Chapter II : A State of Undress
The Hamburg Den.
Time: 12:50 am
The so-called Hamburg den of lycans was an old, run-down structure located on the east side of the river Alster. Once known to be a hotel of some stature, the three-story building had fallen into vast disrepair, losing both its reputation and clientele in the wake of the second World War. Acquired nearly four decades later by an unknown client of some wealth, it had been steadily converted into a discreet base of operations, made to blend with the surrounding neighbourhood, while maintaining an interior state of…some…comfort.
In other words, although not in line with the languishing (and no doubt, musty) velvet of Ordoghaz, it was still a stone cold fact that even lycans could exhibit a certain "taste" for refinement…
Or at least...one did.
Already shrugging his coat off as he entered the den, Lucian immediately headed for his personal quarters, being in no mood to check in on Singe or the rest of the pack. Usually, he ran a tight ship and oversaw the evening rounds, but then tonight, what difference would it make? Nothing had changed. Singe would just shrug, shuffle some papers and mutter "Negative," while the rest of his pack wasted his time reporting on the word "stupid" and why they thought it was a good idea at the time to light so-and-so's tail on fire. Better to ready himself for the morning and make an early night of it.
Stalking through the front hallway, he noticed Raze was keeping a safe distance from his back, but unfortunately, following him…perhaps thinking to continue their conversation once they reached the upper floors. As they reached the lycan common-room, however, his second-in-command suddenly veered towards the entrance, attempting to close the door before Lucian could take note of what was going on inside…obviously realizing this was not the prime night for further aggravating the lycan master's mood. Unfortunately, the action, though brave, was also entirely useless considering the amount of noise coming from the interior. Quietly informing Raze to stand down, Lucian comfortably leaned against the doorway and decided to watch the show for several seconds before interfering with their sport...
Blood-spattered furniture turned on its side. The television stuck on one channel and silently blaring static signals. Lycans pushing and shoving one another as they fought over freedom, meat, bones and boredom…swallowing their growls suddenly as they realized the lycan master had stopped by their chaos with an extraordinarily tight smirk on his face. One particularly new soul was still trying to wrestle his way out of the mob, but suddenly noticing the abrupt silence, quickly shut up and tried to blend with the broken remote clutched in his palm. Occasionally, the youngling's eyes would dart hopefully up at Raze, but the second-in-command had moved to the other side of the door, folding his arms forbiddingly. Apparently, Raze couldn't bail them out this time…
Still the picture of good-will, Lucian suddenly waved an arm out invitingly. "Please…" he gestured. "…continue."
Taking another step forward, he stooped to pick up a broken leg from one of the many smashed chairs lying about the room. Examining it carefully, he began to advance upon the mob…the wood splintering as his grip tightened on the chair-leg…his nails growing to the harsh length of talons, yellow and twisting through transformation. The surrounding lycans began to draw back, sensing the storm and leaving the inexperienced youngling where he lay, his eyes staring fearfully, and yet entranced, as the hand of Lucian changed. The reduced sound of trees snapping in winter. The chair-leg collapsing into a dozen or so dusty chunks of wood, falling pitilessly to the concrete…blood dripping from where splinters had entered his palm.
Kneeling by the lone lycan and holding his talons out in sinister expectation, Lucian allowed the nails to shrink back suddenly, shifting his paw through subtle horror to the guise of a human hand once more…the youngling's eyes trapped by the ease with which this feared master could alter himself. The tiny wounds healing in the blink of an eye as foreign shards of wood were shoved from his flesh out of sheer will. It was a testament of Lucian's power that he could demonstrate such control over which portions of his body gave in to the moon's call. But still waiting, Lucian glanced meaningfully at the broken remote…the back of his hair starting to bristle. His teeth drawing back as a growl began to grow in his throat.
Gulping, the youngling quickly dropped the offending prize into Lucian's hand and scrambled back, retreating to where the rest of the pack stood. Tension blanketed over the room, the television still blaring static…
Silent static…
The growl died from whence it came. But still glaring bloody murder, the bristling alpha rose from his crouch and calmly removed one of the many guns littered upon his person. Semi-automatic, loaded, and generally kept with the safety off. Lead cartridges. Reserved for the sake of his human adversaries, and thus largely, unused in the battlefield of this war. Not even bothering to turn his head from the pack, he pointed the gun to his right and fired. Having lost all pretense of amusement, he tossed the remote on the ground, aware of every face as it flinched at the tiny buzz now echoing through the room. The one that signified the death of an entirely real flat-panel screen formerly installed on the right-hand wall.
"Problem solved."
Turning on his heel, Lucian stalked from the common-room, managing to stow his gun away before he accidentally twisted it into scrap metal. As he passed Raze, he snarled, knowing full-well that words were not required to communicate his meaning.
Usually, his second-in-command at least had the option of bothering him until they reached the staircase, but as of now, his debate privileges were stripped. His leader was a mite tired...a bit touchy...and quite obviously, ready to slaughter the next creature in his path. Hence, if there was or ever had been any question about him leaving for Trondheim, the incident standing sheepishly behind them had just answered it.
(P.S. "If anyone so much as blinks in my direction, there will be a lot more to deal with than just a dead plasma screen."
Taking the hint, his second-in-command moved instead into the common room, determined to take his fury out on the pack now that he'd been chucked from Lucian's flank and could no longer discuss the Norway issue. Typically, most of the pack looked to him for sympathy, but within seconds, all that could be heard was the sound of Raze barking off the walls, accompanied by a score of whimpering lycans. No doubt, clean-up duty would go well into the morning hours…
Scowling, Lucian left the scene of the crime and searched out a winding staircase located just beyond the drawing room, carelessly dropping his wintry coat at the foot of it before stretching his wrist out and easily removing the colossal blade attached to his right forearm. Though it required some dexterity in its handling, the entire contraption came off in a matter of seconds…and sure of his movements, the alpha began to climb the staircase, allowing the weapon to hang loosely from his wrist and completely unconcerned as the sharp blade began to swing lightly in the wake of his steps.
Comprising of several straps, two springs and a thumb-activated mechanical device, the piece was specially designed to unleash and retract a hidden weapon of slaughter. Though refashioned in the last decade, the blade was originally part of a 14th century long-sword broken on the stony banks of an abandoned fortress.
His fortress.
Now over six centuries later, he still managed to retain this small portion of a once-prized weapon. A memento of sorts from the night of his first "death." Still climbing, slowly but surely, he allowed his thoughts to drift back into the past…
…o…o…o…
The year was 1396 A.D.
Then as now, they had reached an impasse…
The vampires were steadfast in their crusade, striking the lycan forces on moonless nights, tipping their arrows with poison, coating swords and armour with silver so as to wound even when defending. Viktor had begun to burn all that had been the pride of his lands, not even willing to allow forests and caves to shelter enemies that had supposedly robbed him of his daughter. The lycan defenses were barely holding. Strategy, daylight, and human warfare were the only things keeping them alive.
King Zsigmond's vast crusade against the Ottoman Turks had worked greatly to his advantage. Nobles had immediately flocked to the Hungarian leader's call, and with the will of the Pope stamped on their brows, a force of eight thousand marched off to Nicopolis to do battle against Sultan Bayezid I. Half a year was spent waiting quietly while the humans organized their army, both vampiric and lycan forces warily watching each other, yet making no move for the sake of the secrecy which protected them. Better to wait rather than risk the wrath of thousands of humans who believed themselves righteous enough to swamp the undead. Not even waiting for a white flag, Lucian had sent word to all lycan forces to fall back east, choosing to establish his numbers in the mountains. An outlying fortress made for an excellent headquarters, but there was no doubt in his mind that it would be the stage for the last brutal attack that was to come once the truce of Nicopolis ended. Then, as now, Lucian had chosen to gamble, foregoing the impasse of war in order to remain a single step in front of the vampires.
For a wonder, it was the traitor who approached him, rather than the other way around. Under the cover of darkness, a lowly scout from the vampire forces sought an audience with him under terms of truce. Power, he sought. Authority and control…as if the fates had simply gifted him with a vampire willing to betray and murder hundreds for the sake of a title…and yet it was so. When the final curtain fell over Nicopolis, Viktor launched half of his forces against Lucian's fortress…and among them…
…the cowardly betrayer, aptly named Kraven.
The army had marched for days…weeks…rapidly approaching from the west. The importance of their scouts rested on the ability to find day-shelter for hundreds of vampires marching through the night. Throughout, Kraven had been their guide, drawing them further and further into a web of stone that would bring about their demise. By the time the warriors realized the other scouts were dead and the fortress lay above a gorge rather than a plain, it was too late.
Hundreds of vampires trapped between walls of stone. Arrows sticking out of corpses, lycans feeding off the meat of soldiers. But the screams had never haunted him. The bargain was struck, and every soul murdered. Every witness accounted for. The easiest part had been slicing the skin off his branded arm, while his lycans set fire to the fortress. For how else were they to prove that Kraven had killed the lycan master? Though not their most honourable hour, as a parting gift, his pack had also beaten the vampire within an inch of his life…a token of remembrance to watch his tongue in future. Kraven had never quite forgiven him.
And the final stroke of genius?
Since that fateful night, the vampires had believed him dead and his lycan forces scattered to the winds. Only Kraven knew the truth of the matter, and for six long centuries, Lucian had watched from the shadows as his accomplice grew in power, blessed by the fruit of "killing" this first alpha of wolves…
This most feared and ruthless alpha of wolves…
He almost smiled…
In truth, the vampires would soon learn the meaning of the word "ruthless." For the past six hundred years, he'd been grooming his lycans as killing machines. The moon no longer held its sway. His soldiers had learned to exercise iron control over their carnal instincts. The sun had been harnessed as a bullet. Though their numbers had dwindled as humans became less and less receptive to the bite of werewolves, always, he reminded himself…this had never been a game of numbers. Soldiers were pawns, and the heir of Corvinus' blood was like a promoted Queen on the other side of the board. The hybrid blood would become his…and the vampires would be blind-sided. The power torn from their fingers through an elegant, and entirely bloody, coup. Assassinating their Council of Elders. Inducting Kraven as solitary ruler of the coven. The instigation of a peace-treaty that would end the six-hundred year war between werewolves and vampires.
By rights, he ought to assassinate the lot of them…
…but it was only Viktor that he truly wanted dead.
…o…o…o…
He reached the top of the stairs, still holding his dangerous weapon and now striding purposefully towards the engraved set of double doors located at the far end of the hall. As usual, the entire hall was empty. Although not expressly written down, it was a hard and fast rule that anyone found lurking on the third floor without good reason could…and would find themselves plummeting from the more airy side of the balustrade. The first two floors of the den were prime territory for the rest of the pack, but the third floor belonged to the alpha. Kicking the doors open, he dropped the roguish weapon on the ground, starting to strip as he crossed the room.
Four guns, six knives and a piece of twine left on the secretaire. Belt flung across the room. Boots kicked off by the fireplace. Burgundy shirt thrown across a favoured armchair…high-backed (nineteenth-century French and yet, quite comfortable depending on where he placed his head.) Black leather pants dropped on the carpet.
Reaching an open doorway, he entered the master bathroom, getting ready to turn the shower on…stalking easily across the warm tiles and halfway across the floor before he halted with one hand fixed upon the shower knob. His shadowed eyes starting to narrow even as he turned his head slowly to the left. An extraordinarily dark expression blanketing his face, as he took in an illuminated sight that could only be described as heavenly by most male lycans in his position. Hot mist gathering through the air. Scented oil. Floating candles. And what appeared to be a rather naked woman seated on the edge of his porcelain tub with her head sensuously propped on one shoulder…her eyes unabashedly watching him as she subtly trailed her fingers into the water.
"I was waiting for you…" she murmured.
Mylla. Red hair. Green eyes. A warrior in her own right and one of four women strong enough to hold rank in the lycan forces. Changed by Raze in the eighteenth century…possessing of great…energy in her quest to find the lycan master's bed. In truth, lycan women were known for their confidence, but this was bordering on whorish...
"You know, Mylla…I haven't the faintest recollection of ordering room-service," he remarked with a smile, turning the knob and ignoring the glaringly freezing temperature of water as he stepped beneath the fall, turning his back on the temptress. It had been several months since he'd slept with her…hardly worth recalling and yet, it bothered him…
"Perhaps I can remind you," she whispered from behind, suddenly closer and running a single enticing finger down his back. Reaching slowly around his front and drawing him round to face her. Firmly pressing her hand to his chest and pushing him towards the wall. Indeed, she was beautiful. Strong. Dominant. A match for him…
…and yet, so consumed by her own lust, she couldn't even sense the slight change in his stance. The tautness of his form as his neck began to twitch along several veins. In fact, completely unaware of the storm building in her midst…Mylla…strong, beautiful Mylla…foolishly began to explore her conquest, thinking him tame. Sensuously running her lips along his torso and drawing her body closer to his flesh. Knowing she was strong enough to meet his rank. Growling as she twined dripping hair between her fingers and grasped his neck, roughly slamming him against the tiled wall. The kiss long…deep…and passionate as the dark night he once surrendered to her wiles. This tempting warrior of the lycan clan. Enticing. Fiery. Indeed…a woman worthy of his power. But even as she drew her lips from his, he couldn't help but smile at the utter stupidity of this…
…whore.
Definitely not the night for courting…
Approximately twelve seconds later (the time it took to cross his bedroom, fling the doors open, and stride purposefully down the hall dragging a rather slippery object of some weight,) Lucian, drenched and naked as the day he was born, found himself blissfully alone once more after having dropped a woman from the third floor of his quarters. Stalking back towards his room, he listened vaguely to the thump as Mylla hit the ground. A brief scuttle and he knew she was rapidly making her way back to her room before the rest of the pack noticed. Though nudity was common throughout the den, most women preferred to skip the swarm of cat-calls, suggestive wording, and occasional gropes that ended badly. Considering the strength of the warrior women on site, it was only the newest of recruits that were stupid enough to make an actual attempt at touching someone's derriere.
Bristling and now dying for the North, he slammed the doors behind him and returned to the bathroom, flipping the light switch on and turning the shower knob all the way right before stepping back in the shower. He almost yelped, but knowing there was a cloud to every silver lining (deadly or not), he forced himself to stand there for several minutes. Allowing the cold to drift into his bones as he planned his next course of action. He'd pack for the trip and catch an early night. Perhaps speak to Singe before he left. Send word to Magnus of his imminent arrival.
Trondheim…
By the wolves, he needed to cool down.
In the back of his mind, as he stood tense and shivering in the icy flow of water, he began to suffer a slight pang of guilt at having flung a woman over a balustrade. And yet, knowing the voice of reprimand (though it had been almost a millennium since he had truly last heard it), he began to smile vaguely to himself, imagining the words this subtle angel of darkness might have uttered at a time like this. She would no doubt have frowned…perhaps even raised an eyebrow before coolly remarking on the extent of his rudeness…
His inability to hold temper…
But judging by the state of Mylla's undress, there was no doubt in his mind that his first beloved and only wife, Sonja, would also have suggested the use of a much higher staircase.
Mylla.
The smile vanished as his thoughts turned back to the brazen succubus. She knew the rules…knew he preferred to sleep alone these days. And though he was by no means celibate since the death of Sonja, he had never taken a mate. Not once in all these years. Not even the…
…Nightrunner.
Dark hair…the icy blue eyes of a rogue. Smelled of the sea. The nectar of aconitum. The voice of a cold merchant drifting below tracks of iron. Strong, willful and independent. Strange and entrancing. Raucous laughter as she realized he meant to kiss her of all things…
…but no. Not worth thinking about.
The past doesn't matter…
Realizing he could stand there all night, Lucian quickly soaped, rinsed, and turned the water off, grabbing a rather plush towel from the cabinet as he stepped from the shower. A quick dry and he headed for the sink, grabbing a toothbrush and violently cleansing his mouth of the taste of Mylla.
Definitely time to be gone from this city.
At least for a few days…
Spitting toothpaste into the sink, he rinsed forcefully and dropped the toothbrush into its holder. Now searching the cabinet for mouthwash. Liquid silver? Mercury? Nitric bloody acid! Anything to get rid of that…taste. But even as he scoured the shelves, he could still hear the second voice of rebuke that had also taken residence in the back of his mind. A much harsher one...colder than the subtle timbres of his dead wife. One he had scarcely heard but an hour ago…
...and alive though she might still be, if the owner of this particular voice could speak as she once did, he had no doubts as to what she'd say. Or do. Something involving that knife she loved to carry. Or perhaps a gun. Or just poison…
The growl slowly making its way through his throat turned into a full-fledged snarl. Slamming the cabinet shut, he stood, leaning over the sink and forcing himself to calm down. Forcing the memories to remain shut from his conscience…Nightrunner...
Beloved creature whose memory stands in line with a dead wife…
…but two years have passed, he thought violently, his fingers gripping the aged porcelain as he held back the lycan within. She is dying. Two months left, and…he had to bloody move on...
Abruptly catching sight of his own reflection as the hot mist began to clear from the glass, he suddenly frowned. Damned, if he was starting to bristle again. Lucian grabbed the pair of scissors on the side of the sink and began trimming his beard.
Just a few hours…
…and then no Raze…no Hamburg den of lycans…
…and no bloody women.
...o...o...o...o...o...o...o...o...o
Historical Notation: The Battle of Nicopolis is a historical event of 1396 A.D. Among a number of other leaders, King Zsigmond (or Sigismund of Hungary) did lead a crusade against Sultan Bayezid I and the Ottoman Turks. The Hungarian force was between six-thousand and eight thousand men, and the Pope mentioned was actually Pope Boniface IX (who apparently backed the crusade.) If you're curious about the outcome, both forces suffered heavy casualties, but Sultan Bayezid I was the eventual victor (though he was most displeased about the casualties and ended up slaughtering a ton of prisoners in retaliation for a number of Ottoman prisoners who were killed by the French.) Then again, Wikipedia could be lying...