03 - Evolution (12 page)

He might not be a warrior,
she thought,
but he’s not without courage.

Unlike, say, Kraven.

She pushed herself to walk faster, determined to reach
Ordoghaz before the treacherous regent. She couldn’t allow Kraven to
destroy Marcus and take control of the coven. Then she and Michael would
truly be fugitives for all eternity.

I almost hope Kraven and I arrive at the mansion at the same time,
she thought,
just so I can have the pleasure of personally
blowing his head off.
Her cold blood seethed at the memory of
Kraven shooting Michael in the chest with the silver-nitrate gun. Kraven
would pay for that unprovoked assault, as well as for his copious other
crimes.
I’ll see to that myself.

She smiled at the thought, more comfortable hating
Kraven than dealing with her confusing feelings regarding Michael. She
tried again to push the American from her thoughts. He was attractive,
yes, and compassionate, but she was a soldier on a mission, not a
lovesick damsel from one of the romantic ballads she’d heard as a child.
Besides, he was at least six hundred years too young for her.

So why couldn’t she forget the warmth of his blood
within her mouth, the taste of his skin beneath her lips? She remembered
the thrill she had felt as her fangs had slid gently into his tender
flesh….

A flapping sound intruded upon her sensual reverie.
Looking up through the snow-laden branches, she was astounded to see a
winged figure, like some terrible dark angel, soaring over the treetops.
Her jaw dropped and her brown eyes opened wide.

What in the Elders’ name…?

Centuries of prowling the shadows had not prepared
Selene for the sight of the airborne apparition above her. She had never
seen anything like this creature, in either the mortal or immortal
spheres. Scalloped bat-wings swiftly carried the figure out of view as
it flew south, back the way she had come.

Selene froze in her tracks as a terrifying thought awoke
inside her. Could that have been… Marcus? She had only glimpsed the
winged creature for a few seconds, but something about it set off alarm
bells at the back of her mind. The Elders did not possess wings, at
least not before tonight, but many things had changed over the last
several hours. A sudden chill ran down her spine as she remembered
Singe’s blood spreading across the floor of the Elders’ crypt, beneath
which Marcus hung in repose. What had Viktor said again, shortly before
he’d crushed the lycan scientist’s skull?

“An heir to Corvinus lies there,
not three feet from you.”

He had been referring to Marcus himself. Was it possible
that the lone Elder indeed possessed the same genetic quirk as Michael?
Had Marcus also become a hybrid?

The very idea filled her with dread, especially when she
recalled that the winged entity had been flying southwest.

Toward Michael.

Possessed of a sudden fearful premonition, she spun
around and started racing back the way she had come. Her boots trampled
over the deep tracks she had previously left in the snow, as she
sprinted through the forest as fast as her athletic legs could carry
her. All thought of reaching Ordoghaz was forgotten. Over the centuries,
Selene had learned to trust her instincts, and right now those instincts
told her that Michael was in deadly danger. Kraven and the mansion would
have to wait.

I’m coming, Michael!
she
thought fiercely. The winged apparition had a head start on her, but
Selene kept on running regardless. She wasn’t going to surrender Michael
without a fight, no matter what sort of entity was after him. She prayed
that he was still safely locked away in the hidden bunker.
Watch yourself,
she entreated him silently.
Don’t take any reckless chances.

The tail of her black trench coat flapped behind her as
she ran.

To Michael’s relief, the cops gave him only a
cursory glance, before turning back to their meals. They seemed more
interested in their breakfasts than in the new arrival. The tavern’s
other patrons left him alone as well.

Thank heaven for small favors,
he thought.

Finding an empty table, he dropped down onto a bench.
After his long hike through the snow, it felt good to be out of the
cold. A weary-looking barmaid took his order and he waited impatiently
for his food. His stomach growled like a hungry werewolf. He licked his
lips in anticipation.

God, I feel as if I could eat a
horse.
He shuddered at the thought of the plasma bag he had left
behind at the old mine. He was starving, but he wasn’t
that
hungry.

Yet.

The feeling was starting to return to his fingers and
toes by the time the barmaid returned with his order. She slid a large
plate of paprikás krumpli in front of him, along with a mug of hot
coffee. He couldn’t complain about the size of the portions; the diced
potatoes and peppery sauce was practically overflowing the plate. The
spicy smell of paprika overpowered his nostrils. It was rich, heavy
fare, exactly what he was in the mood for.

And yet… he hesitated before digging in. Selene’s words
came back to him:
“Normal food would be lethal.”
Did she mean that literally?

Best to take it slow. He speared a chunk of potato with
his fork and cautiously took a bite. He chewed the food slowly, ready to
spit it out at once if he experienced any adverse effects. Contrary to
Selene’s warning, however, the savory dish went down fine. Better than
fine, in fact; it tasted delicious. Throwing caution to the wind, he
start shoveling the food into his mouth, wolfing it down ravenously. He
couldn’t eat the stuff fast enough. Within moments, he had finished half
the plate and was thinking about ordering a second helping.

Keep it coming,
he thought.

Then it hit him. A sudden wave of nausea washed over
him, causing him to choke and sputter. The hot meal started climbing
back up his throat. He gulped the entire mug of coffee to try to wash it
back down, but the nausea only got worse. He clenched his jaws to keep
from vomiting all over the table.

Oh, shit!
he thought.
Selene was right.

His body was rejecting the food.

The TV news program continued to drone in the
background. Michael ignored the broadcast until two English words rang
out amidst the Hungarian:

“Michael Corvin.”

What the fuck?
Despite his
churning guts, Michael looked up to see his hospital ID photo plastered
all over the TV screen. The anchorwoman said something about “wanted for
questioning” and “possibly dangerous”.

I’m screwed.

Sure enough, the two cops had not missed the news
bulletin. Looking away from the TV, Michael saw that the policemen were
already out of their seats and headed toward him, guns drawn. “Don’t
move!” the lead cop yelled at him in Hungarian. He was a stocky-looking
Slav wearing a blue winter jacket and a black fur cap. His partner was
slimmer and younger. “Hands over your head!”

A spasm twisted Michael’s guts. He clutched his stomach,
his face contorted in agony. Another seizure rocked his body. A cold
sweat broke out over his body. He felt hot… feverish. It was kind of like
the ordeal he had gone through when he’d first started to change into a
werewolf, back in that squad car in Budapest, but different, too. He
clutched the side of the table until his knuckles turned white. The
veins on his neck stood out like cables. His legs vibrated restlessly
beneath the table. His teeth tugged at his gums. He slumped forward,
resting his head against the coarse wooden tabletop. More of Selene’s
warning flashed through his brain:

“If you don’t anticipate your
cravings, you will attack humans.”

“Please,” he begged the cops. “Get away.”

This was clearly more than the two men had bargained for
tonight. “What’s the matter?” the younger cop asked, a note of panic in
his voice. His gun hand trembled alarmingly. “Is he on drugs?”

“Or just crazy,” the older cop said. His aim was
steadier. “Go call for backup.”

The young cop didn’t need to be asked twice. He
scrambled toward the front door, leaving his senior partner to deal with
the distraught American. “I said, put up your hands!” the older cop
repeated. He stepped closer to the table. Michael’s head began to pound
as the cop approached. It felt as if someone were beating on a war drum
inside his skull. His temples throbbed to the same relentless drumbeat.

“What’s the matter? Are you deaf?” the cop snarled,
waving his gun in Michael’s face. “Don’t give me any trouble!”

Michael was too sick to obey the policeman’s orders. All
he could hear was the thunderous pounding in his head, which seemed to
grow exponentially louder with every step the cop took toward him, until
it sounded like tidal waves crashing against a rocky shore over and
over. It was the moon that controlled the tides, he recalled, and there
was a full moon out tonight….

His febrile gaze was irresistibly drawn to the bull-like
neck of the older cop—and the jugular pulsing beneath the skin. The
tempting artery throbbed in perfect unison with the excruciating
pounding in Michael’s skull. He visualized the hot blood coursing
through the other man’s jugular and realized with horror that he had
been listening to the cop’s heartbeat this entire time!

Oh my God,
he thought.
What’s happening to me?

Lorenz Macaro stood at the top of the stairs
overlooking the ops center. The artifact he had extracted from Viktor’s
corpse rested securely within one of the inner pockets of his coat.
Samuel maintained his post at the foot of the stairs, awaiting further
orders. Macaro suspected that he would be dispatching the Cleaners again
before long.

The
Sancta Helena
had left
the Black Sea and was now cruising up the Danube toward Budapest. The
Hungarian capital appeared to be the nexus of the current crisis, so
Macaro had thought it wise to bring his floating headquarters closer to
the front lines. Running at top speed, the ship was expected to dock at
Budapest by nightfall.

God grant that we are not too late,
he thought. A familiar melancholy hung over his soul, leavened only by a
growing conviction that matters were rapidly coming to a head.
Can it be that we have come to the final chapter at
last?

Below him, the ops center was still in full crisis mode.
Investigators manned every station, monitoring the media and police
chatter. The fire at Ordoghaz continued to generate ample news coverage,
but Macaro anticipated that there was little more to be learned there.
Marcus had burned all his bridges behind him. Macaro could only guess at
the Elder’s present activities, but he had no doubt as to Marcus’
ultimate objective.

He has to be stopped,
Macaro
knew.
At all costs.

While each investigator dutifully monitored his or her
own assigned frequency, tuning out any and all distractions, their
commander strove to listen to every broadcast at once. To anyone else,
the babble of competing voices would have been an incomprehensible wall
of sound, but Macaro could differentiate each one. His brow knitted in
concentration as he mentally sorted through the various reports and
snatches of police chatter. That some of the conversations were in
Russian, German, and English posed little difficulty for him.

An excited voice, shouting in Hungarian, caught his
attention.

“…Corvin, the American fugitive… he’s here!”

Macaro’s hand shot up. He pointed decisively at one of
the receivers below.

“There!” he said tersely.

His people responded with laudable speed. Instantly, all
the other transmissions were silenced. Only the voice emanating from the
indicated receiver could be heard throughout the ops room. The entire
team listened intently.

“…requesting immediate backup. Repeat, requesting
backup…”

That’s it,
Macaro thought. A
rush of excitement shot through his veins. He snapped his fingers and
shot an urgent look at Samuel.

“Get the men up there now!”

Michael gripped the edge of the table. The policeman’s heartbeat pounded inside
his skull. He tried to look away from the cop’s throbbing jugular.

“Please… just get away.” Desperation tinged his voice. It
was an effort just to speak. “You’ve got to get away.”

His eyes remained locked upon the cop’s throat. The
stupid policeman had no idea of the danger he was in! Brandishing his
service revolver, he advanced on Michael until he was only a few inches
away from the other side of the table. “Surrender peacefully and you
won’t get hurt,” he promised. “Don’t make me use this gun.”

Michael clamped his eyes shut. He tried to think of
baseball scores, the periodic table, Beatles lyrics… anything to fend off
his uncontrollable urge to feed. But it was no use. He could still hear
the cop’s pulse echoing inside his head, drowning out the pathetic
squeaking of his conscience. His mouth watered involuntarily. Sharpened
incisors slid from his gums. Taloned nails dug deep scratches into the
wooden surface of the table. He couldn’t hold on any longer.

“Get the fuck away from me!”

The cop stepped up to the table, a belligerent
expression on his beefy face. “That’s enough!” he grunted. Besides the
gun, he had a clear weight advantage over Michael. A pair of handcuffs
dangled from his belt. “You’re coming with me!”

Michael’s eyes snapped open. Jet-black orbs glared
balefully. He growled back at the startled policeman, exposing a
mouthful of jagged fangs.

“Holy Mother—!” the cop gasped. Too late, he staggered
backward, away from the table.