The Damned (13 page)

He strode out, then down a flight of stairs to his office. Only he had a key. He let himself in, humming, and slammed the door. The human he’d had for breakfast was still chained to the wall.
And
still alive. Nice.

“Take two,” Solomon said.

The human jerked his head. “No,” he whispered.

In an instant Solomon’s eyes glowed; his fangs extended. He glared at him.

“What did you say?” he shouted. He twisted the man’s head so that his mouth was pressed over the guy’s ear and yelled as loudly as he could, “What did you
dare
to say to me?
No?
”

The man gasped, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He was near death. If Solomon was going to have any more of him, he had to act fast. He had never in his thirty-odd years as a vampire drunk dead blood, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

“No one says no to me.”

Then he slowly pierced the man’s ravaged neck with his fangs, knowing it would be torturous, as the man groaned and tried, very feebly, to protest.

Solomon chuckled and further drew out the pain. For a long, long, time.

Finally the man’s heart stopped; his head lolled to the side, and his eyes stared at nothing.

“And that’s a wrap,” Solomon said gleefully. His cell phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket. It was his partner again.

“Danny,” he said.
“Dobraye utro.”
“Good morning,” in Russian. He listened to a stream of Russian in response. His smile grew so wide he was afraid his face would crack.

“Kruta,”
he replied, which was Russian for “cool.” “Of course I’ll wire you more money.” He frowned. “So there are just the two left, right? Two hunters?”

He huffed as the guy on the other end of the line continued to whine. “Oh, please, you can find two people hiding in the forest. Set your monsters after them. You can make
more.
They’re like extras, Dantalion. Disposable. Yes? Okay,
kruta, kruta.
Later.”

Solomon hung up. Dantalion was losing his mind, poor guy. Maybe it was time to dump him.

He unchained the human and dragged him into the hall. Called maintenance.

“Hybrids,” he said to himself. “That’s what we’ll call them. Cool.
Kruta.”

He went back to the soundstage, daydreaming about sunscreen, and solar energy, and going surfing again.

Life was good, baby. Unless you were alive. And then it
sucked.

R
USSIA
T
EAM
S
ALAMANCA
M
INUS
A
NTONIO;
T
AAMIR AND
N
OAH

The food was stowed, the dishes packed away. Jamie and Noah had gone off to smoke. Jenn dozed a bit, then woke up as the two men returned, chatting and laughing about something. Jenn was certain that Noah was at least twenty-five. At least sixty-five years younger than Antonio. Noah had been checking her out too. It flustered her a little, but she liked it. It was nice to be around a guy who didn’t have major baggage like Antonio.

Is that why you keep thinking about Antonio?
she asked herself.
Wondering what he
’
s doing every five minutes?

Noah and Jamie sat down. They were a significant distance from their target, far enough to hazard a campfire. Jenn was grateful; it was very cold. The ground was snowy, and everyone’s breath mingled and rose like ghosts above the flames.

“Before we get started discussing our mission, I want to tell you about Dantalion,” Noah said, in his deep voice with his interesting accent. “He’s very dangerous, and very old.”

Taamir grinned at the Salamancans. “This will be good. Before he joined the Mossad, Noah was a writer. Pretty famous in Israel.”

Jenn was impressed. She’d never met a writer before.

“Oh, that’s fascinating.” Skye glanced at Jamie, who was examining his Uzi. “Isn’t it,
Jamie?”

Jamie stirred. “Sorry, darlin’, what?”

Skye gave the Uzi the same pained look she often flashed at Jamie’s cigarettes. “Noah is a famous writer.”

“We’re sorry. We are listening,” Eriko assured Noah.

“Yes,” Jenn repeated, and when Noah smiled at her, her cheeks went hot. What was
wrong
with her? They were about to risk their lives, and she was flirting with a teammate.

Then again, why not? She and Antonio were a mess. She should move on.

And be alone
, she told herself. Now was not the time to get involved with anyone. Not that Noah was just anyone.
I don’t even know if he’s available.

Stop, Jenn!

Noah began.

The Russian people say that Dantalion is a demon who escaped from hell. They say that for centuries he lurked in the ice caves of the Ural Mountains, where special herbs grew that could cure many ailments—gout, and headaches, and digestive problems. Knowing this, Dantalion hid in the darkness, luring the villagers to come in with his whispers in the echoes of dripping water and the scurrying of rodents.

Come. I have what you want. What you need. Just be brave and come to me.

Come.

He would lull them with his singsong voice, and then attack them.

When the snow was so bitter that the villagers stayed inside, it is said that Dantalion crept along the sides of their huts at night, murmuring to the young girls to come out and dance with him.

Come. I have what you want. What you need. Just be brave and come to me.

Come.

Mothers told their children, “Go to bed, and say your prayers, or Dantalion will get you!”

Of a midnight, children would leave their beds and crawl out their windows.

Come. I have what you want. What you need. Just be brave and come to me.

Come.

Their priest hired a Hunter named Baradin from St. Petersburg. He strode off toward the mountains, to challenge Dantalion in the caves. He did not return. They found Baradin in the early spring, beneath the melting surface of a frozen pond, hit contorted face ice blue, with two great holes in his throat.

If a Hunter could not destroy Dantalion, all hope for the people was lost. The villagers packed up everything and raced down the mountainsides while the sun brightly shone. The aged and infirm were left behind. Dantalion made short work of them. Then, starving, Dantalion howled like a rabid wolf from the mountaintops and raged through the deserted village. He set fire to the huts, the orange flames blazing for seven days and seven nights.

Meanwhile, it was said, the holy brother named Rasputin, known as the Mad Monk, was at an inn in Siberia. Rasputin had been engaged in a drinking contest in the tavern when he learned that the innkeeper’s daughter had fallen very ill.

The girl’s beautiful mother was hysterical The pretty girl herself was panting and moaning, and on the verge of death. Not being one to turn his back on a loving lady or her lovely daughter, Rasputin offered hit help. The mother gazed at him with forlorn and dewy eyes, and gave her consent.

Rasputin took the maiden’s hands in his, forcing her to lie still and ordered her to look into his eyes:
Relax. Calm down.
And then, as if by some miracle, she could breathe. She felt no pain.

Breathe, no pain.

Live.

Live.

Live.

Her terrified mother crossed herself as the girl sank into a swoon. Kneeling at the bedside, the woman told Rasputin she would give him everything she had if only he could make her child live.

“She will rise,” Rasputin promised.

The next morning the girl woke refreshed and relaxed. But while the mother fell to her knees and kissed Rasputin’s hands, some of the other townspeople were frightened.

“We had a demon in our village who could whisper to the soul like that,” one of Rasputin’s drinking partners murmured, holding up a cross. “He could lure a man into his cave, and rip out his throat. He would glide into our village and lure our children outside to meet him. And then he would drink their blood. It made him immortal.”

That intrigued Rasputin. He began searching for this immortal blood-drinking creature. He came from superstitious stock, and he had heard of vampires.

To finance his search, he continued his practice of psychic healing. His gift, he learned from a lovely lady whose headaches he cured, was referred to in the scientific journals of the day as mesmerism, and it was a form of mental energy that could be manipulated, and used. But could it make him immortal, like a vampire? Or was immortality only brought on by the drinking of blood?

In hopes of achieving eternal life, Rasputin began to drink blood. The stories say he drank in secret, from the veins of the willing wives of the Russian aristocrats in St. Petersburg. A peasant in his soul, he hated them all for their wealth and power while the peasants starved, and as he sucked their blood, he swore that he would suck their riches from them as well They had no idea, of course. So he created a secret society and gave them all very important positions with fantastic titles like Daughter of the Dawn—in return, of course, for “love donations” of gold and jewels.

Still, he did not think that drinking blood had given him immortality. He felt no difference before and after, and as he looked in the mirror, he spotted wrinkles and liver spots—the telltale signs of aging.

He gained a reputation as a psychic, a mystic, a holy man who could heal the sick
—
even those near death. Alexandra, the czarina of all the Russias, heard of Rasputin, and begged him to heal her son, the heir to the throne, the Grand Duke Alexei. The child had hemophilia, which meant that his blood didn’t clot. One scratch and he could bleed to death. The doctors could not help him and spoke only of an early death.

Thinking of the riches and status that he would gain, Rasputin met with the czarina in St. Petersburg. He made her promise to keep the medical doctors away and began his mesmerism program. Sending the boy into swoons gave the little body a chance to recover from each episode. And so the czar and the czarina believed that Rasputin was curing little Alexei, bit by bit, none of them realizing that stress relief can stop the bleeding in hemophiliacs, but not cure it.

Meanwhile Dantalion had wandered the steppes in search of blood, and the stories of the magickal city of St. Petersburg had reached his ears. Electricity! Motorcars! He blew in like an ill wind, himself mesmerized by the beauty of the modern, technologically advanced city.

Surrounded by such glorious wonders, Dantalion was overcome with self-loathing. He had lived like a savage in his ice caves. Wrapped in furs, he had attacked filthy peasants, and mud and cow dung had mingled with their blood when he drank. For how many centuries? He didn’t know, couldn’t even remember his own beginnings. And while he relished his immortality, he had no idea how he could remain in the glittering city without being detected. He couldn’t go out by day. The sun would destroy him. But he was so hungry to
live
—to join the swirl of humanity.

He must have the sun!

Then he heard about Rasputin, the mesmerist who was curing the Russian grand duke of his fatal blood disease. Such a man must know a lot about blood chemistry. What if Dantalion’s blood could be altered, such that he could endure the sunlight?

“I present myself,” he said to Rasputin, appearing one night at the door of the monk
’
s sparse flat. Dantalion was splendidly attired in a huge fur coat and hat, and a cane. He wished he could see his reflection, but he knew he was very grand.

“Vampire,” Rasputin said delightedly. “Come in, come in.”

Be brave and come to me.

Come.

So it began. Each wanted something from the other, and both needed money to achieve their ends. Russian coins—rubles—were the bullets of their day, and the two men were relentless in their pursuit. Money made Rasputin powerful; money gave Dantalion access to scientists and laboratories.

But Russia was in a shambles from fighting disastrous wars for more territory. Thousands of Russian sons were dead, and the survivors were penniless and hungry. The czar and czarina held their balls, wore their furs. The common people hated them and their associates—among them Rasputin.

Rasputin had nearly as many enemies as the czar, especially the husbands of his noble female fans—and they murdered him in 1916. First he was poisoned, then beaten, then shot, then beaten again, and then finally bound and thrown in the half-frozen Neva River.

It is now known that Rasputin was so hard to kill because Dantalion had been experimenting on him. Rasputin was his first attempt at making a new kind of vampire.

The czar, czarina, and all their children were executed by the rebels in 1918. St. Petersburg was no longer safe for unconventional persons such as Dantalion, who returned to the shadows again. He was not seen again until after Solomon made his appearance on Valentines Day and brought the vampires back into the light.

“And now he’s back. And what he does to the people he experiments on . . .”

Noah Geller trailed off, and Jenn roused. She had lost herself in his hypnotic voice as he’d woven his story about their target. “We have to get Svika out of there,” Noah concluded.

Jamie pulled out a cigarette and tapped it against his submachine gun. “Well, why the bloody hell not take Dantalion out by force? Just nuke the hell out of him? The government’s protecting another big scientist Curser, lad. It’s clear as day.”

“I have to agree,” Holgar said.