Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1) Read online

  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.”

  “For me, too.” She would forever be grateful to whatever had brought him to her, be it gods or chance. He was her champion and always knew just the right thing to say. “It’s been more than five minutes. Shall we go see what the results are?”

  He kissed her, and they walked into the loo together.

  The pregnancy test showed negative, completely deflating her. “Damn. Just late again.”

  She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to will away the defeated reflection that met her gaze. Her skin was still smooth and wrinkle free. She remembered what her mother looked like at this age, right before she died, with crow’s feet and laugh lines marking her time in the world. Of course, Angelique had different genes, being adopted, but she knew her appearance was unusual without some cosmetic work being done.

  She looked much younger than Michael, even though he was only a year older. She would have chalked it up to the stress he faced at his job, but hers wasn’t cushy either. College department politics could be more vicious than the real thing, and she had to be tough to hold her own against the older men who treated her as if she was still a doctoral student in her twenties. She grabbed a brush and took a few swipes through her long, dark hair. Her mother had always brushed her hair when she was stressed, and the simple ritual never failed to calm her down.

  She’d been through so many tears over the years. She didn’t look older, but she knew she was running out of time. She felt the weight of each late period, each breathless second before the test results, each disappointed call that followed. She knew Michael would be a great father, and although her career fulfilled her, she wanted to share the love they had with a child.

&n
bsp; They baffled the doctors. Her husband’s sperm count was perfect; her body checked out just fine as well. There was absolutely no medical reason why they couldn’t conceive. They even took the fertility drugs but never achieved the desired results. Trying every method possible, the outcome always remained the same.

  No baby.

  He put his arms around her. “Like I said, angel. I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Maybe it’s time for us to get serious about adopting a baby. The Williams Agency seemed like the best of the lot to me.”

  “If you’re serious, sweetheart, I’ll call them when I get to the office and see if we can set up an appointment this week.”

  She nodded. “Speaking of work, shouldn’t you be on your way already?”

  “The ambassador is on a flight to DC to meet with the President.”

  “So it’s a cats-away-the-mice-will-play kind of day?”

  He grinned. “How about I call in sick and you and I play together?” Twirling her around, he took her breath away. Then he pulled her in close. “What do you say? Shall I take the day off?”

  “It’s a wonderful offer, honey.” She pointed to the stack of her students’ essays she needed to grade. “But I have so much to do. You know how anxious my freshers can get. The good news is that tomorrow I’m done with Kelsi’s exhibition.”

  “So Dr. Vicker’s mummy show is over tonight?”

  “Five-thirty.” Her friend, Dr. Kelsi Vickers, who worked at the British Museum, had asked for her help with the recent Egyptian Headless Mummy exhibition. “I don’t have to go tonight, but I do tomorrow. I promised to drop by to help Kelsi with some paperwork.”

  “You’re a good friend to her, Angelique.”

  Trying to fit in a couple of meals a week with Michael was about all the free time available. “The crazy schedule is about over. I promise.”

  “No more teaching night classes?”

  She kissed him. “Maybe. Who knows?”

  “The university is lucky to have you, sweetheart.”

  “And the embassy is lucky to have you.”

  He ran his hands through her hair. “You’re not the only one of us who has a crazy schedule. I’m sorry about that. Mine is starting to slow down for a while. I’d love for us to take a trip to Mykonos again. I know it is last minute, but would you like to go over the winter holiday?”

  “That sounds wonderful. You better go.”

  He kissed her again. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Now scoot.”

  Grabbing his coat, he walked out the door.

  She took another sip of coffee and felt the ticks of her biological clock with every beat of her heart. I’m over forty now. Putting away my fantasies is long overdue.

  “God, I need to get my mind off this.” She grabbed an apple from the fruit basket. Slicing it up, she accidentally cut her finger. “Ouch.”

  Her blood dripped into the sink. Tossing the ruined apple into the bin, she turned on the tap and put her finger under the stream of water. By tomorrow morning the wound would be fully healed with no sign of a scar.

  Her entire life she’d been curious as to why anytime she got a cut or bruise it healed overnight, or why she never got sick. She remembered how her twin brother’s scrapes from a bicycle accident had been gone the very next day. Their adoptive parents always remarked how healthy she and Austin were. God, I miss the three of them so much, but especially Austin. She wished she and her brother had resolved their differences after their parents’ funeral. But it was too late. Austin was gone. He’d died a hero over ten years ago.

  With the help of Michael, she’d overcome the loss of her brother. She’d moved on, hoping to start her own family. But despite how amazing her body seemed to be, it still couldn’t produce a baby.

  Glancing back at the essays, she shook her head. I’m not ready to dive into them yet.

  She grabbed her purse and walked out of the flat for her favorite café.

  After purchasing a bagel and coffee, she took a seat at one of the tables. She opened the newspaper and saw a name that she hadn’t thought of in years.

  Dr. Thomas Wilson.

  CHAPTER 3

  8:31 AM

  David Bathry carried a bottle of 1964 Macallan, retrieved from his expansive treasured collection. He walked down the dimly lit hallway of the three-century-old home, listening to the familiar creaks of the wooden floor. Not his home, though nothing happened here without his consent.

  No one lived in this house, at least not on the three floors above ground. It was like a museum, each floor decorated with relics from England’s Victorian Era. As he continued down the hall passing the main parlor, he glanced into his favorite room. The chairs, ottomans, and two love seats were densely stuffed and plump, covered by a scarlet velvet fabric. The gilded wooden arms and legs were made of English oak. The rooms in the house were filled from wall to wall with ornamentations of ceramics, glass lamps, tapestries and more—all in various shades of red, gold and blue.

  David always felt at ease with the Victorian aesthetic more than any other. A sparsely filled room had been considered to be in bad taste in that former age.

  He’d begun collecting the furnishings the very day he’d been handed the keys to the home. Every piece was painstakingly placed after hours and hours of thought. It must be perfect. He would never settle for less. Most might find his obsession odd, given no one ever saw the riches of this home but him and his trusted servant. But he didn’t care what others thought. Never had. Never would.

  His treasures contained here were valued in the millions, and that didn’t even take into account the paintings and other artwork in the building. They were precious to him but not as precious as following the secret plan and reaching the ultimate goal.

  At the end of the hallway, he came to a door. The door.

  He opened it and saw cleaning supplies on shelves in what looked like a common closet, a well thought out camouflage to detract any curious visitors. Even though there hadn’t been any visitors in decades to the home, he could never be too cautious. These were very dangerous days for his bloodline.

  As he had done countless times for the past two decades, he entered the space, closing the door behind him.

  He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light that came in through the bottom of the door. Removing the middle shelf, which contained only a couple of items, he gently placed it and the bottle he had brought on the floor. He ran his fingers over the wooden wall where the shelf had been until he found the slight indentation. Pressing on it, he heard the familiar click.

  Nineteenth century technology at its best.

  He spun around one hundred and eighty degrees, facing the closed door. To the left of the top hinge the flap of the small compartment was open. The compartment, just big enough for one hand, housed the lever.

  He reached in and turned the metal as quietly as possible. Thankfully at this hour, the only ears that could have picked up the grinding of the metal in the walls belonged to his trusted guard, Albert who, like him, was a member of the Bathry Bloodline.

  Bathry turned to his left. The wall, now revealed to be a secret door, swung open. He walked into the new space constructed of metal, smaller than the closet.

  He glanced at the two biometric scanners, his addition to the measures protecting the chamber below.

  Twenty-first century technology at its best.

  He placed his hands on the scanners. All ten of his fingerprints were required to unlock the security doors to the stairs that led to the chamber below. Failure at any step of the authentication process would result in the entire metallic space receiving 10,000 volts of electricity. Should any of his bloodline’s enemies discover this place, they would receive quite the shock.

  Even the simplest mistake made by him, and the next in the Bathry succession, his sister Lisa, would be called by Albert to come for his corpse.

  What a pain she could be. On his mobile were two voicemails and several text mess
ages from her just since half past ten last night, all of which had gone unheard and unread. He did not have time for her babble.

  Lisa had no knowledge of this place. Or of the man he had brought the whisky for. Or of the deeds that had been done on behalf of their family. What a surprise it would be to Lisa if she ever learned of their father’s master plan.

  Bathry could not imagine her leading their bloodline. So let her continue with the hosting of parties and travelling the world. It suited her. Meanwhile, he would work to elevate their family to its rightful status.

  As always, he proceeded cautiously.

  “Welcome, Mr. Bathry,” the computer announced. “Please say your name, your title, and provide your personal access code.”

  “David Jonathan Simon Bathry, Heir of the Plan, and Keeper of the Morvicti Bathry Bloodline.” Though the devices used to unlock the final door had changed, the rest of the codex had remained the same for nearly one hundred thirty years. It represented the beginning of what was transpiring at long last. “Nineteen-eleven-eighteen-eighty-eight.”

  The date of Mary Jane’s funeral—the nineteenth day of the eleventh month of the year 1888.

  Hearing the locks give way, he retrieved the bottle. The metal slid open and the passage to the stairs leading down to the chamber came into view.

  He left the doors open, expecting his associate to return shortly. The task he had given his prized protégé would be his final errand. Justice had come.

  Descending the stairs, Bathry came to the last door. He opened it, walking into the lavish room. Elaborate crown molding and baseboards framed the space. A pair of gorgeous crystal chandeliers hung from the coffered ceiling. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in luxurious blue fabrics. The massive Persian rug spread out over the dark wooden floor had cost him fifty thousand pounds alone. Additional antiques and plush furnishings filled the chamber; a true gilded cage for the beast.

  He looked at the second biometric scanner that had been placed in this subterranean floor as a precaution just a few days ago when his accomplice had veered from the plan.