost climbers calling on the radio, even though they shouldn't have been able to hear a thing in high atmosphere.

All in all, being an angel was pretty cool. He could spread his consciousness to near-infinite lengths. On occasion, he was granted glimpses of the Divine's pattern. The best part of all, though, was being with his loves and watching their family grow.

A trickle of unease remained lodged in the base of Lance's spine. Something had been nibbling at the corners of their home life. Valerie no longer spent the night in her bed. Minerva's physical development lagged. John worked all hours.

Lance might be an angel, but he didn't know how to find what they were losing.

A flash of feathers surprised Lance. Very few things flew at these altitudes.

Death, clad in its customary gray robes, flapped its black wings like a hummingbird's as it came to a light landing. The two friends bumped fists. Lance's rough knuckles tapped against Death's protruding bones.

“How have you been?” Lance asked.

Using the tip of its scythe, Death flipped back the soft fabric of its hood. Under the starlight, the other angel's bare skull gleamed as though it had been polished.

“I am sorry to interrupt, but I have not come for a visit. You must come with me.”

“I will not leave these to the elements.” Lance shook his head.

Death extended its long phalanges toward the tent, letting its palm hover over it as though testing the heat. “They will live.” The oldest angel turned its empty eye sockets to Lance. “War is upon us. You must come with me before all is lost.”

Chad Trask's feet hurt in ways he'd never imagined possible. His eyes itched from lack of sleep. His nerves strained from searching for two vampires in blood-matted PVC. He'd spent the night traveling from bench to corner to doorway, convinced every breath would draw the vampires to him.

His friends had to be dead. No one could survive that much blood loss. He couldn't stop seeing Andrew's life gushing across the vampire's face. Great arching gouts had flown into the air and spilled into the streets. Those beasts had deliberately made their bites as painful and wasteful as possible. Chad picked at a rust-colored spot on his sleeve.

He discreetly sniffed his clothing and choked. He smelled like he'd rolled in piles of pennies—a nasty combination of sweat, dirt, skin, and copper. Light-headed, he looked to the skies for hope.

Despite the misery of the night, the dawn had arrived. Cobalt blue and hot red streaks filled the clouds with the crazy saturated colors of a 1950s musical.

He rubbed his eyes. What the hell was wrong with his brain? Only an insane person would think of something so ridiculous after such a horrible night.

When he opened his eyelids again, he saw the early risers wandering the sidewalks in search of coffee. Several people jogged with their dogs. None of them made eye contact with him. Several crossed the street to avoid him. How could they be so normal? Didn't they know the world was ending?

The morning sun infiltrated the canyons of Portland's fashionable Pearl District. No nightwalker could safely slink from shadow to shadow now.

He stopped in front of the building that housed his father's office. All he had to do was survive yet another disappointed lecture and he could use the BMW to drive home.

Of course, his father had been too thin-lipped and hunched over lately to deliver a coherent reprimand. Ever since the Consortium for Concerned Citizens had been disgraced, his parents had not gone out, had not entertained. His mother no longer went to work at the library. A F
OR
S
ALE
sign decorated their front yard. On the bright side, they had sold the family yacht.

The fateful night that Radu Tepes had been exposed as a Nazi sympathizer, he had been on that yacht with Chad. Tepes had tempted and then threatened him. A few more seconds and Chad would have been a blood slave for the rest of his life. He rubbed the back of his neck, scrubbing away the memory.

Don't think of the dark woman and the Frenchman who had saved him. Don't think of the bizarre lights in the sky and how he swore he'd seen Lance Soliel fly with white wings.

Chad's parents refused to discuss the situation. Their fall from grace was bad enough without their son sounding like a ranting preacher.

He tugged at his dirty jacket, forcing fresh air next to his skin. Nothing for it, though. There was no other way to get home and get clean. Chad smoothed his hair; might as well try to look somewhat respectable.

In the daylight, surrounded by normality, the night's horror seemed far away.

He eyed his father's office building. The Baxter Building looked nothing like its high-rise comic book namesake. A modest twelve stories and charmingly tattered, it had been empty except for a photography studio and a particularly delicious pastry shop. The Consortium for Concerned Citizens, a mere shell of its former glory, had fit easily onto two floors of the squat brick and river rock building.

The bouquet of coffee, chocolate, and warm croissants perfumed the morning. As he approached the crosswalk, his belly rumbled. The thought of sweet dough and rich coffee made him aware of the foul feel of his tongue and fuzzy teeth. Licking his lips, he pushed the button for the crossing signal.

The entire building blew up.

The noise was indescribable: a devastating cacophony of explosives, the screams of those inside and out, and the thunder of tearing rock and cement. Then, a black cloud flew into the air and rained shrapnel of stones and concrete. Slabs of wood the size of his leg plummeted into the street. The surrounding buildings were bombarded with fragments.

Chad dropped and rolled, finding scant protection under the seat at a bus stop. Dust coated his open mouth, the taste of violence and death bitter. His heart battered the inside of his rib cage. His lungs squashed tighter and tighter until his breath came in tiny sips. Dark spots before his eyes blotted out the devastation. But not enough to miss what happened next.

The center of the Baxter Building collapsed inward like a sinkhole. Anyone there would have been killed instantly. The outer corners tipped up until they aimed at the sky. Like a horrible funnel, the corners slid downward into the core of the cave-in. He clutched the legs of the bench between his white fingers.

Desperate, Chad crawled toward the ruined structure. The skin of his hands tore on the sidewalk's buckled cement. Splinters pierced his knees.

His father was in there.

Nothing else, not vampires, not war, not the injured around him, mattered.

 

Umar Mernissi, were-hawk, attorney, and paranormal rights activist, had everything he'd dreamed of nine months ago. At long last, he led the Consortium for Concerned Citizens. He was the world's most prominent paranormal. The woman he fancied was about to visit him. He lived in Portland, Oregon, a quirky and beautiful city with abundant water. And, of course, a large corner office with an enormous desk and a deluxe, high-end leather chair.

Luxury at last.

It was, at best, a gilded cage.

A month had passed since his television announcement of the dissolution of the CCC. Since then, he had retreated into his office in the Consortium's temporary headquarters in Portland. The organization was slowly being dismantled; no one needed him. Umar was forced to contemplate what his future would hold now that he no longer was a high-profile spokesman for a politically active institution.

A far cry from his arid home on the toe of the Arabian Peninsula.

All of it was simply another facet of his curse.

 

 

 

 

A bold knock on his office door forced Umar Mernissi into the present. He straightened his tie to ease the memory. His past had sharp teeth.

His temporary office manager flung the door open. The cold green-tinged florescent light flooded the room. The harsh illumination shocked Umar's sensitive eyes. Blinking, he extended his hand palm out to block the glare.

“What is it?”

The young man, barely into his twenties, announced, “Special Agent Katsumi Tanaka is here. She says, ‘You can't fight fate.'”

Hawk claws broke through Umar's toenails. His leg hair quivered, fighting the fear-induced transformation
.
He clenched his gluteus muscles against the adrenaline push.

“What did she say?” he demanded, the echo of a bird of prey's cry in his throat.

“Uh, ‘She can't wait.' Are you okay, Mr. Mernissi? You sound funny.”

“My questions will not take long. If you would bring us coffee, I'm sure he'll be fine,” another voice answered. This one stroked his tail feathers just right.

His assistant wrote down the order and money changed hands. When did she discover his love of vanilla Italian sodas?

Umar blinked until his eyes adapted. Su Tanaka, the special agent for the Federal Bureau of Paranormal Relations currently leading the investigation into the activities of the CCC. She was tenacious, intelligent, and he wanted to fuck her where she stood.

The petite Asian woman's conservative suit jacket prevented him from seeing the silhouette of her figure, but the sight of velvety-looking skin made his fingertips restless. A large messenger bag crossed her body. A badge was clipped to the strap. He could not see her weapon but knew it had to be on her. Federal agents were funny that way.

She was a seemingly delicate woman with her doll-like looks and smooth black hair, but earlier this year, she had pierced his previously impenetrable mask of Middle Eastern stereotypes. He dug his nails into the leather arms of his chair.

Somehow, she had found enough about him to know he was truly not a conservative Saudi Wahabist known for his insistence on the subservience of women, but a secret donor to women's movements all over the world. He'd depended on that pretense to prevent anyone from learning his past. Umar would not bow before a woman, but he now understood how he had wronged his wife.

All Su had to do was dig deeper to uncover everything about him.

The thought terrified him, for it made him want to kiss her feet in gratitude. Living a lie killed a man inside.

“He's all yours, Special Agent. I suggest a chair and a whip,” the younger man deadpanned as walked away.

Umar scowled as she smiled at his far too smart-mouthed office assistant.

“I can take care of the whip, but I will accept the loan of a chair.”

Su's words straightened his spine into full erectness. What did this innocent-looking woman know about whips?

The tilt of her lips and her lifted eyebrows challenged him.
Go ahead. I dare you.

“Yeah, coffee. Be right back.” The assistant commented into the awkward silence between the two adversaries before escaping the charged atmosphere.

Umar paid no attention to the announcement. His gaze was fixed on the woman crossing the worn industrial green carpet.

“Never fear, Mr. Mernissi,” Su said as she crossed the room and extended her hand. “I'll be gentle.”

She saw him too clearly for his comfort.

“Special Agent Tanaka. It is surely my pleasure to see you again.”

She smiled, her face more satisfied than Umar liked. He instinctively knew he had to wrest control back from the small human. With grim determination and a set face, he remained seated until her hand started to drop. Only then did he stand and reach across his desk.

He took a risk by simply touching her.

Their hands made contact.

The world shattered in an apocalypse of fire as the building exploded. Gouts of red shot through the corridor and ripped the door off Radu's office. The metal fire door cleaved through the administrator's desk like a hunter's javelin through an animal's heart.

Her mouth opened as she tugged his hand and gestured toward the window. She was shouting orders that would take them to safety. He heard nothing; only felt a trickle of moisture down his earlobes.

The rage of the detonation had punctured his sensitive were-hawk's eardrums so quickly there had been no pain.

He clapped his hands to hide the blood, but not before her eyes widened. She stretched across the desk to haul him out.

The headquarters tipped sideways under their feet, a slab of masonry crashed onto the floor. Umar extended his arm, reaching for Su.

A tile landed on his head.

His vision darkened. He dropped to the floor, insensate.

Everyone was panicked and screaming. But FBPR agents are shaped from day one to deal with threats beyond human comprehension. As he fell, Su dove under Umar's sturdy desk. She had finally gotten the man loosened up enough to flirt; she wasn't going to lose this chance at romance because of a mere bomb. Books, shelving, even his red tape dispenser, flew toward them. If she didn't get them both under some cover, they would have the choice of being pummeled or crushed to death.

She wrapped her hands in his blood- and dust-streaked caftan, and pulled with her considerable strength. She might be small and mortal, but braced against the solid desk, she had leverage.

He was lighter than she anticipated; he slid across the floor easily. Heavy three-ring binders slammed into her back and cracked across the back of her head.

“Fuck.” The curse took too much energy. She tightened her jaw against the pain and kept pulling. Once he was under their makeshift cover, Su jammed his cushiony chair between the desk's legs. It was the perfect shield from the plummeting dangers.

Bookshelves rocked and teetered. At first, the earthquake proofing held. Then with a scream of metal and concrete, the bars tore free of the disintegrating walls. An empty metal bookcase fell on top of the desk, trapping them like raccoons in a deadly cage.

Su tucked her knees under her chin. She shoved her courier bag against the encroaching rubble and pressed against it, trying to expand their rapidly shrinking haven.

The aftershocks eased. Stillness, if not silence, reigned. The floor underneath laid at a precarious angle, but they were safe, for the moment.

Su took stock. Umar lay boneless but breathing. Plaster dust, cordite, and rock filled the air. Dust coated the inside of Su's nose and mouth. The abrasive particles scratched her eyes, making her eyes stream with hot, painful tears. Umar sagged against the far desk leg, his eyes glazed and a large goose-egg bump rising on his temple. He panted and wheezed like an asthmatic child.

Her adrenaline-fueled instincts for survival faded. Su's legs shook, causing the desk to tremble under its deadly load. Cursing, she hugged her knees to her chest, steadying herself.

They could die here.

But Katsumi Tanaka was damn well going to kiss Umar Mernissi before her world ended.