Chapter X: Blood-Scent
Road to TrondheimTime: 9:32 am
The sun had just risen...
...and forty miles from their destination, the lycans were precisely on schedule.
They pulled into a covered parking lot, guiding the range-rover quickly to the second floor where a sleek van waited, tinted windows and license plate matching a number held so easily in Lucian's memory. Parking a few spaces down, Magnus left the motor running, opening the car door and loping to the back for his duffle-bag. Lucian had already unlocked the passenger door, his fingers grasping a similar bag at his feet. He stepped onto the concrete. His hair tied back completely, eyes searching the grounds, guardedly flipping his hood to cover his face. It wasn't common for vampires to watch the inner roads of day, but a careless movement could bring disaster. Rather than appearing twice in the same vehicle, most short-mission lycans used a medley of cars left at check-points between the inner cities.
A faint whiff of aftershave met the air…
…and a moment later, a well-dressed blond man of about thirty…probably sixty…left the shadows. Tossing the keys to Magnus, he ignored the slouching hooded stranger at his pack-leader's side and strode calmly to the range-rover, getting behind the seat and driving off without a backward glance.
Catching the warning look from Lucian, in silence, Magnus circled the van, stooping to check below and above the vehicle. The man rounded on the back, quietly unlocking the rear-door, giving Lucian enough time to crouch at the other side, a silencer now held between his fingers. They waited. A silent count in Lucian's head. Three...two...one. Abruptly, the door flung open, Magnus dropping to the ground as Lucian lunged forward, scanning the dark interior and ready to fire in less than a heartbeat.
Empty.
And who were you expecting, Lucian thought to himself. A cold grimace directed as much at his paranoia as the reason behind it. Again, she lay at the heart of the matter. His mistress of trains and madness. The most documented event in two hundred years, the Nightrunner trial had severed the trust between the twelve packs. A momentuous achievement considering the defendent wasn't coherent enough to realize she was on death row. It had only taken a week for the verdict to come back as guilty, the shadow of her supposed betrayal falling on him when he chose to waive her execution. Whatever Magnus said, he knew there were those who thought he was no longer fit to lead. Those who believed he lacked the strength when confronted with a species that he had once been wed to...
…and for a split second…he thought back, remembering exactly why things were as politically bad as they were now.
As usual, it was his own doing.
In the space of a single lycan heartbeat, he remembered……o…o…o…
Six months ago.
Grasping his fingers, the Nightrunner had lain against the wall, weeping silently. Weeping as he forced her to drink yet another sample of blood...
It had been over a year since the accident. Still, he frequented her abode, drawing her close to his veins though it no longer provoked her visions. Raze had spoken correctly when he said she could not discern truth from lies. Either her gift had burned away or his future held no bearing in this quest for Corvinus' mortal heir. Yet he would not accept that. He could not. After all, science was slow and blood-sight had been the unseen edge of his campaign. He simply needed a better way of ascertaining whether it was the seer or the blood that was at fault.
Simple enough.
Feeling decisive and loitering in the laboratory one night, he had come up with a better alternative. It was common practice for his chief geneticist, Singe, to conduct an annual test on all members of the lycan strike-force. Every soldier from every pack sent their blood at least once during the year. A precautionary measure in case one of them accidentally bit a mortal who carried the Corvinus strain, fate provide. The soldiers were tested on blood counts, hormone levels, enzymes, antibodies, a basic metabolic panel (BMP,) and a blood film checking for parasites. Calculating, he watched as Singe poured the extra vials down the drain. Over a pint of refrigerated blood gushing into the waste before the geneticist moved onto the next subjects. Surely they could do better than that. In less than a fortnight, he'd arranged it so that all surplus units were given into his possession.
He assumed the sheer volume would eventually kill her, but it was a small vial that pushed events into motion. Filled rich and opaque, the transparent glass labelled 16-A in Singe's precise and yet mechanical handwriting. Unlike the others, the lady had taken to it like an osprey trying its wings after a long stint below water. Her eyes widening in recognition. Only a taste and she had fallen into a trance, her body shaking uncontrollably in his arms. At first, it seemed too much blood, too fast. Drowning in the vision and unable to speak the words. The burnt one is dying, the nurse had hissed. Rena. Tawny hag of the gutter, he'd sent her from the room, but the words had stuck in his head. The burnt one. No longer the Nightrunner. Only the burnt one now. A body. A pair of eyes. A tool. Something to be used. Something to be cast aside, for he could no longer acquaint this charred woman's face with that of his mistress.
Finally, the bird surfaced...
A child of Corvinus, she whispered, harsh and cold as she had been in the past. He knew her voice again and chided himself for having let it slip from his grasp. Stroking the curve of her cheek as she crooned... Caught in the wooden slats of a tomb. An aged warrior who has shown merit in the past. A trusted friend on the eve of St. John. The Rose of Budapest. For an eternity he waited as she struggled on, unable to break the cycle of the words. Over and over, she whispered them, falling deeper and deeper into the vision. He knew he could not save her if she did not resurface...he knew that now. Removing his hand from her grip, he took the vial labelled 16-A from the side-board and left her on the floor. Soldier 16-A. The blood of Liam, son of Tadgh and Síle, enlisted member of the Dublin strike-force. A man who would follow orders without question. A trusted friend whom he would now use as he had used the burnt one.
Days before the midsummer festival of St. John, Liam had been sent on the mission. Ordered by Lucian himself and trusting that he would bring the candidate to his knees. Tadgh had been wary of his son's safety, but he and the Twelve agreed with Lucian's decision. Into the heart of Budapest, the ill-fated lycan had journeyed, intent on finding his way to a famous tomb located in the second district. The Rose District. The tomb of Gül Baba. A sixteenth century mausoleum once made of lead and wooden tiles. Like the Twelve, Liam had believed there was some hope for their cause by following his leader's instructions...but unlike them, the day he received his orders was the last anyone ever saw of him.
By the time the flag runner arrived at the rendezvous point, the scent was warm and the car empty. Drops of blood. Liam had been there. He had been there and kept running, leaving a trail that fled wide across the streets and bridges of the Rose District. Wary of secrets, he kept running, leaving his escape open. Letting his enemies believe his purpose lay elsewhere. Skid-marks and oil spattered on the concrete betrayed what had happened. Abduction. Already past the early hours of morning, the Twelve still hadn't been informed yet...
...but knowing the siutation was about to escalate, Lucian was already on the phone, questioning Kraven and determined to get to the bottom of this. Though he had to give the man credit. The Rose District was probably the safest and most dangerous place to be lycan after you made it past the deathdealers. Vampires didn't expect lycans, and lycans didn't venture into a residential area teeming with the elite. A kind of mutual agreement to not bother trying. In any event, there hadn't been a skirmish in the district for over fifty years…
Or so Kraven said.
"I don't know what you're talking about," the vampire yelled in the phone.
"A man, Kraven…and keep your voice down! Budapest. An unmarked car in the second district. It might have been kept quiet…"
"Nobody's chased anything there since World War II, Cousin. I would have been informed…"
"You're certain?" he pressed, on the verge of throwing the phone at the wall.
"It's the second district for fuck's sake. The Rose of Budapest. Even a mongrel stands out…"
"Do not aggravate me…" he growled. Already starting to lose his temper.
"Look, you called me, Cousin...if one of your dogs is missing, better look on the inside this time. Unlike strays, my deathdealers know to come when they're called. In the mansion and accounted for."
"Your deathdealers know you're a swine, Kraven. When was the last time you left the mansion? Too risky for you? Are you hiding behind the blinds right now?"
"Isn't that your job?"
"Go fuck yourself," he barked.
"Stop calling me, and I'll have time to," the man hissed, hanging up the phone. Silence. The tone starting to beep as it became apparent that for once, the insufferable swine at the other end had managed to carry the last word. It did little to improve Lucian's mood.
"Touché…" he murmured with dull anger, crushing the phone into his fist and flinging the remains into the fire. The vampire could have been lying, but…why? They'd always been upfront when members of their respective species fell to one side or the other. And for once, he actually trusted Kraven's word. Perhaps the one person in his entire circle he could trust to remain a fool.
Nonetheless, he knew someone had betrayed him...
...but the situation was out of his hands.
In the following days, the Twelve latched on the Nightrunner like wolves on a wounded hind. They knew Liam was dead and a vampire had been involved. The stories grew wilder as they approached the final verdict. She betrayed Liam to the vampires. She must pay for Liam's death. She has poisoned the Twelve with lies. But they already knew she was innocent of the crime. Only they had known of Liam's mission. Only they were aware of locations and coordinates. Only they were able to abduct a lycan in broad daylight. Blinding themselves in public, trusting each other openly, while snarling behind closed doors, sneaking about with hooded eyes. Like a shadow stalking at the corner of his vision, he knew as well as they that one of them was the traitor. One of the Twelve. Which one, he knew not.
So ended the trial of the Nightrunner. A pointless exercise in denial and suspicion. With the execution waived, politics resumed its normal pace, but the base of their standard had been snapped. Too much had been left unsaid. Too many began to realize things were not as they seemed, a dull rumble of animosity sounding beneath the floorboards. Even now, though he trusted Magnus, he knew he was walking on foreign ground, no longer running his own pack. The Northern soldiers might have joined ranks against him, and only a dead man entered an unmarked car without checking for assassins first.
If nothing else, Liam's death had surely proven that.
…o…o…o…
The heartbeat ended, drawing him back into the present time.
Enough, he thought grimly.
High time they were off.
Ten seconds later, the back of the van was locked and the two lycans were in the front, staring forward, driving in silence and making no mention of Lucian's distrust of the blond lycan. Any lycan, for that matter. In less than an hour, they had abandoned the vehicle on the outskirts of the blood-soaked city, five miles from the centre, stalking by foot through forest and snow. Dressed in browns, greys and black for the coming night and blending already with the dead trees around their loping forms. They would be approaching from the south, passing roughly a league or so around the nearest vampiric coven. Mørkehule, they called it. Like a dark burrow…a hole, Magnus tried to explain between breaths, dodging between branches as he led the lycan master who matched him stride for stride at a dead run. Bad blood…
An infestation…
Lucian merely nodded, saving his breath for the rest of the lope. Much of what had been in the duffle-bags had been transported onto their backs, rifles and shotguns strapped in spine-holsters, smaller guns and ammunition on their persons. It would still be several hours before they entered the city, in part due to the zigzagging path of snow they were treading…
…but mostly, due to the toll booths.
Activated by the city in the early nineties, it was only a matter of time before the vampires of Mørkehule began seeing the Trondheimspakken or Trondheim Toll Scheme, for more than it was worth. Every entrance to the city was cordoned off by an official barrier registering every vehicle as it passed, backed up by the bloody government. Access to those records was a hop, skip, and a jump from making sure Trondheim was listed first on every list of "most unpopular lycan getaway." Add the rest of its history and even Ordoghaz became "pleasant." Even the stuck-up vampires of Budapest would agree. Already for centuries, it had been a hardly well-kept secret how the Hungarian vampires felt about Northern covens. The simple fact that Mørkehule showed its allegiance during council meetings meant nothing. Budapest was a long way from the Norwegian Sea and as far as Mørkehule was concerned, Kraven's jurisdiction stopped about ten miles from the border of his own ass.
Dropping to their haunches, the two lycans paused for a minute, catching their breath softly in a small pocket of snow-covered trees, their bodies hidden between valleys of spruce and pine. A few birds rustling the branches above their heads and the scurry of a fox down below. Or a squirrel. Or some creature that had bloody well not be taller than his calf muscle. Three more hours of daylight. Perhaps less. He concentrated on evening his breath…keeping track of the time as he checked his watch for the hundredth time since they'd started loping. A few feet away, Magnus had his eyes on the sky as often as not, still managing to reach into his pack, taking a swig from a metal canister as he furtively glanced to the east, chucking the damn container at Lucian without so much as aiming.
Already scowling again as he caught it mere inches from his own face, Lucian sniffed the dark scent of sultry hot blood kept only for emergencies. As usual, Magnus was forgetting his brain …or simply didn't care if they were stranded without aid…or…what the hell… Raising the canister in a toast in the general direction of Mørkehule, he smirked at Magnus and took a long swallow. Probably not the brightest thing to do in a vampires' back yard, but as long as no trace was left behind, there was nothing like giving the old fuck-you to a distant cousin. Noting the toast, Magnus chuckled quietly and secreted the drink away as quickly as he'd found it, licking his teeth and hopefully aware that would to be the last taste they would have for some time. Regardless of how careful one might be, vampires still had the tendency to track blood like a whore looking for her next paycheque.
Speaking of which…
...it's about time we stopped beating about the bush, he decided, fixing his eyes on Magnus, watching as the man again glanced upwards. Following suit, Lucian raised a hand to shade his eyes, his finger pointing to the sky where a host of carrion eaters should have been turning amongst themselves, their flesh-eating bodies absent from an area less than a mile to the east.
"Looking for something?" he murmured quietly, his face on the verge of boredom even as his eyes grew colder than snow, his tone entirely too casual for having pointed at the exact spot Magnus had tried not to look at for the past hour.
Cocking his head slowly to the side, the pack-leader of the North only stared impassively at the lycan master, his expression about two notches from rebuke. And anger…hardly the time to deal with blood-scent, but there it was. Perhaps he'd forgotten Lucian had a nose. Taking a gulp of snow, the man finally answered with a nod, taking care to wipe his mouth with the back of a too-steady hand.
"Blood…" Magnus grunted uneasily, shrugging the scent away. "…but the scent always comes from those parts. I expect they had a bit extra to feast on or some such."
"I smell a bit more than a bit, Magnus…"
"It could be…"
"…a mere river of blood," Lucian interrupted, callously cutting off the other lycan as easily as knife through butter. "Not a few red cells. Not the nectar of the gods, and bloody-well, not genetically-engineered plasma." The last word was punctuated by a snarl. "Now, I have a feeling what this is about, Magnus, but it'll go faster if you explain it. What lies there? It's too far east for Mørkehule."
"Urðar-brunnr," the pack-leader answered gruffly, forgetting for a moment to speak English, leaning his back against a tree as it was apparent the twenty-twenty was coming. "You know, the Well," he finished, roughly translating the words for Lucian.
I knew it, thought Lucian bitterly. "What else?" he questioned.
"A small complex. They keep it a few miles outside the damned hule."
"You've watched them…"
"Occasionally. They just set up shop a few months ago. Maybe six dozen soldiers. We try to keep up with them, but we haven't been this close to the facilities in months. They train, target practice, contact sports and the like. They don't usually smell like…like that." He scratched the back of his neck, starting to look uncomfortably withdrawn. "Thing is, though, we don't usually venture there so often because of the old…"
Biting back a growl, Lucian cut him off with a raised talon. Aware that Magnus had certain beliefs…and aware that nothing would change that beyond shooting the man, dumping him in the old well and allowing him to become one with the damned soil.
Allowing him to become one with his fear. Fear instilled by tales of an old well where the massacre of Trondheim first began. The setting where the Northern forces were first betrayed with the slaughter of two thousand lycans…
…men, women and children.
And Magnus…
His eyes turned to slits.
Magnus could shoot a vampire point-blank in the head, but he quailed at the idea of approaching a hole in the ground…
Exhaling irritably, Lucian shifted his body weight, scraping a handful of snow into his mouth, attempting to lower his temperature and the fury now threatening to murder Magnus. Only too soon realizing the futility of his actions as his eyes started to glaze through the sunlight. Not a bluff this time. The last thing he needed right now was fur. Stubborn to the end, he bit the bottom of his lip, forcing himself to keep his form. Controlling his temper even as his teeth lengthened, closing his eyes and envisioning a place of soothing beauty. A fire…a hearth…and a bowl of water. Tranquil water. Stormless. He was the water. Calmly, speaking as though he were discussing weather or…an execution, he began…
"Magnus…" Good beginning. Remain calm. "I am aware of the history of Trondheim…"
Breathe…
"Keeping that in mind, do you not think it wise…"
Keep breathing. One with the calm…"…for us to examine at this juncture…"
Starting to speak faster…his voice starting to growl…"…why the tell-tale scent…"
…he lost it.
"…of a bloody outdoor massacre is drifting idly down below?" Hackles rising, his voice had become poison, the volume hardly above a whisper even as his tone threatened murder. "Even vampires do not feast to that extent!" Magnus had already backed away, and with a start, Lucian realized he had shoved the man against the tree, his talons scoring into the bark…pine, he realized mechanically. He'd torn into Magnus' coat, but no scoring of the flesh…blood leaves a trail. Gathering his form, he drew back swiftly, taking a deep breath of air and releasing his grip on the other lycan. Allowing bits of wood to fall from his fingers. The second time in two days he'd been hacking at wood. Snarling, he turned, ignoring the towering form of Magnus sliding to the ground. Aware that the strength of Change had come over him.
Daylight…
…he'd almost changed during daylight.
It was vital they found out what had occurred down there. A power struggle. A battle. Whatever happened might have affected the state of things in Trondheim. Easier or more difficult, it would still affect the mission. But instead of investigating, they'd wasted precious time circling the area while Magnus decided whether or not they ought to pass close enough to a well.
A bloody hole in the ground.
Shaking his head, he reached for his pack and eyed the man coldly, daring him to turn the other way. Magnus just nodded, having backed down completely. He grabbed his pack and turned eastward, his words coming out with quiet respect.
"We'll reach the general area in about ten or fifteen minutes. Shouldn't be too hard to make our way down from there unseen."
Lucian nodded silently, wanting to snarl at the delay and holding himself on a tight rein as they made their way down. He could not risk changing during daylight.
Three hours to nightfall, he thought.
…o…o…o…
The Nightrunner's Abode.
Hundreds of miles away...
Time: 12:32 pm
The curtains were drawn and the shutters closed. The Nightrunner stretched out on the bed, breathing shallowly. Fast asleep for all that she'd slept most of the night already.
"Hold on," whispered Rena, cradling the bird's head by candlelight. Stroking the burnt one's feathers and hoping against hope there might be strength in her shallow veins for a few more nights.
"Just a few more," she pleaded, uncertain of why…what use. Only that she would be alone again. No more pups. No sense in informing Lucian…he already knows she is passing, but…
…but what?
She picked up the phone.
…o…o…o…
Road to Trondheim.
Twelve miles ahead…
Time: 12:32 am
Leaping from the top of the train, Áris caught the updraft, allowing herself to sweep back into the air, beating the wings which now carried her above…watching as the train continued, darting beneath her towards the city that lay stretched out before her. An unending vision of plunder. As the last compartment passed beneath her form, she twisted suddenly, her bones knitting and her wings crumbling to naught, the leathery rags collapsing against the base of her spine. From afar, it seemed as if she dropped like a weighted stone from over thirty feet, her body landing sharply on the rails, the metallic echo traveling as far as the train moving swiftly off into the distance. Still on all fours and drawing the last of her breakfast from her coat, she kissed the tip of one finger and placed the bloody mess carefully by the side of the rail. Poisonous leaves to cover her path.
"A few more," she whispered to herself. "And then I will come for you, Nightrunner…"
Leaving the morsel of blood where it lay, she stepped out upon the tracks and began to lope, aware of the blood-scent flowing out from behind her.
The trail…
…and what a chase she would lead him.
Reference notations:
Gül Baba: A sixteenth century poet credited with being the first to bring roses to Hungary. His tomb is in the second district of Budapest.
Mørkehule: literally means "dark burrow" in Norwegian. (I figured I'd throw out grammar and just use the dictionary when coming up with a name. Since the language is germanic, I expect it should probably be Hulemørke or something, but then Mørkehule sounds so much better.)
Oppdal: a small city near Trondheim. About forty miles to the south if you look it up on the map. (Yes, I have a small map of Norway that I like to use when charting Lucian's course.)
The Rose of Budapest: nickname for Rózsadomb, District II, in Budapest. Considered to be one of the most expensive districts in Budapest along with District XII. (Yes, I have a map for that as well. Mwahahahha...)
Síle: pronounced Shee-la (Irish origin)
Tadgh: pronouced Teeg (Irish origin)
Trondheimspakken: the tollscheme initiated between 1991 and 2005 for the Norwegian city of Trondheim. I figure since we haven't reached 2005 yet in this particular story, it still stands.
Urðar-brunnr: Norse Legend. The well of the Wyrd is said to be at the base of Yggdrasil (the tree of the world.)