Underworld: Blood Enemy (18 page)

Chapter Seventeen

CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS

The day was waning fast as Lucian tracked through the verdant forest on foot. Soon he would have to seek shelter for the night, unless he found what he was looking for. He trudged through the clotted underbrush, far from any mortal paths, as he traversed a wooded valley lying deep between the spurs of the jagged, snow-topped mountains.

Nearly a month had passed since his escape from Castle Corvinus, yet Lucian knew that Viktor and his Death Dealers would still be looking for him. For safety’s sake, he had taken to traveling by day while hiding at night.

Has it truly been almost a month?
he thought, his throat tightening. The pain of Sonja’s death was still fresh within him, tearing at his heart and soul. He could still hear her agonized cries, smell her soft and supple flesh burning in the sunlight, along with the precious child she carried within her. The ghastly memories haunted him day and night, as did hopeless fantasies of the life they might have had together, a life that he would never know.
Sometimes it feels as though I lost her mere hours ago.

That first night, he had taken refuge in the charred ruins of Strasba, abandoned after the vampires set fire to the village two months ago. Human tears had streamed down a wolfen muzzle as he’d whimpered in pain and despair, mourning the loss of his one true love. He had not even been able to howl his grief to the moon, lest his heartsick keening bring his undead enemies down on him. That hellish night had been the longest in his entire immortal existence.

The next day, he had rooted through the blackened timbers in search of provisions. Most of the villagers’ earthly possessions had been destroyed in the fire, but Lucian had managed to salvage a decent steel knife and a quantity of gold and copper coins. Ironically, it was the modest stone chapel, Brother Ambrose’s final sanctuary, that had provided the richest pickings: there he found the greatest store of currency, as well as fresh garments to clothe his nakedness. A hooded cloak concealed his face, while a monk’s black robe hid the telltale brand on his arm. Sandaled feet trod softly on the mossy forest floor.

Most nights he spent at mortal inns, posing as a wandering pilgrim, which was true enough in a way. He had found to his relief that his disguise, complete with a cross and rosary beads, helped blind humans to his true nature. Apparently, they could not imagine that any werewolf or vampire would willingly don the trappings of their faith.

In this way, he had eluded the Death Dealers for weeks, but Lucian had more than mere survival on his mind. Revenge was his abiding obsession now, not just against Viktor but against every arrogant vampire who had ever lorded over a lycan. He could not believe that he had ever admired, let alone envied, his former masters. He saw now that the vampires’ elegant veneer of culture and civilization masked a cold-blooded barbarity more heinous than that of the most savage lycan.

They are all bloodsucking parasites who deserve to be put to the sword! Except for Sonja,
of course.

He gently touched her gilded pendant, which now occupied a permanent place around his own neck. He tried to remember her as she had been—loving, beautiful—rather than as the lifeless pile of cinders she had become.
I shall never forget you, my love,
he silently vowed,
or the happiness
we once shared.

A happiness that Viktor had destroyed without mercy.

If Lucian had his way, the vampires would pay for Sonja’s unforgivable murder, but he knew that a lone wolf would not be enough to overthrow Viktor and his undead ilk.

I need an army.

Hence today’s hunting expedition, deep into the primeval heart of the rugged wilderness.

Lucian had been tracking this lycan pack for days. Travelers’ tales, recounted nightly in inns and alehouses, spoke of a plague of supernatural beasts that had been preying on neighboring livestock—and the occasional careless mortal—for months now, most often on the nights of the full moon. From the humans’ horrified descriptions of the mangled remains left behind by the monsters, Lucian recognized the handiwork of his renegade kinsmen.

Better,
he mused,
that such ferocity be turned against the vampires instead. They should be
our true prey, now and for all time.

His eyes probed the dense brush and bracken before him. Broken branches and half-buried droppings kept him on the correct path through the closely packed oaks and beeches. The heavy canopy overhead cast the forest floor into shadow, but Lucian’s expert gaze had no trouble following the lycans’ trail. Their spoor was obvious to one who knew where to look.

He glanced upward through the interlaced tree branches to see the sun sinking slowly toward the west.
The moon will he full tonight,
he recalled.
If they’re smart, the vampires will stay safely
behind their castle walls.

Twilight’s crimson radiance was painting the distant mountaintops red by the time Lucian’s ears detected the clamor of raucous voices and laughter. He cautiously circled to the right in order to stay downwind; there was no point in alerting the noisy celebrants until he was ready to make his entrance.

He expected he would need every advantage he could get.

Creeping stealthily through the woods, he spied ragged figures cavorting around a smoldering campfire. A wedge-shaped clearing, nestled at the base of a rocky cliff, played host to a throng of unruly men and women clad in crudely stitched furs and tattered rags.

Success!
He had found the marauders he sought.

The feral lycans looked indistinguishable from any other pack of wild renegades. Dirty, ill groomed, and obstreperous, they reminded Lucian of that final hunt with Lady Ilona and her Death Dealers, when he’d led the vampires straight to the outlaws’ camp. Guilt stabbed him as he recalled the vital part he had played in enslaving his lycan brothers and sisters.

Never again!
he swore.
Henceforth, I will fight only to free my kind from the vampires’

yoke.

Drawing courage from his conviction, he strode boldly into the primitive camp, inwardly lamenting the ease with which he did so. Had none of these ruffians ever heard of lookouts or sentries?

“Greetings, my esteemed relations!” He threw back his hood and raised empty palms to show that he was unarmed. “A prodigal son desires your hospitality and attention.”

His unexpected appearance provoked an uproar among the pack. Wild-eyed lycans, already excited by the imminent return of the full moon, halted their revels to stare suspiciously at the new arrival. Lucian soon found himself surrounded by hostile faces and curious fingers. Strangers tugged on his cloak and robe, perhaps fancying how the sturdy garments would fit upon their ill-clad frames.

“Is he mortal?” an eager voice asked. “Meat for the taking?”

“I don’t think so,” another lycan answered, with more than a hint of disappointment in her voice.

She sniffed his hands and neck. “He smells wolfen, like one of us!”

A scruffy and undisciplined lot,
Lucian assessed the welcome party coolly,
but they will have
to do
—
for a start.
“I assure you, my friends, that I am quite as lycan as yourselves.” His eyes searched the faces around him, looking for the stamp of authority, while doing his best to ignore the noisome odor of their unwashed bodies. “Where is your leader? We must have words.”

A tremendous roar drew Lucians attention to an imposing figure standing atop a dark outcropping of rock. He saw a muscular, broad-chested male lycan with a mane of silvery white hair.

A shaggy sheepskin cloak was draped over the mans powerful shoulders like the mantle of a king.

“I, Sandor, am leader here,” the man declared, his arms crossed over his hairy chest. Sharply pointed canines jutted up from beneath his lower lip. “What do you want of me?”

The mans imperious attitude reminded Lucian unpleasantly of Viktor and his fellow Elders.

“Come closer, and we shall speak,” he said defiantly. I’ve
played the dutiful servant long enough,

Lucian thought; the day was long past when he would willingly kowtow to anyone, vampire or lycan.

“If you dare.”

Sandor scowled at Lucian’s impertinence but was not about to refuse a challenge in front of his subordinates. He bounded off the weathered stone outcropping, covering the distance between them in a single leap. The lycans surrounding Lucian parted to let their ruler approach the newcomer.

Lucian could not help noticing that Sandor was at least a head taller than him and outweighed him considerably as well.

And that was before the Change….

Sandor eyed Lucian’s robes and rosary with derision. “You’ve come to the wrong place, Brother,” he mocked. “We need no priest!”

The other lycans laughed like hyenas at their leader’s jest, but Lucian took their jeers in stride.

He stripped off his robe and cloak, revealing a brown wool tunic and hose. A plain steel dagger was tucked beneath a leather belt. “I am neither monk nor priest,” he stated. “Indeed, I come bearing tidings of war, not peace.”

“War?” Sandor repeated in confusion. He thrust his head forward, until his protruding fangs were only inches from Lucian’s face. “Who the hell are you? You smell like a lycan, but you talk like a fucking blood!”

“My name is Lucian,” he said, seeing no need to mince words. “I intend to lead this pack against our great enemy, the vampires. You can step aside and aid me in this endeavor… or you can be destroyed.” He drew his dagger from his belt and tossed it carelessly onto the grassy sward at the base of the cliff. “The choice is yours.”

Sandor’s face flushed with rage. “You challenge me, little wolfling?” he bellowed, spraying Lucian’s face with saliva. The hairs on his brawny body bristled, and his dark eyes took on a bluish hue. He stepped backward and shrugged off his sheepskin cloak. Cobalt eyes glanced at the darkening sky, where the full moon would shortly rise. “I don’t even need to Change to break you like a twig!”

“We shall see,” Lucian said. Conscious of the moon’s approach, he kicked off his sandals and hastily stripped to the skin. Although raised as a servant, he knew enough of the customs of wild lycans to be confident that the other lycans would not come to Sandor’s defense; a pack leader had to meet such challenges single-handed. “I would prefer not to kill you. The vampires are our true enemies, not each other. But I will do whatever is necessary to take command of this pack.”

“The only thing you’re going to do is die!”

Without further ado, Sandor charged at Lucian. The massive lycan slammed into Lucian at the same moment that the moon showed itself above the tree tops, transforming them both in mid-struggle. Sprouting claws raked across Lucian’s torso even as his rib cage expanded to meet the blow. His own claws extended from his fingertips, slashing at Sandor’s protruding snout and leaving bloody gouges across the larger werewolf’s muzzle. Sandor’s spreading fur was silvery in color, in contrast to Lucian’s dark black pelt. Foam dripped from the dueling werewolves’ jaws and their titanic roars and growls echoed against the smooth black face of the cliff at the far side of the clearing. Patches of torn fur went flying into the shadows as the enormous beasts snapped and clawed at each other. Bright red blood sprayed like mist.

The lambent moon transformed their audience as well, changing the ragtag band of lycans into a pack of frenzied werewolves. Shouted whoops and cheers of encouragement gave way to an ear-splitting chorus of savage howls.

Sandor was even stronger than he looked. A backhanded swipe of the silver werewolf’s arm sent Lucian flying backward into the trunk of a towering oak. He hit the tree with bone-jarring force, leaving him momentarily dazed. The moonlit clearing swam before his eyes.

I need a change of strategy,
he realized.
Now.

Sandor came at him again, racing across the grass on all fours. Bloody fangs gleamed within his gaping jaws.

To buy himself time, Lucian turned and clambered up the side of the oak. His claws found purchase in the bark, and he scaled the tree at a feverish pace, anxious to place a margin of safety between himself and the great silver werewolf, if only for a moment.

Frustrated by his foe’s retreat, Sandor reared up at the base of the ancient oak and roared in fury. He grabbed hold of the tree trunk with his powerful forelimbs and shook the tree with all his might. His volcanic blue eyes locked onto Lucian’s, daring the smaller werewolf to abandon his perch atop the tree.

The wolf in Lucian wanted to answer Sandor’s fierce growls with tooth and claw, pouncing back down into the fight, but Lucian knew he had to curb his more bestial instincts if he wanted to triumph over the indomitable pack leader, who had no doubt survived many a challenge to his reign. Sandor was strong, but, like most lycans, he relied entirely on brute strength and ferocity.

I, on the other hand, have my intellect.

Lucian’s shrewd blue eyes surveyed the field of battle, looking for a way to turn the terrain to his advantage. His gaze fell on the vertical face of the granite cliff, and an idea occurred to him. I
need to
have this wolf at my mercy, not the other way around….

An impatient Sandor began climbing the tree toward Lucian. With a parting growl in Sandor’s direction, Lucian leaped from the treetop to the clearing below, forcing startled werewolves to dive out of the way of his plummeting form. He landed nimbly on the grass, then turned to roar defiantly back at Sandor, who was halfway up the tree before discovering that his prey had returned to the ground. He barked indignantly.

As his plan depended on Sandor chasing after him, Lucian took a moment to taunt the silver-haired werewolf. He barked contemptuously at Sandor, slashing at the empty air with his claws. The outraged pack leader responded to the bait by hurling himself from the leafy oak onto the ground after Lucian. The impact of his landing rocked the floor of the clearing, and his thunderous roar drowned out the howling of the wolfen spectators.