Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1) (2 page)

How he loathed her flair for the dramatic.

“What? Not even a kiss,” the killer taunted her.

Her eyes narrowed. “Do your duty, Executioner.” She lowered her hands, curling them into fists at her sides. Her hatred for the man made it clear to him that she would enjoy ripping the deviant’s head from his body. But the council had not given her the authority to do so. Their edict could not be more direct. No one had authority to kill. Ever. Apostates, all of them. Even Roxanna, despite her virtuous actions this night.

Still, the accused would die.

He watched the executioner shove the spear into the butcher’s chest. The brilliant killer grabbed it with his hands in a fruitless attempt to remove the deadly tool. Simon noted the faint violet coloring of his palms. The assassin slumped, his eyes glazing over, blood from his punctured heart staining his cravat a deep crimson.

The workmen panicked and turned to run, but the executioner and another noble prevented them from escape by slicing their throats. With eyes wide, the peasants fell to the ground, gasping for air but drowning on their own blood.

Roxanna, though not orthodox in her beliefs, was willing to break the ill-conceived law of the sacredness of life to ensure their society remained hidden from the world. There could be no loose ends for Scotland Yard to find.

Glancing at the other lords picking up the discarded shovels, he saw the disgust on their faces at having to clean up the scene. Each of them swore a secret oath to Roxanna to never speak of what transpired here to anyone. Roxanna would fabricate a lie about how she had captured the killer and sent him to The Sanctuary of the Forgotten. Her power would be strengthened.

As he lifted the corpse of the murderer, Simon smiled. The whore queen didn’t realize that the winds of change were coming. What transpired tonight was the beginning.

Though he would not be around to witness the fruition of a lifelong vengeance, it
would
still be his.

“The mitochondrial DNA of the Denisova Cave finger bone fragment, indicates that living in the same society among
Homo sapien
s 40,000 years ago was a minority of members from a differing subspecies, as yet unidentified by the scientific community. It is likely the evidence that this secret hominid still exists alongside mankind will eventually be found in living subjects who appear fully human in every aspect, except for their DNA. These individuals may or may not be aware of their uncommon lineage.”

Dr. Thomas Wilson speaking to The Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge, 14 December.

PRESENT

London

CHAPTER 1

8:31 AM

“Am I dead?” Austin McCord had heard the enemy’s gunfire. He’d felt the bullet rip through the flesh of his torso and exit out his back.

I should be dead.

But his heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer. Dead men didn’t have heartbeats.

He sucked in a deep breath. What happened to the blood he was choking on just a second ago? He steadied his breathing. His heart rate slowed to a more normal rhythm, his disorientation melted away, and his Navy SEAL training kicked in.

He needed to figure out where he was.

The sounds of the battlefield were gone. Gunfire. Rumbling of military vehicles. Voices of soldiers. Whispers of frightened civilians.

Now nothing but silence engulfed him. The mission was over.

He was lying on a mattress with soft sheets which were issuing a fresh scent. This didn’t seem like a no-frills military hospital.

He was naked. Someone must have stripped off his uniform.

He rubbed his eyes and then opened them. No dark Iraqi sky hung above his head. No enemy soldiers surrounded him and his men. No senator’s nephew to rescue. No Remington at his side or Lieutenant Davis covering their backs. No other fellow SEALs. Nothing except recessed lights in the ceiling above him burning his eyes. Something was definitely not right about any of this.

The last thing he remembered?

Think.

His mind filled with images of the five enemy soldiers who got the drop on his team. A sixth soldier’s laser painted a red dot on his buddy, Michael Remington.

His gut tightened. No time to think. Only to act. He dropped the enemy with a single shot between the eyes. Not difficult from this range. But his victory was short lived, cut down by a bullet into his own chest.

Lieutenant Davis, Remington, and Nelson, the team’s medic, bent over him. The looks on their faces and the overwhelming agony he felt told him how bad he’d been hit. His last thoughts had been about his twin sister; Angelique was his only living family.

Nelson must have saved him.
Damn, I owe my life to a Steelers fan
. He and Nelson were both passionate about their home teams. Though Nelson didn’t appreciate his beloved Cowboys, the man was solid.

Shaking off the memories, Austin sat up quietly and glanced around the space.

Several people were stretched out on beds just like his. He didn’t recognize any of them. Six men and seven women. They didn’t appear to be Iraqi or military.

Had he ended up in a civilian hospital?

The walls were a soft blue and dotted with Renaissance paintings set in ornate golden frames. Cream-colored vases full of fresh flowers of every color sat on tables around each patient. Who brought the flowers? Families of the patients? The hospital staff?

Even the ceiling was impressive, reminding him of a wagon wheel, with its large wooden beams that fanned out from the center of a carved medallion in the shape of a chalice. But there were no windows and only one door.

His neighbors in the ward seemed to be about his age. Other than their pale complexions they showed every sign of being in fair condition. None were in casts or bandages. They rested under a sheet and blanket like him. Each person had thick, dark hair, which had obviously been cared for. One of the women wore tiny pearls around her delicate neck. In her long locks, a red ribbon. The other women had no adornments. But all the patients’ shoulders were bare.
They’re naked too.

What kind of hospital didn’t offer their patients gowns?

No fucking way was this a hospital.

Could someone from his team be on the other side of that door? One way to find out.

“Lieutenant?” His voice seemed strong as ever.

No answer from Lieutenant Davis.

“Remington?”

The same response.

He called out more names from his team. The door remained closed and the room insufferably silent.

“Anyone? I’m awake. What’s happening?”

A rush of nausea and dizziness forced him back down to the mattress. He licked his lips, tasting his bone-dry mouth. Nothing was making any sense. Nothing.

He looked for a call button next to his bed, but didn’t find one. Cameras hung from the ceiling in every corner of the room. Who was watching?

Have I been captured by the enemy?

The facility’s impression was too nice to be meant for prisoners. Except for the IV stands and bags hanging next to each of the other patients—
or hostages
—the room’s style reminded him more of a plush hotel or spa than an infirmary.

Shouldn’t a staff member or guard be arriving to check on him now that he was conscious? Via the cameras, they should have seen him sit up, look around and call out for his friends. But no one came. He remained alone.

Whoever brought him to this place might be a friend but also might be an enemy. Until he knew for certain which, he would stay cautious and on guard. Difficult, since his mind spun with the memories of his last mission.

How long had he been out? He ran his hands over his chest. No bandage or wound. He knew a lot of time must have passed. Several months at the very least. Were his men safe? Alive? Remington took a bullet to the arm, but it hadn’t appeared to be life threatening.

He swung his legs off the bed, fighting the vertigo that seemed to radiate throughout his body. An IV needle in one of the veins on the back of his hand attached him to a tube leading to his own bag just like the other patients. He wondered why his bag was so much larger than theirs. Did it contain medicine? It looked more like blood to him.

On the wall opposite the door he spotted a calendar. Squinting, he brought the month into focus. November.

Have I been out for nine months?

Before he got a chance to process that, the year in the top left corner of the calendar also came into focus, mystifying him even more. If accurate, he’d lost not just nine months. He had lost years—
more than a decade.

Was it true or just an elaborate trick of some unseen enemy? An enemy watching him and the others from the cameras.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs to the max. Twisting his torso, his muscles stretched and his joints popped. He felt strong, much stronger than he should have if he’d been out for nine months, let alone years.

His eyes landed on two picture frames on a table at the head of his bed. One contained nothing. But the other held a photo he recognized—his sister Angelique. Who had placed that photo by his bed? His sister? But he knew anyone could have planted the picture.

He recalled the summer day at the beach when his mother captured the image on her Polaroid. He and his twin had built an enormous sandcastle with their father. He stared at Angelique’s smiling eight-year-old face underneath the sand bucket he placed on her head. The last time he’d seen her was at their parents’ funeral ten years later. Of course, neither of them had smiled that day.

Why did I walk away from her? Why do I always act like such an ass? Because you are an ass, McCord, that’s why.

Shaking off the ancient wave of familiar guilt, he continued his visual sweep of the space.

On the floor he spotted a broken vase with its flowers strewn in a dark pool.
Blood?
The mess was in front of the only door in the room.

He wrapped his fingers around his IV. If this was a U.S. civilian or military facility, which he doubted, all would be forgiven. If something else, he needed to exit fast.

He jerked the tube out of his hand. Several drops of blood from his vein fell to the floor. He stood. The dizziness returned, sending acid from his queasy stomach up to his throat. He refused to succumb and headed to the lone door in the space, bending down to pick up a shard of the broken vase. It was the only choice of weapon he had at the moment.

Glancing at his unconscious neighbors, he vowed to come back for them as soon as he could. He didn’t even know their names, but they must share something in common or else they wouldn’t be here. Together. With him. Someone had placed them in this room for a reason. He didn’t know why yet, but he meant to find out.

He pressed his ear to the door but heard nothing.

He tried to swing it wide but it only opened a sliver. Something was blocking it from the other side. He placed his shoulder against the wood and shoved as hard as he could. The hindrance gave way.

Austin watched the sphere, the smaller part of the door’s barricade, roll away.

About the size of a bowling ball, it came to a stop four feet down the dimly lit hallway.

It took him a split second to realize that the larger portion of the barricade was a body, and the sphere its severed head.

CHAPTER 2

8:31 AM

Dr. Angelique McCord and her husband sat at their table drinking coffee, something they did every morning together. But this morning was different.

Despite having lived in England for over two decades, she still preferred coffee to tea. She stared at the black surface of the liquid and saw only dashed hopes. Was it wrong to be so despondent? She had a loving husband, a beautiful flat, and a wonderful job. It should be enough. But it wasn’t.

She couldn’t bring herself to look her husband in the eyes, so she continued gazing into her cup. “Even though I’m three days late, I don’t want to get my hopes up, honey. We’ve been through this so many times.”

Her husband reached across the table and grabbed her hand. Michael radiated calm. Others may have only seen his silvery hair, sharp features, and the way his six-foot-four frame filled out his crisp suits, and been intimidated. She had overheard some of his phone conversations and felt a mix of awe and respect at the command in his voice when he took care of business. But whenever he spoke to her, his deep voice was gentle; his brown eyes were tranquil. She felt slightly guilty about keeping him from work this morning, but she didn’t want to face this alone again.

“I know we both would like to have a baby, but I couldn’t be happier with our life more than I am now,” he said. “Being married to you has been the best thing that ever happened to me.”