Lucian had no idea what he had done to incur the men’s wrath, but he did not intend to be beaten senseless by the likes of these. They were just mortals, after all, and mere commoners to boot, not vampires whose harsh discipline he might be expected to submit to without resistance. Although he was nothing more than a serf himself, Lucian owed no deference to these drunken louts. A growl escaped his lips as he dropped into a defensive crouch. His brown eyes turned cobalt blue.
The men spread out around him, clearly intending to assault him from all sides. The first man—a bald-headed lummox with a neck like an ox—came at Lucian from the front. He swung his club at the youth, who ducked beneath the blow and butted his head into the human’s chest hard enough to crack the man’s ribs. Gasping in pain, the man staggered backward. His club flew from his fingers and Lucian effortlessly snatched it from the air. He smacked it against the man’s skull, dropping him to the ground, even as he heard the second man—a sallow-faced brute with bad teeth—lumbering up behind him.
A backward kick sent Bad Teeth flying off the drawbridge. A startled yelp ended abruptly as he crashed down into the rocky slopes below, which were studded with jagged boulders. A high-pitched shriek gave way to agonized groans as the man was impaled upon a granite outcropping. He would have been better off breaking his neck instead.
Two down, one to go, Lucian thought. He spun around to confront the third man, who had attempted to waylay Lucian from the right. A one-eyed stonemason who wore a leather patch over the empty socket, this one appeared both larger and cagier than his more impetuous cohorts. Swollen veins bulged atop his meaty thews. A mermaid tattoo suggested that he had once gone to sea. Daunted by the preternatural speed with which Lucian had dispatched his fellows, the cyclops took his time attacking. “Demon!” he hissed at the boy as they circled each other warily. “I’ll send you back to hell where you belong!”
Lucian growled in response. He bared his teeth.
The stonemason’s face blanched, and, for a second, Lucian thought he might turn tail. The man crossed himself fearfully but did not back down. Mustering his courage, he let out a ferocious whoop and raced at Lucian with his club held high. His boots pounded against the wooden planks of the drawbridge, but, compared to the boy’s inhuman reflexes, he might as well have been slogging through heavy mud. Grinning wolfishly Lucian sprang from the ground and leapt over the mortal’s head, landing nimbly behind his foe. He spun around quickly, before the startled cyclops even realized what had happened, and kicked the man’s legs out from under him. The man fell forward onto his knees. His club slipped from his fingers and rolled away from him. He frantically scrambled for his weapon, but it was already too late. Clasping his hands together, Lucian clubbed the man across the back of his head with both fists. Bone cracked and the stonemason collapsed face-first onto the hard wooden planks. Blood and brains spilled across the drawbridge.
So much for those ruffians!
In a matter of moments, the melee was over. Lucian stood triumphantly over the fallen bodies of his assailants. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
Before he could fully savor his victory, however, the boy’s keen ears alerted him to another threat. Something came whistling through the sky behind him and he whirled around just in time to pluck a speeding crossbow bolt from the air, only inches from his face. The silver glare of the arrowhead hurt his eyes, so he tossed the offending missile away. It rattled harmlessly onto the floor of the drawbridge.
A smattering of light applause came from the castle. Lucian looked up proudly to see Viktor and a small group of vampire courtiers and ladies gazing down at him from the grand balcony upon the central keep. The aristocratic vampires were clad in all their finery, wearing elegant gowns and robes of the darkest silk and velvet. Legend had it that the bite of a bat had transformed Marcus into a vampire; the flowing black raiment of his kind draped over their slender forms like folded wings. Viktor lowered the crossbow. He nodded in approval, plainly pleased by Lucian’s prowess.
Of course, Lucian thought, as the reason for the mortals’ unwarranted attack upon him became clear. It was another of Viktor’s tests.
The regal Elder had taken much interest in the young man over the years, despite (or perhaps because of) his bestial origins. Lucian sometime wondered why so powerful a monarch concerned himself with the bastard child of a dead werewolf, but he was grateful for the Elder’s patronage—and for the fact that he had not been put to death at birth. He knew that many in the castle wished otherwise; they made little effort to disguise their contempt and suspicion when they passed him in the drafty corridors of the ancient fortress. Nor could he blame them for their disdain. Despite his best efforts to prove that he was not an unreasoning animal like his savage forebears, the taint of the wolf still flowed through his veins….
“What do you think, Sonja?” Viktor’s voice carried from the balcony as he addressed his small daughter, who stood beside him behind the railing. The girl’s birth, eight winters ago, had been a time of both celebration and mourning. Her mother, the Lady Ilona, had perished giving birth to Viktor’s only child. “Shall we make more?”
“Of him?” The little girl was spellbound by the handsome youth below. Curly brown locks framed the child’s angelic features. A black satin kirtle clothed her diminutive form. A crest-shaped pendant, centered around a polished turquoise gemstone, dangled on a chain around her neck. Wide chestnut eyes peered down at Lucian.
“Like him,” Viktor clarified. “Lucian will be the first of a new breed. The first of the lycans.”
Sonja nodded absently, seemingly more interested in the boy himself than her father’s machinations. “Lucian,” she repeated, trying the name out in her mouth. “Lucian…”
Pure-born vampire children were rare in the castle. Lucian wondered what she would be like when she grew up.
Lucian crouched nervously in his humble den in the castle’s sprawling dungeons. A straw pallet rested in the corner of the cell, but there would no rest for him tonight. Viktor had other plans for him, plans that filled the boy’s heart with trepidation. His stomach rumbled unhappily; upon the Elder’s orders, he had not been fed for hours. His eyes were fixed on a narrow window cut high in the moldy stone wall before him. Naked, he waited apprehensively for what was to come. A capital V for Viktor was branded on his bare right arm.
He felt the full moon rising outside even before the first silvery beams invaded his lair. His brown eyes dilated, shrinking down to tiny black pinpricks. Blood pounded in his ears, like a tide crashing against the shore. His heart stampeded wildly beneath his hairless chest. Teeth and nails tugged at their roots. His skin felt hot and feverish. A sudden sweat drenched his body.
No, he thought, just as he did every month when the moon waxed full. Not again!
He wanted to shrink away from the moonlight, yet that would have been contrary to Viktor’s expressed wishes. Iron bars trapped him inside the cell, making retreat impossible. There was no escape from the rising moon—or the beast it awoke inside him.
His face contorted into a hellish mask of pain as his innards twisted within his gut. Bulging veins throbbed beneath his skin. His eyes glazed over into inhuman cobalt orbs. Jagged fangs clenched tightly to keep from screaming. Convulsing, he collapsed onto the straw-covered floor and rolled into the pitch blackness at the rear of the cell, as far from the open window as he could get. He huddled upon the floor in torment, praying for deliverance.
Why must I be so cursed? I never asked for this!
But despite his prayers, the moonlight found him out. A beam of cold white light slashed his arm and the slender limb turned dark and sinewy. His splayed fingers degenerated into claws. His bare skin thickened, becoming coarse and leathery. Muscles rippled across his back as his youthful frame seemed to absorb weight and substance from the moonlight, growing larger and more imposing. Bristling black fur erupted from beneath his febrile hide. Dark hair spread over his body, hiding his nakedness beneath a thick sable pelt. Bony ta
lons scraped at the damp stones beneath the straw. His vision blurred, the color fading from his sight as the dungeon around him dissolved into fuzzy shades of gray. Tufted ears twitched atop his skull. His nostrils quivered, suddenly alive to myriad new smells. He choked on the overwhelming stench of dungeons, even as he bit back the howl forming at the back of his throat.
No! He fought against the almost irresistible urge to give voice to the beast. A canine snout stretched out his face. His clamped his protruding jaws together. I’m not an animal! Not inside!
But on the outside, it was a different story. The wrenching pain passed away as the hellish transformation reached its end. Little trace of the gawky youth remained; instead a great black werewolf arose from the filthy straw, standing erect on his hind legs. Moonlight bathed the enormous monster Lucian had become. He stared in revulsion at his own misshapen paws.
This isn’t me, he tried to convince himself. Not truly.
Ordinarily, the worst of Lucian’s ordeal would be over now. In the past, Viktor had simply kept him securely locked up on the nights of the full moon. But tonight would be different. Lucian found himself torn between apprehension and a strange, shameful excitement that he was scarcely willing to acknowledge, even to himself. His ears perked up at the sound of multiple footsteps plodding toward his cell. He licked his chops in nervous anticipation as his glowing cobalt eyes peered through the bars of the cage. Drool dripped from his jaws.
Within minutes, a dismal procession came into view. Flickering torchlight revealed a row of human serfs being prodded toward the cell by armored Death Dealers. Iron shackles bound their hands and feet. Filthy rags barely covered their undernourished bodies, many of which bore the marks of the vampires’ whips. Lice infested their unkempt hair and beards. Heads bowed meekly, more than a dozen men and boys were herded like cattle through the fetid bowels of the dungeon. Their bare feet trudged wearily over the uneven stones. Captured in war, or sold into bondage by their feudal lords, they had no idea of what lay in store for them… until they glimpsed the fearsome werewolf waiting hungrily in his cage.
Screams erupted from the prisoners, threatening to unleash pandemonium. Lashes cracked against mortal skin, flaying flesh from bone, as the vampires brutally restored order and continued to press the unfortunate mortals toward Lucian. The helpless serfs whimpered and begged for mercy, but their frantic pleas fell upon deaf ears. Tears streamed from their eyes, and sobbing fathers clutched their children, as the lead Death Dealer unlocked Lucian’s cage. The barred door swung open.
Lucian was tempted to make a break for it, to take advantage of his wolfen strength and speed to flee what was to come, but he knew that the Death Dealers would strike him down if he made the slightest move to exit his cell. Or was that just an excuse to remain where he was? As much as he hated to admit it, part of him didn’t want to go anywhere, not now. The smell of fresh human meat tantalized his nostrils. His mouth watered at the sight of the savory mortals.
The captain of the Death Dealers, a dark-haired vampire named Sandor, laughed harshly. “Feeding time, cur!”
A loutish peasant was yanked from the procession and shoved into Lucian’s cage. Shrieking hysterically, the man fought his captors every inch of the way, but his mortal thews were no match for the superior strength of the Death Dealers, who chuckled as they cast him to his fate. The trembling serf found himself trapped between the merciless vampires behind him and the horrifying werewolf looming before him. Convinced that his end was upon him, he prayed fervently to the saints while wringing his hands in despair. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look upon his doom. His scarred body shook like a leaf. He lost control of his bladder. His bowels emptied.
“Mother of God, have mercy upon my poor soul….”
The man’s manifest terror stirred Lucian to pity, but it was not in his power to spare the stranger this ordeal.
Viktor held the reins of all their destinies and what the Elder had ordained must now come to pass. Lucian wished he could offer the anguished serf some words of comfort, yet his hideous new shape denied him the luxury of human speech. The growl that issued from his muzzle did nothing but make the condemned prisoner shudder even harder. The only merciful thing, Lucian realized, was to be quick about it….
He lunged forward and sank his fangs into the peasant’s shoulder. Blood gushed from the werewolf’s jaws. The prisoner screamed in agony. The intoxicating flavor of the bloody meat filled Lucian’s mouth as he tasted human flesh for the first time. His heart pounded in exultation. His mind reeled.
It took all his self-control not to tear the man to pieces….
Viktor observed the grisly spectacle as, one by one, the shackled prisoners were led forward to receive the werewolf’s bite. He gazed down at the proceedings through a metal grate covering the top of Lucian’s cage. Death Dealers dragged the wounded slaves away from the werewolf once they were bitten. Metal collars, of singular design, were clamped around the victims’ necks. Silver spikes, each more than an inch long, jutted from the inner lining of the collars, so that the tips of the spikes almost pricked the prisoners’ skin. Writhing in pain, the bleeding men and women barely noticed the “moon shackles” being affixed to their throats. An intricate locking mechanism ensured that they would wear the collars for the rest of their lives. Branding irons marked their arms with an ornate capital V. The smell of seared flesh wafted upward.
Excellent, Viktor thought. All is going just as I decreed.
He was pleased to see that, thus far, Lucian had resisted the temptation to devour the hapless mortals whole. The orphan’s discipline and willingness to follow orders boded well for the future of this entire enterprise. Viktor could only hope that his spawn would prove equally docile.
“Behold,” the Elder said smugly. “The birth of a new race of immortals. Werewolf, but also human.” No doubt many of the bitten serfs would die from the infection, but Viktor trusted that enough of them would survive the transformation to suit his purposes; if not, he would simply have to throw more humans between Lucian’s gaping maw. “Unlike William’s kind, this new breed can be harnessed to guard us during the daylight hours.”
It had long been a source of concern to Viktor and the other Elders that the fortress was vulnerable by day, as not even the fiercest Death Dealer could withstand the burning rays of the sun. What if their mortal vassals rose up in insurrection, or a hostile pack of werewolves ventured forth after dawn? The castle’s remote location and high stone walls provided a degree of security against such incursions, but he had always feared that these defenses were not sufficient. Viktor had been a veteran military commander even before Marcus made him immortal, and he knew full well that no fortress was truly impregnable. Indeed, he had razed more than few castles himself.
“Or so we hope, milord,” his companion added cautiously. Andreas Tanis, the coven’s chief scribe and historian, stood beside Viktor upon the grille. He was a slight man, with the deceptive look of a mortal in his mid-thirties. His mousy brown hair was slicked back to expose a high forehead. A slightly florid tinge to his face hinted at an overindulgence in mortal blood. His black brocaded doublet and satin hose were of lesser quality than Viktor’s own regal attire, but the rich fabrics and fine tailoring befitted his elevated status in the coven. No warrior, he was a vampire of scholarly inclinations and distinctly hedonistic vices. Still, Viktor valued his keen mind and loyalty—to a point.
“You doubt me?” he said crossly, annoyed at the scribe’s apparent lack of enthusiasm. A scowl crossed his face. “You question my judgment in this matter?”
“Not at all, Lord Viktor.” The chastened scribe hastened to mollify his liege. “I trust your profound wisdom implicitly.” Backing away from the Elder, he nodded at the gruesome transactions taking place below them. He raised his voice to be heard over the screams of the future lycans. “I’m just not certain that I entirely trust them.”
Chapter Two
Two hundred years later…
&n
bsp; The horsewoman raced through the dark, primeval forest. The hooves of her ebony steed pounded against a muddy dirt road as she urged it onward. Skeletal trees, their jagged branches denuded by winter’s chill, snatched at her flapping black cloak. Moonlight filtered through the dense arboreal canopy overhead. Swirling mist blanketed the ground. Inky shadows filled the gaps between the encroaching trees and underbrush. The trail winded through a maze of naked oaks and beeches. Grayish lichen clung to the mottled bark.
Sonja’s eyes searched the sylvan shadows, fearful of what they might hide. Polished black armor, handcrafted to fit her svelte figure, gleamed in the moonlight. Intricate runes and rosettes were embossed upon her ebony cuirass and gorget, which she wore over a chain mail gusset, skirt, and leggings. Forged metal plates guarded her shoulders and knees. A menacing steel helmet concealed her features. A matching shaffron and crinet shielded her horse’s head and neck. Steam jetted from the steed’s flaring nostrils. Lather dripped from its sides.
“Easy, Hecate,” Sonja whispered to her mount. She drew back on the reins and the horse skidded to a halt. Trees lined like the narrow road like the columns of some forgotten temple. The crisp night air smelled of damp wood and loam. Every sense alert to danger, she looked about her in all directions. She listened tensely to the nocturnal murmurs of the forest. Unseen animals rustled through the bush and bracken. An owl hooted in the branches above her. Bats flapped in the darkness. A cold wind shuffled the fallen leaves hidden beneath the fog. Sonja held her breath, every muscle in her lithe body primed for action. Her tongue traced the smooth contours of her fangs.