Okay, first off, a HUGE thank you to everyone who commented. You guys are completely fantastic and inspiring. I don't know if this is true for other authors, but the more reviews I get, the faster I write. So keep them coming J
Secondly, I believe that I forgot my disclaimer on the first chapter. So I'll say right now: I do not own Underworld or any of the characters from the movie. I promise that I'm only borrowing them for the duration, and I'll try to return them as good as new.
And now, the story:
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A large flask, filled with a cloudy bluish liquid. A few drops of viscous, dark red blood added to the vial and stirred gently. The blood made lazy spirals in the fluid, twisting and dancing for him. If only there were more…
A face, twisted with awesome fury and unquenchable rage. Viktor's face. A taloned hand flying toward his face. Intense pain. Darkness.
Blood mixing with liquid, turning black. The ill-fated, awful black of failure once again. After all the research, all the tests, all the subjects…still black.
The grim face of a young man. An American. Longish light brown hair that fell into his hazel eyes. Still young, for a mortal. A descendent of Corvinus.
A leather-clad Death Dealer, armed with identical Beretta pistols filled with poisonous silver rounds. Bullets flying through the air and exploding through flesh. Screams of agony as the projectiles found their mark.
Blood in the vial, mixing with the liquid…and turning purple. Success! Lucien would be pleased. We possess the key now…
Marcus' eyes flew open, yet instead of the recovery chamber, they perceived only darkness. He tasted thick, strange blood on his dry, weathered lips—like nothing he'd ever tasted before, not in millennia of life. Not human blood for certain, yet not the rich elixir of vampire blood either…but somehow similar. Lycan blood? But how was that possible? The Crypt was guarded day and night. Not to mention that their two races had been at war for centuries. What could a lycan stand to gain from awakening an Elder? A lycan…scientist, at that?
The memories the blood had bestowed upon him were fragmentary and incoherent, but Marcus was able to grasp enough to make a few things frighteningly clear. First and foremost, Lucien was somehow still alive, which could only mean that Kraven, the Death Dealer who'd supposedly slain the lycan commander years ago, was a traitor. To compound the horror, the lycans had been toying with creating abomination—a hybrid. The very thing which had incurred Viktor's wrath and begun the war in the first place. The other thing that was evident was that the lycans were very, very close to success. The American...Michael. For some reason, he was the key. Corvinus…. Just like Marcus.
Did this lycan conspiracy extend to him as well? Perhaps. He just didn't have enough information. Amelia would be here soon enough, though…for surely someone must have seen the man-beast sneak into the Crypt, or at least the evidence of it. Surely he didn't have long to wait…. Surely?
**
The midnight black limousine pulled up beside the ancient mansion long known as Ordoghaz, the Devil's House. Those who stood outside to greet it were filled with both anticipation and apprehension. For all that they were the eldest remaining vampires of the European coven, Viktor's child and one time pupil was legendary for his strength in battle and his quicksilver temper. Hence the shadows; men and women draped in black leather and trained for centuries in the martial arts. The Death Dealers were on hand to handle things if either side happened toward violence.
It should have been an honor, thought Gerald, gazing through the tinted window of the limo. He was the eldest vampire awake now, the heir to Viktor's throne. It was his duty to perform Marcus' Awakening. Only he and a few others truly knew the way of it. Knew how to channel a lifetime of memories into a form the Elder could comprehend. It should have been an honor, and they should be welcoming him with relief and gratitude. Yet these sniveling weaklings trembled at the very thought of him. It mattered little. Once his task was performed, he would return to his seclusion. This century was so trying, so quick moving…. But the vampire was a master at adaptation. It had to be, in order to survive the millennia. Gerald would ease himself into it slowly, and savor the new cultures that had arisen from the ashes of civilizations long gone.
As the driver opened the door, Gerald could overhear the gasps of decadent aristocrats, and could almost sense the tension in the Death Dealers. They weren't prepared for his appearance. Why should they be? He'd had no reason to show himself for ages, not since his falling out with Viktor. But he did not hide his face. The scars he bore were a brutal reminder to all present of just what he was. The steel armor was a reminder of what he lived for. He was a warrior. And there was no vampire now living who had ever bested him.
"L-lord Gerald," blubbered one, a beautiful man who more than likely had the brain of a tit mouse. Vampire aristocrats were all the same, all appearance and flash, with nothing to back it up. "It's an honor, truly," he continued, offering his hand in the age old gesture of peace. I have no weapons, he said, without saying a word.
Gerald couldn't help but sneer slightly at the man. If it is such an honor, why are you all running scared?, he mused. No, not an honor at all. A necessity. They would have left him to his isolation if there had been but one among them who was capable of performing the ceremony. Gerald ignored the proffered hand, brushed by the throng of sniveling aristocrats, and entered into the mansion proper.
Decadent, he thought. There was no other word for the overstated opulence of the great hall. Those who dwelled here had likely never known struggle, or seen war first-hand. They were unworthy of being called vampires. They were little better than lycans, in fact, their one-time guardians turned fierce rivals. Some days he thought they were more undeserving even, for at least the lycans showed their fangs. But those days were few and far between.
It had been more than a century since he'd been inside Ordoghaz, and underneath the trappings of debauchery and the addition of modern technology, it hadn't changed at all. He certainly didn't need the pitiful cretins who called themselves vampires to show him the way to the Crypt, or point out Marcus' resting place. He had been a frequent visitor here, in the past. Until the day Viktor had taught him a lesson he'd never forget. After that day, Gerald had left the mansion, thinking that he'd never return. And now Viktor was dead. He didn't know if it was odd that he felt no grief. The Elder had given him the gift of immortality, had taught him and guided him for more than a thousand years. And yet some things were unforgivable.
He was saddened by Amelia's death, but moreover, he was angered. She had been like a mother to him, once upon a time, just as Viktor had been like his father. Though she hadn't really been that much older than him, Gerald had always looked up to her. She'd possessed the immortal grace that the aristocrats in the mansion could never hope to possess in ten thousand years. And she had a quick mind. She'd been a princess once upon a time, schooled in history and art, mathematics and warfare.
Gerald's fist clenched as he thought about her death. Ripped apart by rabid, slobbering, mangy man-beasts…and helped by Kraven, the vampire Viktor had trusted to run the European coven while he slumbered. Blood welled from cuts made by his sharpened fingernails as he thought about the fate that awaited the traitor. Vengeance would be sweet, and slow torture so much sweeter.
Somehow, lost in thought, his feet still remembered the way to the Crypt, and Gerald found himself at the glass doors that indicated the entrance. One glance at the man behind the monitor screens and the doors opened. He stood before the bronze locking mechanism that sheltered the Elder's coffin, then knelt and twisted the stylized M. Gerald could smell traces of blood on the floor of the room, which he could only guess came from some prisoner Viktor had tortured. The Elder warrior was always big on that kind of thing. It had an odd tang to it though…lycan blood perhaps.
It matters not, for now. Gerald had to concentrate now, to focus the memories of what had passed since Marcus had last reigned. It was a simple enough procedure: focus the thoughts, organize them chronologically, and transmit them to the blood. Yet it took more concentration than most vampires could muster in their long lifetimes.
A final click and Marcus' coffin was rising from its resting place. The Elder looked much better than he had any right to, after two hundred years. Gerald pressed the release mechanism and rotated the coffin so that it was parallel to the floor, exposing the tube that would carry his blood and memories to the Elder. Gerald cleared his mind of everything except the past events as Marcus should view them. He then drew a finely crafted silver dagger from its sheath and slit his wrist, allowing the blood to drip into the collector. He traced its path down the length of tubing and finally into Marcus' mouth.
The ceremony was complete. Now, all that remained to do was wait until the blood took effect and the Elder awoke to reign once again.