The walls of the ops center were plastered with digital photos and video captures of the latest casualties in the ancient blood feud. A dismembered vampire lay in pieces upon the tracks behind a stalled subway train, evidently torn to shreds by an enemy werewolf; one of Macaro's crack researchers had already identified the mangled remains as belonging to a Death Dealer named Nathaniel. Another dead vampire had been found on the subway platform nearby. His body had been thoroughly carbonized, as though exposed to a lethal amount of sunlight. Samuel suspected that the charred corpse was going to be all but impossible to identify conclusively.

The subway battle had occurred three nights ago. His gaze s.h.i.+fted to photos from a more recent bloodbath, one that had taken place earlier tonight. The gruesome shots depicted the plush interior of a private pa.s.senger train. Dried blood was splattered all over the red paneled walls and polished gold fittings. Bullet holes perforated the windows and crimson leather shades. A silver candelabra rested on the deep red carpet, next to an overturned divan with crimson upholstery. The bodies of over a dozen butchered vampires were strewn about the luxurious dining car. High-ranking members of the New World Coven and Vampire Council had been torn apart and disemboweled, their mutilated remains joining those of Death Dealers a.s.signed to protect them. Judging from the shocked expressions on their lifeless faces, the undead delegation had been caught completely off-guard by the werewolves' sneak attack.

Sloppy, Samuel thought. The dead bodyguards should have been prepared for anything. He wasn't too surprised, though. The vampires had grown overconfident since hunting the lycans to the brink of extinction over the last few centuries. They weren't expecting anything like this.

Frankly, neither were we.

His eyes were drawn to a close-up of a strikingly beautiful vampire woman. Even contorted in fear, her gla.s.sy green eyes wide with horror, her face would have been the envy of any aspiring supermodel. A priceless jeweled pendant dangled from her throat. Raven-black hair lay in disarray about her shockingly pale head and shoulders. Her pallid complexion suggested what an on-site examination had already confirmed: every last drop of blood had been drained from the Elder's body.

Even though there could be no mistaking her ident.i.ty, Samuel still found it hard to wrap his head around the idea that the legendary Lady Amelia was no more.

And Viktor as well. Two Elders dead in a single night!

But the werewolves had taken some serious losses, too. The bodies of several known lycans had been recovered from a known vampire safe house in Pest, their cooling bodies riddled with silver bullets. And more bodies, both lycan and vampire, had been extracted from the underground tunnels and bunkers-including what appeared to be the body of Lucian himself-where an apparently major battle had been fought.

Overnight, it seemed, the leaders.h.i.+p of both the vampires and the lycans had been completely uprooted. All the more reason to report to Macaro at once. Samuel could only hope that his leader could make some sense of these troubling new developments.

If he can't, who can?

A staircase at the far end of the ops center led to Macaro's private suite, overlooking the bustling activity below. In contrast to the futuristic ambience of the control room, the palatial suite reeked of Old World opulence. Antique furniture and genuine Persian carpets decorated the office. A nineteenth-century ebony armoire, of Hungarian secession style, held Macaro's personal collection of historic weapons. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, surrounded by swaths of billowing fabric. A life-size wooden carving of a Grecian Muse dominated the back of the suite, ascending from the hardwood floor to the ceiling like Aphrodite rising from the foam. Only the stainless-steel shutters over the windows, and the st.u.r.dy metal bulkheads composing the walls, reminded Samuel that he was still aboard a s.h.i.+p and not entering the drawing room of some stately old mansion. It was like stepping from Launch Control at Cape Canaveral into a Merchant-Ivory movie.

The man who called himself Lorenz Macaro sat behind a large mahogany desk, facing the stairs. The carved figurehead loomed behind him like a guardian angel. Despite the ongoing crisis, the man's desktop was clean and meticulously organized. An antique hourgla.s.s rested next to an empty in-box. Fountain pens, stationery, and a leather-bound journal were meticulously arrayed atop the imposing desk. A skylight in the ceiling allowed the moonlight to fall across the deck. A Tiffany lamp added a touch of extra illumination.

Macaro looked up from his journal as Samuel approached. The master of the Sancta Helena was an elderly man who appeared to be in his late sixties. A neatly trimmed white beard matched his snowy hair and bangs. A maroon coat, which had the look of something that might have been worn by the naval commander of a bygone era, graced his dignified frame. An engraved signet ring glittered upon his right hand.

Despite his apparent age, no trace of infirmity could be seen in Macaro's mien or manner. His cool gray eyes were fully alert. A quiet authority radiated from his presence, along with a certain weary melancholy.

He raised his hand to signal an aide standing near the top of the staircase. Within moments, the hubbub from the ops center grew softer as the investigators below muted all the communications being monitored. Headsets were fastened over the ears of the researchers, so that they could continue their work in relative silence. The glow of the video screens flickered over the ceiling above the control room.

The Old Man did not waste time with pleasantries. "The innocent who witnessed?" he asked Samuel. His voice was strong and clear, undiminished by age. Samuel heard the concern in his tone. "They've been silenced?"

"But otherwise unharmed," Samuel a.s.sured Macaro. "As you ordered."

A judicious combination of bribes, threats, and blackmail had been enough to ensure that any eyewitnesses to the immortals' latest escapades would not go running to the press or the authorities. It helped, of course, that most of the witnesses could barely believe their own eyes or lacked any true understanding of what they had beheld. And who would believe them anyway, aside from the most credulous and disreputable tabloids?

Macaro nodded, obviously pleased that no additional mortals had been harmed. He rose from his seat and stepped out from behind his desk. "Come," he instructed Samuel, heading for the stairs. "Show me what you have."

Samuel followed his leader down the steps into the control room. Commandeering an empty work station, Samuel slid a memory stick into the appropriate slot on the attached computer. The large plasma screen mounted above the computer came to life, displaying raw video footage of his team's recent missions. Miniature cameras embedded in the Cleaners' helmets had recorded the images as the team swiftly went about their work, eliminating any telltale evidence the vampires and lycans might have left behind...just as Samuel and his predecessors had done for countless generations.

They're not making it very easy for us this time.

The first batch of footage came from the cleanup operation at the Ferenciek Square Metro station, where a trio of Death Dealers had engaged in an all-out firefight with at least two lycan foot soldiers. Operating a remote, Samuel clicked from one Cleaner's point of view to another's. Jerky, erratic images depicted army boots splas.h.i.+ng through greasy puddles below the subway platform, gloved hands s.n.a.t.c.hing up bodies (and body parts) and stuffing them into bags, chisels digging squashed silver bullets out of the tiled walls of the station, flashlights combing the subway tracks for tufts of dark wolfen fur, or anything else that might give away the inhuman nature of the combatants. Samuel recalled that no lycan corpses had been found at the site, although they had discovered traces of lycan blood deeper in the tunnels surrounding the station. Had both lycans survived the shoot-out, or had one of them carried the other's dead body away?

We may never know, he thought.

Macaro surveyed the footage from the Metro station without comment. "Amelia," he said after a moment or two.

"Yes, sir." Samuel used the remote to fast-forward through the images until he reached the footage taken at the blood-spattered dining car. According to their intel, Amelia and her entourage had been en route to Ordoghaz when they were ambushed by what had to have been a sizable pack of werewolves. Video from the helmet cams showed Samuel and the other Cleaners tidying up after the ma.s.sacre, just as they had at the subway terminal. This time there had been many more vampire bodies to confiscate. Macaro watched as Amelia's bloodless corpse was bundled into a body bag.

Samuel knew what the Old Man wanted to see next and advanced the footage accordingly. The scene on the plasma screen s.h.i.+fted from the luxurious train interior to a murky subterranean bunker beneath downtown Budapest. Rubble and bullet-riddled wreckage hinted at the ferocious battle that had taken place in the underworld earlier tonight. The upper half of a severed head was matched to the remainder of a dead vampire's body. When the two pieces of the head were held together, there was no mistaking the imperious features of Viktor himself. A conscientious Cleaner made sure that both segments of the Elder's remains made it into the same body bag.

"Viktor," Macaro said.

Viktor had clearly not been killed by a werewolf. The fatal cut was too clean, almost surgical in its precision. Under interrogation, a surviving lycan claimed to have seen a female Death Dealer slay the Elder. This jibed with earlier reports linking Selene to Michael Corvin. Samuel was well acquainted with the female vampire's lethal reputation.

How could she have turned against Viktor so quickly? he wondered. According to our files, she was utterly loyal to the coven and the Elders.

Macaro had seen enough of Viktor's disposal. He gestured again, and Samuel fast-forwarded to the most recent footage, taken only a few hours ago, shortly after Kraven had been spotted returning to the vampires' mansion. The plasma screen lit up with scenes of Ordoghaz in flames. Yellow and orange flames leaped toward the winter sky as Viktor's historic mansion, the coven's home for nearly a thousand years, was consumed in a blazing inferno. Samuel kept the remote set on fast-forward so that the manor's destruction seemed to take place at an accelerated rate. The time-lapsed images sped by until the mansion had completely burned to the ground. In the end, all that remained of Ordoghaz was a heap of red-hot embers piled atop the hidden crypt.

Samuel felt a twinge of regret. All that history...lost forever. He wondered how many vampires had perished in the conflagration. Few immortals could withstand being burned alive. He slowed the footage down to the standard speed, allowing the smoking ruins to smolder in real time. Had any of the mansion's inhabitants managed to escape the blaze?

"And no trace of Marcus among the ashes?" Macaro asked.

Samuel shook his head. Their preliminary investigation had found no body in the Elder's tomb, where their intel had last placed him. It would be days before the site could be excavated in its entirety, but Samuel felt in his gut that Marcus had not been among those killed in the fire. Indeed, some evidence suggested that many of the mansion's residents had been torn apart before Ordoghaz had caught fire. "It seems he destroyed his own coven."

"It was never his coven," Macaro replied.

The morgue was located on one of the s.h.i.+p's lower decks. As opposed to the palatial decor of Macaro's office, the atmosphere within the morgue was cold, stark, and antiseptic. Heavy steel bulkheads insulated the chamber from the rest of the s.h.i.+p, not to mention the restless sea outside. Fluorescent lights mounted in the ceiling cast a harsh white light on the stainless-steel slabs, sinks, and gurneys below. Razor-sharp surgical implements rested atop metal trays. Freshly developed X-rays were displayed upon illuminated viewboxes. By design, the temperature was kept suitably refrigerated.

Macaro could practically smell the embalming fluid. "Give me a moment," he instructed Samuel.

The loyal soldier stepped outside and closed the door behind him, leaving Macaro alone in the morgue. The older man knew he could count on Samuel to see that he was not disturbed while he did...what had to be done.

Amelia's body was already laid out on a slab, awaiting a full autopsy. Macaro suspected the procedure would tell them nothing they didn't already know: the exquisite Elder had been bled to death by the same lycans who had butchered her retinue. An ugly death, he thought, especially for one so beautiful.

A pair of sealed body bags occupied slabs of their own. Macaro took a deep breath, then unzipped the nearer of the two bags. Lucian's lifeless face stared up at him. The blackened veins crisscrossing the lycan leader's gray countenance testified eloquently to the cause of death: acute silver poisoning. Macaro guessed that Lucian had suffered horribly before he died. Had the rebel commander been united with his beloved Sonja at last? Macaro hoped as much.

Perhaps someday I will see my own lost wife again....

Unzipping the body bag farther, he opened Lucian's scuffed brown jacket. A puzzled expression came over the old man's face as he looked in vain for what he had expected to find. He groped beneath the jacket, but came up empty-handed. Where the devil is that pendant? he thought in surprise. Lucian was never without it, not once in six hundred years.

Baffled by the mystery, he turned his attention to the final body bag. Inside he found the remains of Viktor, along with the severed half of the warlord's skull. The gruesome sight did not repel Macaro; he had seen too much of life-and death-to be taken aback by such things. In his time, he had looked on far greater horrors and expected to do so again.

Such was his curse.

Still, the realization that both Viktor and Lucian now rested in this morgue was enough to give him pause. This is a historic night, he realized, for those few of us who know the truth. In many ways, Lucian and Viktor had been the architects and prime movers of the immortal war that had raged in the shadows of human history for the better part of a millennium. Does this mean that the war is finally over? Macaro would have liked to believe so, but the carnage at the vampires' mansion belied that comforting supposition. I fear that this is merely the beginning of a new chapter in the endless conflict, G.o.d help us all.

In the meantime, there were serious matters to be dealt with. He glanced at one of the X-rays mounted upon the wall. The glowing film clearly revealed a small, round object attached to one of Viktor's ribs. Interesting, Macaro mused. He opened Viktor's embossed leather tunic, exposing the Elder's bare chest, and dragged his fingertips across the cold, stiff flesh. Aha, he thought as his fingers detected a peculiar lump just below Viktor's rib cage. Macaro nodded in satisfaction. This time he had found what he was looking for.

Donning a pair of latex gloves, he plucked a scalpel from a nearby tray and rested the tip of the blade against the dead Elder's chest. Macaro's eyes narrowed in concentration as he sliced open the vampire's flesh, creating an incision large enough for him to thrust his fingers inside the unprotesting body. His fingers closed around a small, solid object that seemed to have been deliberately attached to the Elder's ribs.

There you are, Macaro thought. Viktor hid you well, but not well enough.

It took a bit of effort to disengage the object from the vampire's ribs, but the Old Man soon succeeded in dragging his prize out into the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. He held the object up for his inspection.

The lights exposed an ornate, circular bronze device. Intricate runes were inscribed upon the metal ring, whose complexity was matched only by its unsettling beauty. Macaro wiped the device off with a silk handkerchief, then safely tucked it away in his clothes.

A cryptic smile lifted the corners of his lips.

Chapter Eight.

The abandoned mine felt much more desolate now that Selene was gone.

Michael stared at the blood-filled packet in his hand. The warmth of his body was already causing the frozen blood to thaw. Reddish purple fluid sloshed inside the sealed plastic bag. Did Selene expect him to drink it cold, or should he zap it in a microwave first? Either way, the very thought of consuming the blood turned his stomach.

Can I actually do this? he thought dubiously. As a doctor, and a surgeon, he had performed numerous blood transfusions, but he had never asked a patient to swallow the blood whole. For a moment, he considered setting up an IV and transfusing the blood into his own veins; at least that didn't seem as gross and unnatural as pouring the stuff down his throat. But would that satisfy the growing ache in his stomach? Michael tried to remember the last time he had eaten anything. It had to have been a day or so. One way or another, he had been on the run ever since Lucian had bitten him three nights ago.

No wonder I'm starving.

He contemplated the blood some more. Technically, it was only cloned blood, but it looked real enough to him. All he needed to do, according to Selene, was rip open the packet and gulp the blood down. He had to a.s.sume she knew what she was talking about. For all he knew, she drank this stuff every day.

He gagged at the thought.

"Forget it!" he blurted. There was no way he could go through with it. Besides, maybe Selene was wrong. She said herself that he was unique, that n.o.body really understood how this whole hybrid business was supposed to work. Maybe he didn't need blood after all.

He tossed the bag away in disgust. It plopped onto a nearby counter.

That's better, he thought. He definitely felt weak, though, and light-headed. I need food. Real food.

On impulse, he threw his leather jacket back on. Selene would not be back until nightfall, if she returned at all. He had plenty of time to go find something to eat and still get back to the bunker before she came looking for him. Besides, he'd go stir-crazy if he had to stay cooped up here all day, alone with his thoughts.

Time for a breakfast run.

He pa.s.sed a weapons rack on his way to the door. Should he grab a gun or two? The idea made him uncomfortable. He had gone his whole life without packing heat, and he resisted the idea that he had to go armed from now on. The sun will be coming up in an hour or so, he rationalized, so I'm not likely to run into any insomniac vampires or werewolves. Plus, he could always change into his hybrid form if he had to. He hadn't needed any firepower to defend himself against Viktor before....

Leaving the weapons behind, he exited the safe house. It was still dark outside, and the snow was falling nonstop. A b.u.mpy mountain road, all but buried beneath the frozen precipitation, led away from the deserted mine. Michael figured the road had to connect with civilization at some point. He trudged down the road, feeling the cold night wind blowing against his face. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets in a futile attempt to keep warm.

It was a miserable night for a hike. The arctic wind nipped at his exposed face. The chill seeped into his bones. His jacket lacked a hood, so the snow fell directly onto his head and shoulders. Melting snowflakes slipped beneath his collar, causing ice water to trickle down his spine. He kept his eyes peeled for headlights, hoping that maybe he could hitch a ride to the nearest bar or diner, but apparently n.o.body was stupid enough to try driving through the blizzard. The only bright side to the storm was that there didn't seem to be any hostile monsters out prowling around either. The only thing taking a bite out of him was the cold.

Was Selene enduring an equally uncomfortable trek? He wondered if she had made it back to the vampires' mansion yet, and, if so, what sort of reception she had run into. Dammit, he thought, I should have gone with her. He hated the idea of her facing this other Elder, Marcus, alone. She had sliced Viktor's head in two. Did she really think the other vampires were going to forgive that? What if I never see her again?

No, he couldn't allow himself to think like that. Selenehad to come back, and not just because she was his only guide to this strange, secret world of hers. Michael was surprised by the intensity of his feelings. He had known Selene for less than a week, yet already he couldn't imagine going on without her. Selene was nothing like Samantha, the fiancee he had lost so many years ago. Yet somehow he felt closer to her than he had to any woman since Sam's death.

Guess that's what happens when you go through h.e.l.l together.

By the time he spied the lights up ahead, he felt as if he had been slogging through the snow for ages, even though it had only been about fifteen minutes, tops. His face burned from the cold, and he had lost all feeling in his fingers and toes. Hunger still gnawed at his stomach, but the need for warmth was rapidly overtaking his appet.i.te as a priority. Hopefully, the lights meant that he could take care of both needs simultaneously.

Picking up the pace, he staggered out of the forest. He found himself on the outskirts of a small mountain town consisting of a meager collection of run-down, weather-beaten buildings running along a single main street; you could probably drive from one end of the town to the other in less than two minutes. Michael spotted a service station, some darkened storefronts, and-thank G.o.d!-a tavern. Most of the town looked as if it hadn't woken up yet, but Michael was relieved to see lights burning inside the tavern. He mentally thanked the bar's customers for staying up into the wee hours of the morning.

Cars and pickup trucks were parked outside the tavern. Michael dragged himself across the snow-covered parking lot. A neon sign informed him in Hungarian that the place was open all night, which was the best news he had heard all week. He yanked open the front door and was greeted by a rush of hot air. All right, he thought, basking in the sudden warmth. Just what the doctor ordered.

The interior of the tavern was rustic in the extreme. The patrons sat on wooden benches in front of crude log tables. Kerosene lanterns glowed atop the tables, while a single lamp hung from one of the thick oak beams supporting the ceiling. Sawdust covered the floor. Old-fas.h.i.+oned cracker barrels were stacked in the corners. A horizontal mirror, mounted behind the rough-hewn bar, reflected Michael's bedraggled features. He brushed his hair back in an attempt to look a little less pathetic. A neon sign advertised Kobanyai brand beer. A silent jukebox occupied the back wall, next to a flas.h.i.+ng pinball machine. A TV set, propped up in one corner, was tuned to a local news station. A Hungarian weatherman predicted snow.

No s.h.i.+t, Michael thought.

His entrance attracted a few curious stares. Michael guessed they didn't get a lot of strangers in these parts, especially at this G.o.dforsaken hour. His heart stopped momentarily as he spotted a pair of uniformed policemen sitting at one of the tables. Just my luck, he thought bitterly. Were the police still looking for him concerning that shoot-out in the Metro station? The last two police officers who had picked Michael up for questioning had turned out to be a couple of lycans in disguise, but that didn't mean that he wasn't still in hot water with the authorities. h.e.l.l, he had practically attacked one of his fellow residents back at the hospital, while raving incoherently about bite marks and hallucinations. How could the policenot be after him? He swallowed hard and tried not to look too guilty.

d.a.m.n, he thought. I should have checked out the parking lot more carefully.

Selene would never have made a mistake like this.

As always, Marcus was amazed at how much the world had changed in two hundred years. When last he had gone into the earth, at the dawn of the nineteenth century, Buda and Pest had been two separate cities, divided by the winding waters of the mighty Danube. Now a unified capital, linked by many imposing bridges, lay beneath him as he soared through the frigid night sky. The modern miracle of "electricity" lit up the sprawling metropolis, so that the city glittered like a crystal chandelier, outs.h.i.+ning the full moon above. Even though Kraven's stolen memories had prepared him for the sight, the revived Elder gaped in wonder nonetheless.

Truly, this brave new millennium had wrought many changes, not the least of which was his own unexpected metamorphosis. Leathery wings carried his wizened form above the transformed city. Although his mummified appearance testified to the fact that he had not yet fully recovered from his long repose, despite the blood of Kraven and his decadent underlings, Marcus had wasted no time embarking on this vital quest. With Viktor dead at last, the time had finally come to fulfill an ancient vow, solemnly sworn upon a bygone night of blood and fire. For over eight hundred years he had bided his time, but now the long wait was over.

But first I must find this errant kinsman of mine.

"Michael Corvin."

Following Kraven's blood memories, he swooped down from the sky toward an unprepossessing neighborhood in central Pest. Night's umbrageous cloak, and the swirling snow, concealed his descent from whatever mortals might be awake at this unG.o.dly hour. His eyes fell upon his destination: a broken-down, old brownstone on a dimly lit block in a bad part of town. The lonely streets looked devoid of life.

In contrast to the city's starry appearance from on high, this region of Pest had declined dramatically since Marcus had last walked these streets. Little remained of the gorgeous baroque architecture erected by the Hapsburgs after over a century of Turkish occupation. The dilapidated brownstone was an ugly pile of bricks, blackened by decades of smog and soot. Steel-shuttered windows and garish graffiti suggested that the homely edifice had been abandoned for some time.

Which was not exactly the case.

Marcus touched down upon the snow-covered roof of the building. According to Kraven, this site was often used by the Death Dealers as a "safe house." A locked door barred entrance to the brownstone, but the Elder easily ripped the door from its hinges. He tucked his wings against his shoulder blades as he pa.s.sed through the narrow portal.

The smell of rotting corpses and foul lycan blood struck him the minute he entered the building. Descending a flight of stairs, he found a scene of utter carnage. Lycan bodies littered the floor, surrounded by pools of clotting blood. Broken gla.s.s, chipped plaster, and bullet sh.e.l.ls added to the clutter. Many of the lycan soldiers still clutched their formidable-looking modern muskets in their lifeless hands. Marcus was saddened, but not surprised, to see with his own eyes that William's subhuman sp.a.w.n still infected the earth. Over the centuries, they had proven d.a.m.nably hard to exterminate, especially after the coven's ill-advised attempt to domesticate them back in the Dark Ages. Lucian had taught them the folly of that enterprise.

Perhaps it is just as well, he mused. Destiny surely has its own plan for William and his breed.

Turning his thoughts away from the past, Marcus contemplated the b.l.o.o.d.y detritus before him. Obviously, a battle had been fought here, mere hours ago. He searched the faces of the dead lycans but was disappointed to discover that Michael Corvin was not among them. That would have been too easy, I suppose.

Broken gla.s.s crunched beneath the leathery soles of his taloned feet as he strode through the gory debris. Crates and cardboard boxes cluttered the suite. An interrogation chamber boasted chains, shackles, and a heavy steel chair. Snow blew in through a shattered window. b.l.o.o.d.y torture implements rested upon trays and counters. A weapons locker contained an a.r.s.enal of modern firearms. Fluorescent lights glowed overhead.

He scanned the aftermath of the battle, looking for...ah, yes! Black eyes widened at the sight of illuminated screens, consoles, and keyboards. Glowing images s.h.i.+fted upon the screen, as if by sorcery. Marcus quickened his pace as he approached the futuristic communications station. His sharpened nails tapped experimentally at the keyboard.

Now came the difficult part. "Computers" and "linked networks" were two hundred years after his time. Ideally, Amelia would have transferred her own blood memories to him upon his Awakening, ensuring a smooth transition into the present, but Amelia was dead, a victim of Kraven's treachery. He would have to rely on the turncoat's own memories instead.

Closing his eyes, he rifled through Kraven's memories at lightning speed. Repet.i.tive images of ceaseless blood orgies and self-important posturing made him despair for the sorry state of the coven under Kraven's regency. Clandestine meetings with Lucian emphasized once again the full extent of Kraven's perfidy. In retrospect, Marcus found it hard to believe that he and the other Elders had ever taken Kraven's lies about killing Lucian at face value. What fools we were to trust him! He experienced Kraven's unrequited l.u.s.t for Selene and recalled that the female Death Dealer, Viktor's beloved protegee, was still on the loose, most likely in the company of Michael Corvin. He owed Selene a debt for slaying Viktor, but that would not spare her if she dared to come between him and his prize. He had already killed an entire coven tonight. The death of one more vampire meant nothing to him.

Only the quest mattered.

It took Marcus only seconds to settle on the memory he required. In his mind's eye, he saw Kraven seated before a similar station. Gold rings, studded with precious gems, glittered upon the regent's fingers as he tapped upon a keyboard. Marcus perused the thoughts that had pa.s.sed through Kraven's brain at that moment, extracting from them the knowledge he now required. He was gratified to discover that the network had been designed to be "user-friendly."

How very convenient.

Hesitantly at first, but with increasing confidence, Marcus worked the keyboard. A series of graphic interfaces flashed across the monitor in front of him. Pleased by the speed of this ingenious new technology, he quickly located what he was looking for: a digital map displaying the location of various other safe houses employed by the coven. A flas.h.i.+ng red icon indicated that one such sanctuary was currently in use.

Withered lips turned upward in a smile. The site in question was not far from here.

No, not far at all.