Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1) (6 page)

“Are you still there, Doctor?”

“I am.”

“Brilliant. I just talked to my producer and they are going to reschedule my interviews for today straight away. Can you be at our studios at half past one this afternoon?”

“I can.”

“We will have a list of questions for you to go over before we go on the air. I want to make sure our viewers get your side of the story, Dr. Wilson.”

“As do I, Ms. White. As do I.”

She gave him a few more details about what to expect and then they ended the call.

Gita walked into the room.

“Would you make sure my gray suit is clean? And could you pick out a shirt and tie that would look good on camera?”

“All your suits are clean.” Her eyes narrowed, and in an audacious tone, she asked, “Are you having your picture taken?”

He smiled. “You know me better than that, my dear.”

“I thought I did.” She shook her head. “I cannot believe you agreed to do that interview on the BBC, but you fooled me. When is it?”

“I fooled myself, too. This afternoon.”

“Did you forget about your appointment with Dr. Vickers?”

“Damn.”

“You never speak like that. You are spreading yourself too thin. That is the problem.”

“Both appointments are so important. The mummy exhibit ends today. I cannot cancel with Dr. Vickers. I have been trying to get an appointment with her for weeks. And you know I have to do something to stop the bad press I have been getting. The interview with the woman at the BBC is my only option. The two are a little over an hour apart. With your help I can accomplish both.”

“Then I will get your things ready, sir. I hope you know what you are doing.”

“As do I.”

She left the room.

He relit his pipe, inhaling the rich, comforting smoke.

Only Gita came to his private quarters, which were on the top floor of his three-story building. The floor below housed his lab. He allowed less than a dozen research assistants there. The ground floor, which was just below the lab, contained Gita’s flat, storage rooms for the lab, and an office.

He had left his private quarters only once since the post’s arrival, taking the building’s lift to his beloved laboratory below to run some tests on the crude stationery. Unfortunately, he could not get a DNA sample off the paper. But in his bones he knew that the writer likely had the genetic markers he had been searching for his entire life. Under other circumstances he would have been thrilled. The appetites of every reporter in the city for another serial killer slaying had not been satisfied, and with every tick of his grandfather clock he sensed another murder approaching.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the copy of the letter. The authorities had kept the original.

How many times had he reread the bloody thing? Enough to have memorized it.

Glad to have a blade in mi hand agan aftr so long, old Boss, happy to hoperate on two last night. Had a laugh at the copper standing across the streat from the gingers throte I slit. I admire your work, Wilson. More to come, dear Boss. More to come.

Jack

A quote from one of the experts in
The Telegraph’s
article continued to trouble him.

“Wilson is not a member of the media or law enforcement. The man is a geneticist with a mixed reputation. What work of Dr. Wilson does the killer admire? And, more importantly, why would this copycat of Jack the Ripper contact Wilson?”

Why indeed?

But deep down he suspected what the answer was, and that terrified him.

CHAPTER 7

8:46 AM (Greenwich Mean Time)

Octavian Drake held the grieving Duchess Lupei in his arms, trying to console her, a fruitless attempt at best. The grand woman’s appearance, normally sheer perfection, was completely disheveled. Her black designer dress was rumpled, and tendrils of her auburn locks were falling out of the tight, clean braid she typically wore. She need not have bothered with makeup, as her tears had wiped most of the foundation away, leaving red splotches that clashed with her hair.

Duchess Lupei’s only child had been slaughtered by an assassin.

The congregation silently filed into the most hallowed hall of their people, the ceiling arching forty-feet above their heads. It was the oldest room in the massive subterranean complex.

The stark chapel was carved out of the bedrock, its stone altar and wooden benches harkening to the ancient history of the Morvicti, when struggles were common and burials too numerous to number. The ornate golden chalice on top of the altar was the only element that contrasted with the cave-like surroundings. The flickering light of the torches along the walls illuminated the women’s mascara-streaked faces and the men’s angry stares, creating a ghastly picture as they slowly made their way in.

Coronations, abdications, and weddings for the highborn were performed here—
and funerals.

In the crowd were the heads of seven of the eight noblest bloodlines. Duke Vale had sent his condolences, being unable to attend due to an important vote in the United States Senate. Vale was a good friend and close ally. Octavian wished he was here.

In front of the altar, the caskets of the two young women were open. Great care and discretion had been taken in preparing the women’s bodies for interment. Nancy Black and Gail Simmons, though those were not their true names, were both dressed in high collared tops to hide the fact that their heads had been severed, and gloves to conceal the missing index fingers on each of their left hands.

The entire society had been shaken by their murders. Nancy, whose true name was Nadia Grollin, and Gail, whose true name was Galene Lupei, were daughters of two who held seats on the Imperial Morvicti Council. It had been centuries since such an overt act of aggression had been leveled against such noble born.

Octavian suspected that the orthodox fanatics were behind the slayings. If so, they were only using the memory of The Ripper, an abomination in their eyes, to ensure no one discovered their true identities and to further their poisonous beliefs.

The priest, in the traditional black robes, lifted the chalice above his head. “The drink of everlasting life.”

The congregation responded, “May we be worthy in the eyes of the Ancestors.”

Duke Lupei walked behind the altar next to the priest. He ran his fingers through his reddish-blonde hair, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. “Galene, my beautiful daughter…she is…was…” The regal man closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. “She was our treasure, our world. My lovely wife had dreamed of being a mother for so long, and it finally happened thirty-two years ago.”

As Lupei continued giving his daughter’s eulogy, Octavian’s thoughts drifted. It was his most solemn duty to bring in the murderer to face trial. Was the killer a member of the Brotherhood of Purity? Most likely, yes.

Where to begin the search?

Many Morvicti bloodlines had a few secret practitioners of the fanatical orthodox ways, possibly even his own. The hunt would be difficult. Before beginning the search, he needed to be sure that the body of the real Ripper had not been disturbed.

He had spoken late last night with Lisa Bathry, whose brother was responsible for The Sanctuary of the Forgotten. As a sign of respect from her bloodline, she had helped prepare the bodies of the two women for this service.

He had told Lisa about his intention to visit Jack’s cell—a disgusting but necessary task—when he returned to London.

She had been surprised, which was not unexpected. The sanctuary her bloodline cared for housed thousands of bodies of the Morvicti, cast-off and without honor. Most found the place abhorrent, as did he.

“Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.” Lisa had a pleasant smile. Her sandy brown hair framed her lovely oval face perfectly. Her eyes were Bathry blue. She was quite glamorous. “I will be in London in the morning. I’ll contact my brother to let him know to expect you. Anything the Bathrys can do to help bring the killer to justice, we will do.”

Pounding his fists on the altar, Duke Lupei concluded his eulogy, pulling Octavian back to the present. “It’s wrong my sweet Galene is no longer with her mother and I. All Morvicti suffer because she is gone. Her impact on English popular culture enhanced the global power that has long been held by our people. She helped our cause in so many ways. I will not rest until the one responsible for taking away my sweet Galene is brought to justice.”

Duke Lupei bowed his head, and then returned to his seat next to his wife on the front bench.

Duke Grollin took Lupei’s place behind the altar. One of the toughest Morvicti Octavian knew. Years ago, Grollin had been stabbed several times during an orthodox uprising in South Africa. How the man had remained above ground was still a mystery to him.

“My Nadia was crucial in getting critical policies of the Morvicti pushed through. Yes, there are trusted others in the British Parliament, but they do not have her same voice and influence. Like Duke Lupei and his wife, we only had one child.”

Octavian thought of his own children. Losing them would utterly destroy him. Gazing down at the beautiful faces of the two young women, a protective instinct for his own burned hot in his veins.

Someone was slaying the children of Morvicti nobles. Why? How many more would die before the murderer was captured? He had rung his brother Romulus to make sure he was safe, but Rom had not answered. This was alarming to him, because Rom always answered his phone.

After the attack in Texas on Lucretius’s niece and sister, Cassie and Seraphina, the security measures of the entire family had been heightened. Luke had brought Seraphina’s body back to London and was secretly hiding Cassie at his estate. She wasn’t a pure blood, so Luke didn’t have any other choice. Was the Brotherhood after Rom because of his part in rescuing Cassie?

Concerned, Octavian had sent his cousin to check on his brother. Belisarius Drake, known to the rest of the world as Commissioner Bill Poole of the City of London Police, had incredible influence and resources in Great Britain and beyond. If anyone could find out where Rom was, it was Belisarius.

One of the attendees standing behind him whispered, “A damn halfblood is behind this.”

Hearing the slur, anger swelled inside Octavian. But it was pointless to respond to him. The man was not on the council, but his sentiment was the same as most of the Morvicti.

Octavian’s grandmother had succeeded getting many antiquated statutes changed concerning the treatment of mixed lineage offspring. He had wanted to take her virtuous work to the next level, granting even more rights to the shunned children, but after the deaths of Nancy and Gail, his tireless work went up in smoke. Long held prejudices would remain inked in their laws for many years to come. But he would never give up trying for his own children, Luke’s niece, Cassie, and any others in hiding who deserved to be welcomed into Morvicti society fully.

“I do not know how my wife and I will survive losing our beloved Nadia.” Duke Grollin no longer had the air of his highborn blood. Instead, all that remained was a heartbroken father.

When Duke Grollin returned to his seat, the priest lifted the chalice, and the congregation stood. “And now, for our two fallen daughters whose blood ran pure, let us say the prayer of our ancestors.”

Everyone closed their eyes and remained silent for several minutes.

Pure bloods.
The law was clear. Bastards were shunned.

The mourners recited the verse in the ancient tongue, the meaning of which was known to him since childhood.

We drink of the blood,

The life giving blood.

Though slumber comes,

We will walk on the ground above.

Several of the women wiped their eyes. Nancy and Gail’s lives had been cut short. They would never slumber again.

With the others, he drank down the warm dark liquid, signifying the end of the solemn service.

Everyone passed by Nadia and Galene for a final goodbye.

When he walked out of the chapel with the priest to join the others, he motioned to the members of the council, including the two grieving fathers. “My lords, I summon you to join me in the Imperial Throne Room.”

All seven lowered their eyes, and in unison answered, “Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.”

A hush came over the crowd as the eight of them stepped down the hall to the second oldest room in the complex. He sent a text to Duke Vale, letting him know what was happening. Vale would join the council via videoconference.

When they arrived at the entrance to the room, the two sentries bowed and then opened the two massive wooden doors.

“This will be a private conclave.” He asked them to set up the screen for Vale.