Hammer of the Gods Read online

  Chapter 6

  The crescent moon slipped behind dark clouds, sending the Carpathian Mountains into total blackness. The wind howled like the call of a wolf that had just downed a deer, beckoning the rest of the pack to join the evening’s feast. Within seconds, the rain came as a raging torrent, sending sheets of ice-cold water to pummel the centuries-old fortress.

  Sorina Lazarovici nearly jumped out of bed as she bolted upright. By instincts alone, her hand retrieved the Lugar P08 – a relic left behind from the Nazi occupation no one spoke of – from the bedside table. She fumbled with her free hand to find the lamp switch. In the dim light, her hand went to her throat. Reluctantly, she drew her hand free to inspect it for blood. Her fingers were slick with sweat, but the crimson she expected to see dripping from her fingers was not present.

  The Luger followed her eyes around the empty room, carefully searching every shadow for movement. Satisfied she was alone, Sorina lowered the weapon with a trembling hand before she shot at a draft moving the drapes or a servant that had seen her light was on.

  She leaned against the bedpost, trying to catch her breath and closing her eyes before the spinning walls made her vomit. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, as if trying to escape; the steady rhythm in her ears muffling the storm outside.

  This night had been fitful, and filled with ghoulish nightmares. In the one that woke her, the beast had ripped her grandmother to pieces before tearing Sorina’s throat out with powerful jaws. Then the beast howled, reveling at the extinction of the Lazarovici bloodline.

  She had had plenty of similar dreams; they plagued her since childhood. This one was the worst, it seemed so real! She could feel the pain as the flesh was torn from her throat, then life drain from her body as her blood pooled on the stone floor beneath her head. The coppery-smell of her own blood – mixed with the beast’s rancid breath – filled the air, as the creature hovered close to her face… to watch her die.

  A part of her wished the dream had been real, if only to put an end to the madness. A horrible death had to be preferable to living a nightmare for years on end.

  She dressed herself, then ran a brush through her hair. It was still hours before dawn, but there would be no getting back to sleep tonight. She slipped the pistol behind her belt, and covered the rest with her blouse. It had been less than a week since the beast killed Greggor, and weeks more – if the past was any indication – before it killed again, but she never felt safe anymore, and never went anywhere – not even to the toilet – unarmed.

  She closed the door softly behind her, slipping into the hall as quietly as a church mouse. The passage was dimly lit by evenly spaced wall sconces, but it was more than adequate for her needs. Total darkness was something these walls had never experienced in her lifetime.

  Doru Albusel, a middle-aged, slender man with a hawk beak nose, wiped bloodshot deep-blue eyes with the back of his calloused hand, then raked his fingers through his graying black hair. Sorina knew he had not been sleeping in his chair; she sometimes doubted the Scarecrow – an unimaginative nickname she gave him as a child – slept at all. The man was as faithful as a hound – though to whom, Sorina could never be sure.

  The man told her once he would put her life above his own, but he was always the one to fetch Sorina every time she ran away. How that insufferable man found her in Hong Kong was a secret he never shared. The old fool did think he was clever when he told me the crows told him where I was. That amused him for days!

  She waved a hand for him to remain seated, knowing full well she would be ignored. Doru shouldered his shotgun, and followed her down the hall.

  Their footfalls were muffled by the well-worn green and gold carpet covering the center third of the stone floor from the hall’s end to the stairs. Her grandmother often threatened to have every bit of carpeting ripped-up for “security purposes”. That was foolishness. It was said the beast could sneak-up on a man standing in a field of dead leaves and dried twigs. Depending on old stone floors to offer a warning to an attack was the same as believing it rained chocolate; there could only be disappointment in the end.

  The wide stone steps were bare; the carpet had been removed years ago, when it became so threadbare it became a real hazard. She descended as quiet as a mouse, and, with a look from her, Doru did his best to do the same.

  She has no idea where she was going, only that she had a deep desire to move. She wondered if this was how a doe felt; knowing the wolves were in the woods, waiting to feed on your flesh? Run! Do something… anything! They are hungry, and they have your scent!

  She froze as she reached the bottom of the stairs, her hand darting to the pistol at her waste. Most of the lights were out, leaving a great deal of the castle in blackness.

  Doru held his shotgun ready in an instant. The tall man’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow, his ears straining for sounds of movement. Sorina prayed no other servants were near. Too many of them had died already; the last thing she wanted was for one of them to fall from a shotgun slug.

  Lightning flashed, making shadows dance like mocking specters. Sometimes she believed God had a twisted sense of humor, and keeping her as scared as a mouse in a roomful of cats brought him great joy.

  Sorina let out a sigh of relief. Of course, the lights were out; the ancient keep rarely survived a storm without a fuse being blown somewhere. Most of the wiring had not been updated since before she was born.

  She found an oil lamp and lit it. Doru followed her to a storage room without a word, those deep-blue eyes of his probing the darkness. She opened the fuse box and shook her head. Three fuses were blown. She would have to talk to her grandmother about bringing this place into the twenty-first century.

  She snuffed-out the oil lamp and set it on a wooden crate. With any luck, it still held enough spark to start a fire, and burn this place to the ground. Sorina snorted softly to herself. Who was she kidding? She never had that kind of luck.

  She wandered the maze of rooms aimlessly, wishing she could get a restful night’s sleep like she did before her father died… before she fully understood what sort of nightmare her life would turn into.

  She stopped when they reached the dining room; one of the few rooms that still held fond memories. The furniture here was old, made for an elegant era long ago. The enormous table dominating the room – a gift from King Louie XIV – was made from cherry wood, and held sixteen high-backed chairs on either side, with twin, ornately-carved chairs that reminded Sorina of thrones at each end. She was only seven-years-old when the monster took her father from her – eight when her mother died from a broken heart – but she remembered feeling like a princess when they dined at that table.

  Sorina found herself staring at the chairs at the far end of the table. The one at the head belonged to her father; her mother’s was to its right. Sorina sat to her father’s left – close enough for him to squeeze her hand, tickle her chin, and tell her private jokes as they entertained guests.

  In those days, she knew nothing of the horrors lurking in the woods beyond the outer wall. Her father had hidden that fact all too well. There was never a clue to what was really happening all around her. This room shook with the laughter of her family and friends, then. Now it only represented everything she lost. Those that had gone to their graves had taken the joy and laughter with them.

  Her grandmother insisted they continue to eat their meals at this table out of tradition, and as a sign of respect for the people that served her.

  To hell with that! Sorina took her meals downstairs with the household staff after her mother’s death. If they could die for her, the very least she could do was share her meals with them. Now that was a sign of respect!

  The great Selucca Lazarovici had been furious over that! But there was little the old woman could do outside of physically forcing food down a little girl’s throat, while tied to a chair, and that would not have sat well with anyone. As much as people feared the old woman, she married into the family
, and was Russian to boot – an unforgivable sin in the eyes of many of the elders. So, with her father gone, Sorina ruled the land – so to speak. From that day forward, her grandmother took her meals in her bedchamber, to eat alone.

  Good. Let her rot in it, for all I care!

  The rain was still coming down in sheets as it beat against the tall windows. Lightning flashed, revealing the figure of the poor wretch standing guard on top of the wall, hunkered down in a long coat, in a futile attempt not to get drenched to the bone as he move between watchtowers. With any luck, he’ll be struck by lightning. It would have to be preferable to screaming as you are torn to pieces. The demon creature plaguing this land never killed swiftly.

  There were three more men on the wall. Sorina would make sure they were well-fed, and had the next two nights off. No one should have to endure that!

  “Why do we have to suffer so, Doru?”

  “The whole world suffers, Miss Sorina,” Doru said in a gravelly voice, “some more than others.”

  Sorina stared into his deep-set eyes, crinkled at the corners. Time had etched the man’s face with deep creases and grayed his hair, but those eyes were still as sharp as a strait-razor. “What did we do to deserve this?”

  Doru shrugged. “My mother thought the Nazis created an evil to punish us for defying them.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It sounds as good an explanation as any.”

  Sorina’s brow furrowed. “How is that even possible?”

  Doru stared off into the distance, as if searching for the answer she wanted. “In my years on this Earth, I’ve seen many strange things that have nothing to do with the plague of this land. I’ve seen good people bow-down to the wicked. I’ve seen many live in fear of few, and rulers slaughter their own. Hell, I’ve even seen people hate, for no other reason than to hate.”

  Sorina’s heart went out to the older man. He had deserted the army when he was nineteen. Sorina’s father took him in, when others turned their backs, fearing Doru a spy. He never spoke of them, but the things he saw while in the army must have been horrific: he still flinched at the name Chauchescu. The poor man jumped from the frying pan, to the fire.

  “We could attack in force,” Sorina said. “We have enough weapons to supply an army.”

  Doru shook his head. “It’s been done, many times. A hundred frightened men with guns, shooting at anything that moves, is the last thing we need.”

  “Then, how do we kill it?”

  “I don’t know.” Doru scratched the gray stubble on his chin. “I’ve been a hunter all my life. At one time or another, I’ve tracked nearly every animal… including a stubborn little girl.” He smiled at Sorina. “This thing is a puzzle I haven’t been able to solve. I’ve followed trails that simply stopped, as if the thing just vanished. The only ones to see it are the corpses it leaves behind.”

  “Sometimes,” he said, shaking his head, “I wonder if I’m too good for it to catch, or if it likes playing with me.”

  Sorina sighed, watching the storm rage outside the window. “Selucca believes the American is the answer. What do you think?”

  “I think he’s a very wise man to have stayed away from this place, so far,” Doru snorted.

  “The old woman believes he will come this time.”

  Doru frowned. “Then his intelligence isn’t quite what I thought it was.”

  “Why does Selucca put so much faith in this man?” Sorina studied Doru’s face. The man never lied to her. He might withhold the truth, but never lie. You could tell if he was hiding something…if you asked in just the right way.

  Doru shrugged – he was good at that. “You’ll have to ask her that,” he said.

  Sorina nodded slowly. You’re hiding something! There’s no use asking Selucca anything; she lies so much, she would probably fall over dead if the truth passed her lips. Something out there wants me dead… and people wonder why I keep running away. “I could use a cup of tea. How about you?”

  Doru smiled, then nodded. “Yes, Miss Sorina,” he said, his dark-blue eyes flickering to the even darker sky. “I could use a strong cup this morning.”

  Even before they reached the kitchen, Sorina could smell the spicy scent of brewing tea. That was not surprising; the cook, Luiza, would be getting a hot meal ready for the night watch. After the dismal night the men had, Luiza would make sure the tea was strong enough to pour itself.

  Luiza looked as if she had been up for hours. Her salt and pepper hair was in a neat bun at the back of her head, and her apron already bore a few stains where the woman had wiped her hands. The broad-shouldered woman simply nodded to Sorina and Doru as they entered, then retrieved two cups from a shelf.

  Nothing ever fazes this woman, Sorina thought. If the beast were to break-in here, she’d probably try to shoo it away with a broom. She might even get in a few licks before the damned thing killed her.

  Chapter 7

  Special Agent Martin LeMay strolled through Portland International Airport, sighing as he stared at the gray skies above. He shook his head warily, not believing his damned luck.

  Rain was coming down in a fine mist that swirled in gusts of wind, creating delicate patterns on the tall windows that reminded LeMay of the needlepoint his mother spent hours creating. This city was nothing if not consistent. He had been in the Rose City nearly thirty times over the past nine years, and it didn’t matter when he came; spring, summer, fall, and winter, it was always the same. Rain!

  They say the sun breaks through the clouds here now and then, but some people believe Bigfoot lives in the forest near Mount Hood, too. Martin LeMay figured the odds were better at seeing a giant, hairy beast wandering through the forest than a blue sky in this place.

  After being jostled from Boston to Portland – with a two hour layover in Phoenix – he was feeling every one of his forty-six years. A non-stop flight would’ve cut four, or so, hours off the amusement park ride from Hell, but the penny-pinchers holding the expenses purse strings didn’t care how long he had to sit behind a couple with crying twins.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, he managed to be wedged between two “full-figured” women on both legs of the flight. LeMay wasn’t the biggest tree in the forest, but having his 6 foot, very fit 185 pound frame jammed between 500 pounds of fat-rolls oozing into his personal space for hours was a maddening experience. I would’ve felt a little better if we were flying over water. At least I had a couple of life rafts handy, if we crashed.

  He looked around, soaking in the scene like a sponge – a habit instilled in him during his time in the Army. It had kept him alive so far. Besides that, there were sometimes mere observation gleaned more information than a hundred questions, and that was time and energy that could be spent doing something productive.

  A teenager wearing a leather skirt – the boy would probably argue that it was a kilt, but a skirt is a skirt where LeMay was concerned – and biker-boots, was slurping a soda as he waited for a sandwich. A moment later, a woman in her early twenties, wearing a Cat in the Hat hat, skipped by, wishing him a blessed day as she passed.

  That was the other thing wrong with Portland Oregon: It was full of freaks!

  On any given day, you could see grown people playing hide-and-seek, or joust in the streets on modified bicycles. There was even a city sponsored naked bike ride! Hell, the last time he was here he saw a man dressed as a pirate – complete with a monkey on his shoulder – walking around like it was normal. Waking-up here every day, would be like living in the world’s largest circus side-show.

  The city was waist-deep in a drug problem, most were these days, but these idiots seemed to embrace their problem with open arms. What else could you expect from a place teaming with aging pot-head hippies of the sixties that had meth-head children?

  Methadone had greatly diminished the rampant use of heroine, however. So, if you looked at it just right – with your head cocked and squinting – there was an up-side. The way LeMay figured, with states
legalizing marijuana, it was only a matter of time before the whole goddamned country was fucked, anyway.

  Martin rubbed his forehead. What he needed now was a cup of coffee; a good cup of coffee. The shit he was served on the plane tasted like second-hand swill that had been filtered through someone’s kidneys, just before being poured into his cup. If nothing else, Portland had great coffee! It was famous for it. That, and rain. Coffee, drugs, rain and freaks, what more do you need to know about this city?

  It was easy enough to find a cup of Stumptown. After half of it, his mood improved. Well… enough not to be considered a threat to airport security, anyway.

  He didn’t like feeling this way, but he’d been ordered to help Interpol with its investigation of Thor Odinsson, and nothing made his ass hurt like the mere mention of that man’s name; it was a thorn that was buried deep. He didn’t know what he could do to help Interpol though; he’d been trying to build his own case against Odinsson for nine years, with nothing to show for it but frustration. He would play nice, and help Interpol as best he could, though, knowing in the end, they’d be standing on the dock wondering how they fucked-up, as Odinsson sailed away on that floating mansion of his. Who knows, maybe Odinsson will show a little class this time, and not have a smug-ass smile on his face as he sails away. Like that’s going to happen. Martin chuckled sadly, shaking his head.

  Sometimes, LeMay wondered how things could’ve gone so wrong. After six years in the Army Special Forces, he breezed through the academy, graduating at the top of his class. He married a beautiful woman, bought a nice house and all that shit. All the while, his career was skyrocketing, without having to step on a single toe. Anyone in the Bureau could testify how difficult that is.

  He had worked lead on dozens of cases, with an exemplary closure rate. Then he got handed the case of five missing, local boys – one of them Senator Dennis McGuire’s son. I was just two goddamned steps from being named head of the Boston office. Two goddamned steps!