Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1) (8 page)

Wilson’s tone sharpened. “As I have stated earlier, my hypothesis is that other hominid species with traits that vary from
Homo sapiens
are likely in the DNA of people who may or may not be aware of that part of their heritage. The United States Human Genome Project should expand its scope to sequence the DNA of
Homo neanderthalensis
,
Homo erectu
s,
Homo rhodesiensis
, and
Homo habilis
.”

The only woman on the panel shook her head. “I must wholeheartedly disagree with my colleague on that proposal. The project is already estimated to take fifteen years. It is critical that it continues as planned. Chasing a flight of imagination, no matter how alluring, would be counterproductive and only expand the years necessary to complete this important work.”

After the lecture concluded, the speakers remained behind to answer questions.

Angelique was the only one who approached Dr. Wilson. “I enjoyed what you had to say, sir. Very interesting.”

“Thank you,” he said, placing his papers into a briefcase. He seemed in a rush to leave, which was understandable after the verbal beating he’d taken from his peers. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“I do. I am very curious about your idea of advanced healing. How many people in the world do you think have those unique genes you mentioned?”

He smiled; his green eyes lit up. “I do not know, but I can imagine it would not be a great number. Perhaps ten thousand. Maybe less.” As Dr. Wilson answered her questions, he became more and more animated. “Mark my words, young lady, there is evidence, as yet undiscovered, that will support my hypothesis. More importantly, once we identify people with greater percentages of these hominids’ DNA, we can begin synthesizing their blood and find the cures to most of the diseases plaguing the world.”

“You really believe that, Doctor?”

“Yes. Imagine a day with no cancer, no heart disease, no dementia, no Parkinson’s.”

Her flat mate Amy, whom she had come to the lecture with, came up beside her. “Angelique, we still have to study for Professor Pattay’s test tonight. We better go.”

She looked at her watch. “She’s right. Thank you for answering my questions. I really appreciate it.” She and Dr. Wilson shook hands.

“My pleasure, young lady.”

She left with Amy.

When they were out of earshot, Amy turned to her. “Why were you talking to him? He was the worst of the lot, and that’s saying something.”

“I thought he was interesting. He seems to be a very nice man.”

“Nice or not, he’s a crackpot. Did you hear the others on the panel? Brutal. Can’t blame them. He believes Neanderthals are living among us and that they are smarter, heal faster, and live longer. And that stuff about hyper-hibernation sounded like science fiction to me.”

“It didn’t to me, Amy. I think he’s onto something.”

“Good thing you’re on the history track instead of science, Ang. If Wilson is right, why aren’t the knuckle draggers running the world now?”

“Who’s to say they’re not?” she snapped back.

Angelique went to hear Dr. Wilson two more times that year but never approached him again. The following year her studies consumed all her attention, and she forgot about the kind, middle-aged professor with the fascinating hypothesis.

Life had moved on, and in 2003 she’d landed her current position with King’s College as professor and program leader of Eighteenth Century Studies, working jointly with the British Museum.

She stood, knowing there was absolutely no possibility that the sweet man she’d met so long ago had anything to do with the recent brutal murders in London.

Her mobile phone rang. It was Michael. “Hi, honey. Forget something?”

“Hey, sweetheart. I don’t think so. I’ve decided that even though you won’t take a play day with me, I’m coming home anyway. Since you have no classes to teach today and only papers to grade I’m going to finish my day working remotely next to you, sweetheart. Sound good?”

“Are you going to get any work done?”

“Cross my heart,” he said. “I’ll even cook you lunch.”

“Sounds wonderful.” She knew not to ask too many questions of him. Whatever he did for the embassy was strictly confidential. “Hurry home, honey.”

CHAPTER 10

9:07 AM

Continuing her jog around the oval path at Archbishop’s Park, Molly felt the tip of her ponytail swishing against her shoulders. She loved to run this time of day. The park was typically empty, or nearly so. It gave her time to clear her mind and focus on whatever task or test was in front of her.

Right now, she needed to decide on three songs for her upcoming wedding. The tune playing through her earbuds was one of thirty-five her fiancé had suggested. Trevor, being an amateur guitarist, was obsessed with music. Just one of the many obsessions they shared.

She’d weighed several selections, but so far none of them sounded right. Something seemed off. Was it the music or the lyrics? She didn’t have much time left to decide.

In just a few weeks she would be finished with university. A few weeks after that she would be marrying the love of her life.

I’m going to be Mrs. Trevor Morgan.

Her sister, who hadn’t taken her husband’s name, had told her she was being old fashioned.

“You’re going to be twenty-three, Molly, not eighty-three. Changing your name to your husband’s makes you seem like his property.”

She didn’t care what her sister thought.

Molly Morgan. I like the way the two names fit together.

Another lap and another song started. This one had a driving beat that she liked very much. Not for her wedding but perfect for her jog. She was just two pounds away from where she wanted to be for the big day. She couldn’t wait to show Trevor her lean figure.

Being apart from him for the past year had been hell, but the important humanitarian work he was doing in sub-Saharan Africa meant the world to both of them. Once married, they would be working side by side on providing proper sanitation and clean water for poor villages.

She grinned, recalling another remark by her sister.

“You can’t be serious, Molly. You and Trevor plan on returning to Africa the very next day after your wedding. What kind of honeymoon is
that
going to be?”

“The best kind,” she answered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a man, and was instantly pulled back to the present. His stomach was bleeding. She came to a stop and turned his direction just as he fell to the ground.

“Help.”

She ran over. “Are you okay?”

The dark-headed man, who looked to be a few years older than her, held his stomach, but it didn’t hide the immense amount of blood staining his shirt.

“No. A man shot me.”

She looked around, her heart pounding in her chest.

“He ran off, miss. Could you lend me a hand?”

“Let me call an ambulance.” She brought out her mobile phone.

“Damn, it hurts.” He closed his eyes and groaned.

She knelt down beside him. “You are not alone. Help will be here soon.”

“That call won’t be necessary. I don’t want to be a bother.”

He must be in shock.
“You need medical attention. You are going to be fine.”

“I said that won’t be necessary, sweetheart.” He grabbed her by the wrist, knocking her mobile out of her hand.

She tried to pull back from him, but his grip tightened.

With his other hand, he placed a large knife to her neck. “Don’t move and don’t scream.”

She froze in place. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
This can’t be happening.
Her phone had landed just out of her reach.

He twisted out from under her into a sitting position, though keeping hold of her wrist and pressing the blade to her skin. She tried to shift her feet closer to her mobile, but he released her wrist and grabbed her by the ponytail, jerking her head back.

“A tricky little thing, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Such a pretty bird, you are.”

She felt the tears of utter fear stream down her face. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“But I must, love.” He ran his tongue over her face. “You’re a tasty little morsel.”

Molly felt the blade dig into her flesh as the last song on her list finished playing.

CHAPTER 11

9:07 AM

David Bathry looked at his watch, feeling his jaw tighten. The silence of the subterranean room mocked him. He cursed. The bastard should have returned by now. He had released the halfblood hours ago, more than enough time to finish the job. Could the beast have run into some kind of trouble? Perhaps, but he knew the man’s punctuality left much to be desired. With each outing, he seemed to return later and later, adding ten to twenty minutes to each trip. Why? Was he up to something?

Getting the halfblood ready for the missions had been tedious, difficult and risky. The unsupervised outings had been critical to ensure he could avoid detection in modern-day London. Of course, the man was not ever completely unsupervised. Bathry’s servant, Albert, secretly followed him whenever he left this place except during actual missions.

Albert reported the bastard’s favorite haunt was an Internet café in the middle of the city. Bathry could not imagine the creature, who could barely read and write when he found him, utilizing modern technology like a civilized person. The image it conjured up was almost too funny. At least it had been.

The bloody bugger better return soon.

Bathry swallowed the entire contents of his glass. The Macallan burned his throat nicely but did nothing to calm his frayed nerves.

He stared at the other glass, whisky and poison blending together to create a lethal beverage. What a brilliant idea that had been. The halfblood would never suspect. But the amber liquid remained untouched.

Damn.

He paced around the room as a rumbling uneasiness and anger began to emerge from deep inside him. After several laps around the space, he checked his watch again. “Five past nine. Fuck.”

Bathry poured himself another drink, praying the beast would return before he finished it. If the wretch did not, he had no choice left. He drank down half the contents of his glass, considering every possibility.

One, if the halfblood had failed, he was likely dead already, killed on the spot at the break-in, saving Bathry the trouble of having to do it himself. How easy it would have been to end the bastard’s life here, in this place, where he could dispose of the body without detection. Although he would enjoy killing the pig in the open where his enemies would witness the slaying, it would be better not to have the blood on his hands, because he knew how ruthless they could be. The irony was that they would be the ones to contact him to come for the halfblood’s body. The abomination’s death at his enemies’ hands would mean no harm would come to him or his bloodline.

Two, the bastard he freed years ago had gone rogue. Bathry had been concerned about that prospect for some time, especially since the publication of that blasted Ripper letter—
but even before.
From the first day he had liberated the barbarian from The Sanctuary of the Forgotten, placing another in his cell, his misgivings had grown.

There was also a third possibility. His enemies, the Drakes, had captured the halfblood. He took comfort in knowing that the safeguards would protect the Bathry Bloodline’s secret plan. The brute did not know Bathry’s true name, though he was aware of the location of this house. Luckily, the deed to the property was meticulously constructed to never point to any Bathry above ground or below. To ensure it remained that way, the plan demanded it be burned to the ground if ever compromised.

He finished his drink, slammed the glass down, and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.

Calm yourself, David. You have thought of every eventuality.
If the bastard was off plan, he would suffer the consequences, not Bathry.

He smiled, feeling better about the situation.

He pulled on the rope that hung by the door.

Albert’s voice came through the hidden speakers. “My lord?”

“It is time.”

“Are you certain?”

He felt his cheeks burn hot. “Are you questioning me?”

“No, my lord. Never.”

“Good. Then bring what I requested to the chamber now.”

“Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.”

Hearing Albert say those sweet words meant only for kings calmed his anger. His servant was lowborn but loyal.

Bathry took a deep, soothing breath. Everything was in place. Nothing had been left to question. The plan would continue on without fail.