[Underworld 01] - Underworld Read online

  Where the hell is she taking me? Michael worried, peering anxiously out the windows. And do we stand a chance of getting there alive?

  Darkness blanketed the docks in shadows, but to the east, a faint trace of pink colored the sky, visible only through the vertical gaps between downtown Pest’s modest high-rises. Sunrise was not far away.

  Thank God, Michael thought. He couldn’t wait for this ghastly night to be over, one way or another. He eyed the injured woman carefully and was horrified to see her shake her head groggily. Her eyes blinked fitfully, as if she were having trouble keeping them open. The gun in her hand shook like a Parkinson’s victim.

  I knew it! Michael realized in dismay, not at all happy to have been proven right. Before his panicked eyes, the bleeding woman passed out behind the wheel. Her head slumped forward, and the loaded automatic slipped from her fingers, landing on the black leather console between her and Michael.

  Out of control, the Jaguar swerved wildly. Michael grabbed desperately for the steering wheel, but the car was going too fast, and the woman’s limp body got in the way. Tires squealed on slippery asphalt as the Jag veered to the left, crossing two lines of traffic to careen madly toward the docks.

  Frozen in fear, Michael couldn’t look away from the windshield. He watched helplessly, his heart pounding like a snare drum, as the Jaguar plowed through a metal guard rail, throwing off fiery orange sparks. The Jag bounced down a rocky embankment, its state-of-the-art, computerized shock absorbers doing little to relieve the bone-jarring jolts that tossed Michael up and down and from side to side. His brutalized shoulder shrieked in agony, joining the high-pitched scream tearing its way out of Michael’s lungs.

  The front end of the Jag hit a jagged block of concrete, and the plummeting car tumbled end over end toward the river below. Michael felt as if he were being beaten to a pulp inside a blender. This is it, he grasped in a moment of staggering clarity. I’m going to die.

  And he didn’t even know why.

  Then the Jaguar was airborne, and for an instant an eerie silence replaced the ear-pounding screeching and crashes. Michael heard his own heart racing and listened to the breathless pants issuing from his lips. Curiously he heard nothing at all from the unconscious woman. He couldn’t even tell if she was breathing…

  Through the front window, he saw the moonlit surface of the Danube rush toward them like a tidal wave. The Jaguar crashed nose first into the river with a tremendous splash. Michael’s overtaxed seatbelt came loose, and his head rammed into the windshield like a cannonball, cracking the glass.

  Seeing stars, he struggled to remain conscious despite the ringing in his skull. If he passed out now, he would never wake up. Already, the floating Jaguar was slipping beneath the surface of the river. Michael realized he was only minutes away from drowning.

  Rippling darkness swallowed them whole as the car sank toward the bottom of the Danube, its spinning tires churning up a flurry of bubbles and debris. Through the spider web of cracks across the windshield, Michael could see only opaque green shadows.

  He frantically tried to open the passenger door but discovered that his mysterious abductor had locked it electronically, probably to keep him from bailing out of the Jaguar the minute it slowed below fifty. He shot an aggrieved glance at the unconscious woman, then spotted her handgun lying on the center console. A crazy idea occurred to him, and he snatched up the gun and fired it at the window.

  The sharp report of the gun echoed painfully inside the cramped confines of the sinking Jaguar. Glass shattered, and a cascade of freezing water rushed in, soaking Michael to the skin and splashing against his face. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with as much oxygen as he could manage, in preparation for a death-defying swim to the surface. Maybe there was still a chance to get out of this alive.

  He looked across the flooding compartment at the helpless woman. Still dead to the world, she made no effort to save herself, even as the cold, dark water engulfed her. Michael hesitated, torn between self-preservation and a surprisingly powerful urge to rescue the endangered woman. She had done nothing but threaten and kidnap him, yet Michael found himself horrified at the possibility of her dying before he even found out her name.

  What the hell. He dropped the gun, letting it sink to the floor, and grabbed the woman beneath her arms. Dimly remembered lifeguard training, forgotten and unused since that summer he had worked at Coney Island, came back to him as he propelled them both through the shattered window into the murky depths of the river itself.

  He kicked strenuously toward the surface, trying to ignore the bone-numbing chill of the water. October was no time to go swimming in the Danube. The insensate woman was dead weight in his arms, as limp and lifeless as a sack of potatoes. He held her tightly beneath her armpits, his hands locked together beneath her breasts. Her loose brown hair caressed his face, the dark tresses drifting in the current like seaweed.

  Moonlight, penetrating the watery darkness, called to Michael like a beacon, letting him know which way was up. Gravity dragged at his heels as he climbed toward the shimmering silver light with agonizing slowness. His lungs burned, yearning for air, and he had to bite down hard to keep from inhaling the river itself. He could swim faster, he knew, with his arms freed, yet he held on tightly to his beautiful burden.

  His meager supply of oxygen was all but exhausted when his head and shoulders finally broke through the surface of the river. Choking and sputtering, he gulped down heaping lungfuls of fresh air as he bobbed upon the waves. Only a few inches away from his face, the woman’s head slumped limply to one side, and he took care to keep her mouth and nose above the water. Her lovely features were as cold and white as polished bone. Blood darkened the shallow waves lapping at her wounded shoulder.

  Who are you? he wondered, shifting position so that he kept one arm around the woman’s slender waist, while freeing up the other arm to swim with. And why is that so important to me?

  Fighting the current, which rapidly carried them away from the site of the Jag’s final resting place, Michael side-stroked toward the shore. Night still shrouded the docks in shadow, despite the rosy promise of dawn. Feebly, he called out for help, but exhaustion sapped the carrying power of his voice, and after swallowing several mouthfuls of brackish water, he abandoned the effort, concentrating instead on making it to the eastern bank of the river.

  His pathetic cries didn’t even rouse the woman in his arms. Michael worried about hypothermia, uncertain if the dark-haired stranger was still alive. I’m going to feel really stupid, he thought, if I drown trying to rescue a dead woman.

  It seemed to take an eternity to reach the shore. Michael’s shivering body felt numb from the neck down by the time he crawled onto the muddy slope beneath a rotting wooden dock. Moss and slime coated the weathered rocks protruding from the embankment, making it hard to get a grip as he dragged himself and his uncomplaining companion into the damp, claustrophobic space. The slick green underside of the pier was only inches above his soggy scalp, providing them with precious little headroom in which to maneuver. Garbage, washed up along the shore, littered the filthy riverside burrow. Michael felt a curious kinship with the broken bottles, crumpled beer cans, discarded cigarette wrappers, greasy rags, and other assorted bits of flotsam cast up onto the uncaring embankment. Like them, he had no idea how or why he had ended up, soaked and disheveled, beneath the docks.

  At least I’m still alive, he thought. That’s something.

  Breathing hard, he gave himself a moment to recover from the grueling swim. He wanted to put his head down and sleep for a year or two but knew he couldn’t collapse entirely until he had seen to the woman. For all he knew, she required immediate medical attention.

  Water gurgled from her mouth as he laid her down sideways atop muddy rocks. He caught a glimpse of pearl-white teeth and oddly pointed incisors. Her eyes were closed, hiding the striking brown orbs he remembered from the subway station. He gently raised her eyelids to check her pupils,
which were widely dilated. He felt a thready pulse at her throat. Michael guessed that she was suffering from shock, hypothermia, blood loss, or all of the above, not to mention a close brush with drowning. In a way, it seemed a miracle that she was alive at all.

  Her wound, he noted, had finally stopped bleeding. Thank heaven for small favors, he thought.

  There was no time to lose. His teeth chattering like castanets, he rolled her onto her back, then clasped his hands together and pressed down sharply on the woman’s abdomen—once, twice, three times. C’mon! he urged her silently. Water streamed from his hair and whiskers, raining down on his patient’s leather-clad form. His eyes scoured her face for some sign that she was responding to his urgent ministrations. Breathe for me. Breathe!

  He refused to give up on her. You can’t do this to me! he thought. He recalled the defiant glint in her eyes as she pulled the gun on him, remembered the cold smile on her porcelain face as she fearlessly raced the Jaguar through the city streets, snatching him away from that nut in the lobby—and whatever was prowling about on the rooftop. For the first time, it dawned on him that she might very well have saved his life, although he couldn’t begin to guess why. You can’t die! he protested vehemently, staring in anguish at her lifeless, lovely features. Even unconscious and streaked with mud, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. I don’t even know who you are!

  She gagged suddenly, frigid water gushing from her mouth and nose, and his heart leaped in relief. She coughed and sputtered, lifting her head a few inches above the sludge. Her eyes flickered open, just long enough to look up and see Michael kneeling above her.

  He tried to flash her a reassuring smile, employing his best bedside—or dockside—manner. His medical training came to his rescue again, and he tugged open her shirt to check on the extent of her injuries. It was possible, after all, that she might have been hurt in the crash, on top of the knife wound in her shoulder.

  Her skin beneath the waterlogged black fabric was as smooth and white as ivory. He reached down to probe her ribcage gently, only to succumb suddenly to a wave of dizziness that sent his head spinning. His vision blurred, and darkness encroached on the periphery of his sight. He shook his head groggily, trying and failing to overcome the sense of lightheadedness washing over him. He touched his forehead and winced in pain. He tugged back bloody fingers.

  Shit, he thought, remembering his head-on collision with the windshield. I have a concussion.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pierce and Taylor reported back to the infirmary empty-handed. This is growing bothersome, Singe thought. How was he supposed to continue his experiments without an adequate supply of suitable subjects? He glanced over at the genealogical chart on the wall. This Michael Corvin was proving more elusive than all of the previous specimens combined.

  The lycan scientist paced back and forth impatiently, while the two failed hunters briefed him on their botched mission topside. Stolen police uniforms, somewhat the worse for wear, clothed their brawny physiques. Singe regarded Pierce and Taylor skeptically; like most lycans, they relied more on their animal strength, and sharpened teeth and claws, than on their brains. Singe himself was an exception in that regard.

  As was Lucian.

  At least the hulking pair had fared better than Raze, in that they hadn’t returned to the underworld peppered with silver. No medical exertions were required of Singe, although he would have welcomed a surgical challenge to keep his hands and mind occupied while he awaited word of Lucian’s own excursion to the city above. He prayed to the strictly metaphorical gods of pure science that Lucian would succeed where his brutish minions had not.

  A door slammed open at the rear of the converted Metro station, and Lucian strode into the cluttered infirmary. Singes hopes were dashed when he saw that their pack leader also had returned sans quarry. He tried not to let his disappointment show, for fear of provoking the other lycan’s wrath.

  Lucian’s leather jacket was riddled with bullet holes, and the shirt beneath was torn open, exposing a hairy white chest liberally streaked with blood. Singe peered quizzically at the telltale puncture marks, but Lucian shook his head. Apparently, the solitary lycan did not require medical attention, either. Singe was not surprised; he knew full well that their immortal leader was perfectly capable of tending to his own minor (and not so minor) injuries.

  But even that highly impressive talent would be nothing compared with the awesome capabilities that would be Lucian’s should Singe’s meticulous research bear fruit. We are on the verge of a revolutionary breakthrough, he thought avidly, his bright, intelligent eyes gleaming at the staggering possibilities promised by his experiments. My theories are perfect, I know they are. All I need now is just the right human subject…

  “Another escape,” the scientist said with a sigh, contemplating Lucian’s empty hands. “Impressive. Perhaps Raze wasn’t overstating matters.”

  Have the vampires indeed caught on to our hidden designs? Singe worried. He feared how far the enemy might go to thwart the great experiment. No, that’s impossible. The bloodsuckers are too vain and decadent to comprehend the genius of my endeavor. They’re just harrying us for sport, as they always have.

  A triumphant grin stretched across Lucian’s face. He casually reached into one of the inner pockets of his coat and drew forth a capped vial filled with a rich scarlet fluid. “Raze didn’t bring this back,” he observed.

  Singe’s face lit up as Lucian tossed him the vial. The middle-aged scientist eagerly held up the vial to the harsh fluorescent light. Thanks to the anticoagulant inside the vial, the blood looked as though it had been freshly bled mere minutes ago. Hello, Michael Corvin, Singe thought, staring exuberantly at the gently sloshing red sample. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.

  A worrisome thought disturbed him. Pierce and Taylor both had reported seeing Corvin in the company of a female Death Dealer, probably the same one who had killed Trix several hours ago. He looked over at Lucian, letting his unease show on his weather-beaten face. “If Michael is indeed the Carrier,” he began, “the vampires could—”

  Lucian dismissed Singe’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “Relax, old friend. I’ve tasted his flesh. Just two more days until the full moon. Soon he will be a lycan.” Lucian’s wolfish grin grew wider by the moment. Singe nodded in understanding, his fears allayed by this intriguing new revelation.

  “Soon he will be looking for us.”

  Protective metal shades began to descend over the patterned bay window in Kraven’s suite, signaling the arrival of dawn. The reception in the salon had long since wound down, as both the mansion’s distinguished guests and its permanent residents retired for the morning, but Kraven could not rest. He stared out the window at the estate’s front gate until his view was completely cut off by the lowering shades.

  Where in blazes is that infernal woman? he thought, his handsome face disfigured by bitterness and resentment. Any other vampiress would be punished severely for such egregiously disrespectful behavior, yet Selene continued to defy him with impunity. “Frigid, castrating bitch,” he muttered beneath his breath. She was taking advantage of his own deep feelings for her, the ungrateful vixen.

  A sliver of sunlight crept across the carpet at his feet, and he backed away instinctively. A second later, the sun-proof metal shades reached the bottom of the window, banishing the obscene radiance from the suite entirely.

  Kraven hoped that Selene, wherever she was, had found some shelter from the sun. It would be just like her, he thought indignantly, to die before I have an opportunity to confront her about her waywardness!

  Once and for all.

  The sound of water lapping against the shore roused Selene, who awoke not entirely certain where she was. Slowly opening her eyes, despite a throbbing ache beneath her skull, she found herself stretched out on her back beneath some kind of reinforced wooden structure. Algae-covered timbers formed a roof maybe twenty centimeters over her head. She heard
the steady flow of a river down by her feet.

  A dock, she grasped with no little confusion. I’m under a dock, probably down by the Danube.

  But how?

  It took her another moment to realize that she was not alone. A male figure lay next to her, resting his head upon her shoulder like a lover. For one horrific second, she feared that she finally had succumbed to Kraven’s never-ending blandishments, then noted with relief the tousled brown hair on the sleeping figure, quite unlike Kraven’s flowing ebony locks. Praise the Elders! she thought.

  She blinked her eyes as the fog cleared from her mind. Of course, she realized, recognizing the unconscious mortal beside her.

  Michael Corvin.

  Much of last night’s exploits came back to her, although she remained distinctly puzzled about how she and Corvin had ended up camping out beneath Budapest’s thriving waterfront. The last thing she remembered was driving her Jaguar madly away from one unusually persistent lycan. And a vicious blade stabbing through the roof of the car into her shoulder…

  Turning her head, she discovered that the shoulder in question had been crudely bandaged with what looked like a torn portion of Corvin’s black T-shirt. He dressed my wound after I assaulted him at his home, then abducted him at gunpoint? She didn’t know whether to be grateful for his efforts or appalled by his naïveté. Well, he is a doctor, she recalled. Guess he takes his Hippocratic Oath seriously.