Introduction


John opened his bright green eyes slowly, squinting from a single beam of light that glared through the hotel curtains directly onto the bed he lay on. As he gradually became aware of his surroundings, he felt that old familiar disgust. That dreadful weight upon his being better known as the hangover. He ran his pale fingers through his messy brown hair, releasing a heavy sigh. Next to him lay a young woman, snuggled tightly into his chest as she slept soundly against him. He postured himself upon his left elbow, brushing the locks of long black hair from her pale face. She was young, perhaps too young for the 32 year old alcoholic playboy. He squinted as he struggled to remember her face, or anything about the night before. Failing to recognize the sleeping beauty, he lowered the covers, examining the flawless, pale skin of her petite form. Still nothing. She was a total stranger. He estimated she was eighteen, and that was good enough for his conscience.

Sliding out of the bed, his feet hit the soft carpet floor. He quickly grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the night stand next to an empty bottle of vodka. He removed a cigarette from the package, lighting it swiftly. He then made his way across the room, still unclothed. Reaching the large picture window, he yanked the curtains open, revealing a magnificent morning view of downtown Los Angeles.

"What the f..." John mumbled, thoroughly perplexed.

What exactly had happened last night? How did he end up all the way in LA? That bitch Devereaux should be calling any minute to rip a strip off his ass. That train was never late.

Grabbing his jeans from the back of a chair, he checked his phone for messages. Didn't matter anyway, he had a new target now. Devereaux had sent him the mark yesterday evening meaning he must have came down here and hit the town to enjoy himself before getting to business.

He looked the sleeping beauty over one last time, checking both sides of her neck and her wrists.

No wounds. Good sign. He still had some control, even if he was on the verge of a total meltdown.


Shake this hangover, grab a bite to eat... morning special, not the girl, and then it's hunting time...



*****



"What about this Damien problem?" Matthias Corvinus asked in a thick, 15th century Romanian accent. He was a pale, wrinkled man with long grey hair, and pale, milky blue eyes. He played with his long grey goatee, his boney, pale fingers and long, brittle nails twirling and fiddling with the thin lock of facial hair. He wore an early 20th century suit that was black with a silver tie. He was a pureblood vampire, and the overseer of The Vampiric Order's Vampire Regulation Initiative. When vampires fail to fall in line with the laws of The Order, Corvinus sends his bounty hunters to make an example of them.

"He's on the run," Joanna Devereaux answered Matthias confidently, her proper, regal English accent bolstering her every word. "I have my best man on it as we speak." She was an elderly woman with curly white hair and soft skin for her age. She wore a divine white dress with gold accessories from head to toe.

"Cross?" Michael Lancaster asked with both resent and doubt. He too had a refined British accent. He was an older man of fifty-seven with peppered hair and a hansom face with strong traditional features. Michael was the owner and operator of the most prominent vampire hunting organization in the world. "You should have called me, he'd be dead by now."

"Stick to vampires, Michael. Lycanthropes are a brave new world," Joanna replied arrogantly, neglecting any eye contact.

"Cross is a maverick. A drunken fool with a dodgy past, and no pedigree to speak of. He is unpredictable, and unreliable," Matthias protested indifferently. The man oozed arrogance from each and every pore.

Michael looked him over with pure disgust. "Like your man Hennessy? Or that girl Alucard killed, what was her name again?"

Matthias erupted with a maelstrom of rage, smashing his fist on the surface of the marble table, cracking it's fine finish. "You dare speak of my daughter, mortal?!"

Joanna stood up. "ENOUGH!"

"You know it's a shame, what happened to Wyland McRae," Matthias recalled, peering into the soul of Michael Lancaster.

"That's enough from both of you," Joanna declared sternly. "John Cross has his problems, not unlike any of us, but I trust him. He has never let me down when push came to shove."

"I still think you should have called me," Michael said plainly, frustration peering from beneath his words.

"No mortal man can hunt a Lycan," Matthias piped up from across the table, eyes locked intently with Michael's.

"Wyland could, and he did..."

"Good heavens! One of these days I'm going to let him kill you, Michael," Joanna said with frustration, walking away. "And you owe me a table, Matthias!"

Michael stood up to follow her, leaving Matthias Corvinus alone at the table.



Joanna and Michael walked through a dark hallway of grey stone.

"I can send one of my people to Los Angeles," Michael offered, hands in his pants pockets.

"John has never played well with others," Joanna replied stoically.

Michael sighed, ever-irritated by Devereaux's attitude. "Damien was Hunter's number two, and an alpha."

"I'm well aware of that, Michael."

"Then you know this is more than one man can handle, vampire or not..."

Joanna stopped, turning to face him. "Has working for me left you feeling bored? Inadequate, perhaps?"

Michael laughed, humored by this vile woman's arrogance. "Get over yourself, Joanna. You used your influence within The Order to muscle me under your thumb. Don't mistake necessity for loyalty." Michael continued walking down the grand hallway as Joanna stayed behind, visibly infuriated.

"Would you like to know what happened to Mac in Blackwater?"

Michael stopped, turning around slowly. "He was killed by a Lycan..."

"That's what you were told, because that's what you needed to hear."

Michael's smug expression faded slowly as the words passed Joanna's lips.

"When you defied Victor and The Order to help Samuel Blithe and the Dracul Covenant, Victor put a mark on Wyland. That mark was carried out by one of Matthias Corvinus' people..."

Michael suppressed his tear-soaked rage as best he could, but it leaked through his face in a rarely seen vulnerability which deeply satisfied Joanna. Through the agony, hatred and shock, the bigger picture began to unfold in the recesses of his memory.

Quivering with rage and sadness, he glared a hole through the hollow, forsaken soul of Joanna Devereaux. "You've really seen a windfall from this Lycan rising, haven't you, Joanna?"

She moved swiftly, with the calculation of a vampire half her age. Ceasing his throat, she squeezed until she could feel his pulse bulging in the grasp of her palm.

"Still your tongue, bleeder! Lest I cut it from your smug face!"

She tossed him backward violently, walking away. Michael's back hit the cold stone wall and he clutched his throat, gasping for air as he tried to process it all...