Three days after Rorik's trip into the Veil on Avansen, and Tani's violent "proof of concept," on Primas.

  In the flashing cobalt light of the corridor, Soren loomed over Dodson’s shoulder, fixated on the detonator clutched in the other man's hand. Klaxons wailed all around them, bouncing between the spartan walls with piercing urgency. A frigid chill crept down Soren’s spine. His boot tapped. Muscles coiled and ready.

  “Now? Huntmaster?” Dodson’s voice was a taut whisper, ginger hair glued to pale cheeks, similar in length to Soren's unruly blonde mane.

  Behind them, the breath of a dozen armed soldiers warmed their necks. Soren wasn't overly acquainted with most of them, but the olfactory fragments of cologne, previous meals, and stale sweat said enough. Didn't want to—didn't need to know them better. Besides, if Adrian still lingered on the other side?

  Every one of them was about to die.

  He had to admit, waiting for reinforcements sounded like a good idea. Unhealthy for his career, but a very wise caution. One does not simply approach Adrian half-cocked, and live to bitch about it.

  But imagine how quick his doubters would shut up? If they actually managed to take down a Primor on their lonesome?

  The thought sparked a hungry smile. He traced the grips of his ornate handguns—one gold, one black—before resting a palm on Dodson’s shoulder.

  “Knock.”

  The precision charge detonated with a muffled thump, the segmented doors swished open, spraying sparks like frightened fireflies. On the other side, the lights flickered crimson, matching their trauma-plates, and the bloody walls. Bodies lay piled at the hall's center. Mangled, twisted around splintered swords and broken rifles. A grotesque casserole of death seasoned with shell casings and shattered bone.

  They stormed in, grenades a-jingle, armored boots rhythmic against the floor. Their weapons swept over every quiet nook, each shifting shadow, fingers curled around the triggers.

  With silent gestures, Soren paired them off corridor by corridor, diminishing the odds of being killed all at once. By the time they reached the end only he and Dodson remained, stacked up shy of the intersection that led to the main lab. Its entrance a wide, circular door smeared with coagulated gore.

  “Go check it,” Soren ordered with eyes locked forward, voice like jagged rocks. "Be ready for anything."

  “Perhaps you should go? Rank before beauty and—”

  “Just open the damn thing.”

  "Remember when you were fun to be around?"

  "Does getting shot in the ass sound like fun?

  Dodson scoffed, more performative than anything. "I'll take that as a hostile, yes."

  He jogged on ahead a few meters, steady and primed to kill. Until, for no apparent reason at all, Dodson halted unexpectedly mid-stride. Frozen. Eerily still. Rifle clutched so tight the metal creaked in protest.

  After he was certain it wasn't a douchey joke, Soren started to call out, see what could have—a scent in the air stifled the urge. He reacted faster than thought, both barrels snapped down the rightmost corridor, aimed at an ominous shadow nestled at the far wall.

  It was so impossibly opaque that the very light recoiled in dread. Something lurked deep in the dark within.

  ...someone.

  Unease coiled Soren’s intestines, so much that it felt like he was teetering above pit. Then, from the suffocating darkness of the shadow, two molten eyes took form. Unnatural. Aglow. Locked onto his very soul with a hungry, and unfortunately familiar malevolence.

  Of course...

  Soren's arms fell with an agitated huff. “I highly doubt you let him free. Just tell me what the hell happened already. Got things to do."

  The shadow pulsed, then pooled inward to consume itself like a cannibalistic puddle. Until the silhouette of Turk bled into the sporadic lighting. A tall figure garbed in Gothic style—obsidian robes, and a trimmed tunic with armored boots to match.

  “How do you do it?” she asked, voice like dry ice, with an incredibly pale and angular face home to a savage gaze. “So quickly, I mean?”

  “Taladran.” Soren eased his stance, but only to a point. “There’s always a monster lurking in the dark there. Either get good at noticing, or eaten, and shitted out in the jungle.”

  “Ah yes, your little sabbatical? I’ve heard the stories and it sounded like proper fun. Perhaps we can revisit someday? Just the two of us? Buck naked next to a fire in a crystalline cave?”

  Soren's jaw clenched, more to keep certain thoughts private, than anger. The memory of a shrieking, arachnid dreadbriar clawed into his mind. A wickedly verdant bundle of sapient vines, the apex predator of Taladran. It had once haunted his every moment, awake or sleep.

  And only by force of will did he manage to cast the image aside.

  She wanted to rattle him, trivialize that jungle hell. Or maybe she was dead serious, who really knew? It was the perfect vacation world for a masochistic sadist after all.

  A twisted smile split Turk’s otherwise gorgeous face, a mask of flesh that oh-so rarely hid the ugliness beneath. She prowled closer, seeming to teleport with each red flicker of light, dark cloak like smoke in her wake. Long ivory hair in perfect tandem with the sway of the sword on her back.

  “You mind telling Jo?o (zhoo-OW) to come out too?” Soren took a deep sniff. “Can smell him clear as day now. Feel his eyes trying to slit my throat.”

  Above Turk, the shadows retreated to reveal her brother hidden on the ceiling. Like a spider—talons latched, with pupils like burning coals. His devilish grin sharpened by the hellish illumination.

  Jo?o dropped without a sound and matched her powerful stride. Both nearly identical. Complexion, face, and hair. Two twin predators borne of the same woman and the same vicious mind.

  “If you two are here?” Soren gestured back at Dodson. “Can only imagine who has my guy shitting his shorts right now.”

  Turk’s smile didn’t waver and Jo?o’s devoured most of the space between cheek and ear. Expressions louder than any venomous curse.

  Soren tensed as they stopped at his side, imperceptibly, but enough to agitate him. He wasn't intimidated. But these weren't the caliber of immortals you let out of your sight. No. Not even for a micro-second.

  In the spirit of precaution, Soren kept them in his periphery, while a new silhouette bled into being at Dodson's side.

  First a blade—the cruel point of an umbri?or (oom-bree-SHOR) held at the jaw, where blood slowly trickled down its curved length. The argent alloy shimmered with juuta, a distinctly purplish toxin that at times hindered auto-regeneration. Marginally, and inconsistently, but excruciating when it did.

  The sword's patterned hilt came next, clutched between wicked and spindly fingers. Then a forearm. Elbow. Shoulder. All cloaked in the same embellished black fabric, exquisite silk courtesy of the finest craftsmanship.

  Until at last...

  ...Vorteth appeared in dark entirety.

  His sickly pale flesh was taut over a barren skull, with a cavernous smile that barely masked the fangs housed within. A robed muscular body that radiated a form of violence both evil and inevitable. The kind of creature that met death without a thought in regards to mercy.

  A monster among monsters.

  Soren resisted the urge to fire or unsheathe his claws, a natural instinct that any sane person would've heeded.

  “The Lone Wolf,” Vorteth spat, voice dry yet strangely moist with callous amusement, eyes still on Dodson. “How are you, Soren? My boy?”

  “Peachy. Even better if you didn’t decapitate my soldier. And, if you know where Adrian made off to?”

  “Still mulling over that first part. And Adrian is long gone. His stature let him slip through the ventilation, I presume. I doubt anyone survived long enough to trigger the alarm, he probably did so to detract attention from elsewhere. A mere diversion.”

  Lot of dead bodies for a diversion…

  Soren closed the gap with slow purpose, face akin to a chunk of steel. Hardened. Rigid. For him to display even an ounce of concern was not only foolish, but like bleeding in a pool of sharks.

  Or worse yet, vampirs.

  The siblings slipped into step behind him, relaxed, murderous inclinations buried beneath practiced civility.

  Soren's next words should've been cautious. But he'd developed a certain rapport with these particular vampir, and to stray from that might be a show of weakness. A polite change in vernacular that might ironically endanger Dodson more.

  “So you idiots thought it better to jerk off in the dark than pursue? What's the matter? Too pussy to fight someone stronger for once?”

  Vorteth’s gaze lifted, slowly, sulfuric pupils aflame with hatred. Soren halted a meter away, stood firm but without challenge, the heat of the twins' eyes burned at his neck—one command away from murder.

  The longer the quiet lingered, the less likely a civil outcome became. The words predictable and sane were antithetical to the vampir way of thought.

  “My child, when Adrian runs, nothing can catch him. Instead, we thought it better to secure the research,” Vorteth finally said, then paused with a warped grin. "And yes, jerk off in the dark, as you say.”

  The klaxons fell silent, replaced by stillness and a steady amber glow. Familiar footfalls thudded closer, and Soren halted the squad in place with a clenched fist, careful to keep both eyes on Vorteth.

  “Besides, we have what we needed from him regardless," Vorteth continued, unbothered by their greater numbers. "The vampir side of the bargain is far more complete than before. Now dear Huntmaster, it’s time for you and your precious Primum to uphold yours.”

  Vorteth sheathed his sword in one fluidly deft move. Silent. Masterful. Dodson staggered back with labored steps, a tad unsteady from the juuta in his veins, with lingering tension in his neck.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Fucking vampirs,” he muttered, teeth bared in pain. “Can’t wait until this deal’s off.”

  Soren gripped his shoulder, less for comfort, and more to keep him from doing anything rash.

  “Then by all means, my Lord Vorteth.” Soren smirked, each word dipped in a healthy coating of sardonic politeness. “Let's return to Alpha Base, and we can do just that.”

  Soren sauntered down the main corridor, shaking dust from his hair. The must of old stone tangled with the scent of wamu meat from up ahead.

  To his right, Whiro (FEE-roh) Clan wolves stood guard in a long line, weapons lowered but damn well ready. At his left Teth Coven vampirs matched them, backs straight, faces obscured by umbrefa?? (Oom-breh-FAH-tsuh). Ceremonial masks with contorted expressions unique to each person.

  “Hey, Soren.”

  “Huntmaster.”

  His own kind greeted him with cordial nods or smiles. A nice gesture. But again, he only recognized some, the majority fell victim to a memory murkier than swamp water.

  Most looked young like him, but Soren could always tell which were which. There was a certain eagerness in truly youthful eyes, the kind centuries of getting kicked in the nuts took care of just fine.

  “Who’d you guys piss off to get this detail?” Soren looked over the vampir and back with a smirk. "Rather spend my shift staring at a stopped up toilet."

  Hushed laughter rumbled from the wolves, while the nearest vampir stiffened with bottled barbarity. They were relatively easy to provoke, short fuses by nature. But if Vorteth, or a T?i?v?tar (Tuh-eesh-vuh-TAR) like Turk told them to stay put?

  They'd barely even reach down to scratch their own dicks.

  “Better than staring at a turncoat,” one Whiro guard muttered behind Soren's back, an unmistakable venom etched in their voice.

  Soren's next step stopped short, and the insult hung like fog, before he reversed with slow, deliberate steps. The vampirs let out their own round of guffaw, while his kinfolk suddenly found the ceiling of greater interest.

  His ice-blue eyes locked onto the culprit. Steady. Stern. But not quite harsh, yet. She was young. Genuinely. Tan skin, burgundy hair, and a shit-eating grin parked above a nameplate that read: Rodríguez. Her horizontal rank stripes that of a Striker, the third-lowest in the Clan.

  “Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, Rodríguez?”

  Her smile didn’t falter, but she shrank slightly under his looming presence. SUK-4 sub-machine gun clutched a tad tighter.

  “No, Huntmaster. Slept just fine. And before you ask, I see just fine too.”

  Raw honesty gleamed in her gray-blue eyes, the kind Soren respected. But she was too green. Too outspoken for someone still wet behind the ears. Reminded him of himself—minus forty pounds and a haircut that would make Mufasa blush, but still.

  Even though he personally wasn't too bothered. He had to smack her down, for his reputation's sake, and for her own damn good. If she had mouthed off to a less patient officer…

  She’d be regrowing a few limbs right about now.

  “Good. Glad to hear it," he finally said, voice perfectly even. "You sound rested enough to scrub all four setdown-zones after your shift. Twice. I’ll get your bunkmates to help out too. Best sleep with one eye open for a while.”

  Her mouth dropped—Soren's satisfaction more than evident—as he turned and slipped into the briefing chamber.

  “Wait! I can’t—I've got to—”

  The door hissed shut behind him, cutting out most of the bustle of Alpha Base. Rodríguez's little jab echoed in his mind, conjuring images of every stupid mistake he'd ever made. A number well into the triple digits. And yet, despite the damnable ache they brought, Soren dismissed them by force of will. Like the dreadbriar before them.

  This was the last place for distractions.

  He rounded the massive rectangular table at the chamber’s center, gun-belt announcing every step. Wolven elders were seated to his left. Soldiers behind their chairs to the right, crimson trauma-plates almost perfectly camouflaged against the maroon stone.

  The scent of roasted meat drifted from an overhead vent. More potent than out in the hall, and enough to make his stomach growl. Flaming stanchions flickered along the perimeter, the amber light at war with the cool blue gleam of the many wall-mounted monitors.

  Soren took the rightmost seat near the table’s end, next to the man, the myth, the infamous...Whiro o Ngāti Toa (FEE-roh oh NGAH-tee TOH-ah).

  “Primum,” Soren greeted, respectful, but familiar as he sank into the cushioned seat.

  Whiro looked up, unhurried, brown eyes tracing his face. Tawny, muscular arms poured from his well-worn trauma-plate. His rugged Polynesian features distinguished by a long salt-and-pepper coif.

  “Soren,” he rumbled calmly. “Unfortunate that Adrian escaped. Though I’m told there was little you could do?”

  “Nothing at all. Charlie Base was a mess and Adrian was long gone. He commandeered a fighter and cut the locator. Probably halfway to Orr by now.”

  Soren plucked an apple from the bowl before them, idly taking a bite. “Most of the key scientists were off-shift, and the research remains secure. So—”

  “So you consider our losses... acceptable?”

  Whiro’s tone hadn’t changed, but the scrutiny behind his eyes sharpened.

  “As close as we could hope for.” Soren took another bite. Casual. Controlled. “Adrian chose freedom over revenge, best outcome outside taking him down.”

  Over the past century Soren had fought to re-earn the old wolf’s trust. But every so often, Whiro still tested whether the wheels of loyalty needed a plop of grease.

  “You don’t think we delayed to save our hides, do you?” asked Soren.

  “I can’t speak for all. But I’ve long abandoned the notion of cowardice in you. Though you’re still a bleeding heart compared to some of the other officers. To die in battle is gain as you should well know.”

  “And I’ve accepted your philosophies, Primum. Wholeheartedly. Any perceivable delay was purely tactical. I assure you.”

  Whiro smiled faintly, peeling a ripened pear with a thumb claw. His gaze equal parts warm and lethal. Just deadly enough to make Soren’s palms slightly slicken with sweat. Slightly.

  “I'll consider myself assured, then.”

  They turned as the door cycled open, where two processions of vampir slinked in silently. One flanked the table, while their guards hugged the far wall, opposite the Wolven soldiers like in the hall. The style of their robes varied, but the smooth fabric was consistent. Color too. Grim-Reaper black and dramatic as hell.

  Step by step, they stood behind their chosen seats. And, because the galaxy hated Soren's guts, Turk happened to stop directly in front of him. Eyes undressing him with a smile that dripped with her usual brand of mockery.

  Still couldn’t tell if she wanted to kill or fuck him more.

  But it was probably equal if he had to guess.

  Turk’s expression soured as he looked away, his disinterest made loud and clear. For the fifteenth-thousandth time.

  Last to enter was Vorteth of course, quickly seated by two less than happy aides. Jo?o remained standing at his side, arms folded with his signature grin plastered in place.

  “Take your seats,” Jo?o barked, laced with just enough vitriol to bite.

  Forgetting the Union and Directorate's fleets for a moment—these were the most dangerous weapons in the galaxy. Roughly fifteen thousand years of experience in the room alone. Give or take. Assassins. Generals. Soldiers. Immortals all.

  And yet, with the constant squeaking chairs and clearing throats, it was almost rather comical. Like a workplace meeting about cleaning the microwave, or something equally mundane.

  Once everyone settled, a silence reclaimed the room. Eyes drifted. Suspicion wafted over them like incense. The odds of someone speaking or attacking were pretty on par, drifting closer to the latter with each heartbeat. Then, just when the pressure could mount no more, Soren chose to break the silence.

  “Anybody catch the bat-ball game last night?”

  All heads turned to him. A healthy mix of glares and confused double-takes. And then, slowly, murmurs and chuckles filled the quiet expanse. For every bit they differed or hated their cousin immortals, they were more alike than they would admit. Had their progenitors chosen to work together instead of constant war, they might've been allies from the start.

  “Actually, yeah,” chimed in Alexander, a gaunt and relatively chipper vampir seated dead center. “The Noirs might make playoffs this year. And if Sammy keeps pitching the way he is, there’s a good chance—”

  Vorteth cleared his throat, quiet but loud enough to clamp each vampir mouth shut.

  “Sports aside.” Whiro shook his head at Soren, a faint smile cutting the tension. “Let’s get down to it.”

  “Let’s,” Vorteth echoed, palms flat on the table.

  “The core research remains secure. Adrian chose escape over sabotage,” Whiro said, voice low. “But the attack on Avansen cost us a critical slate of samples.”

  “BioMech descended without warning." Vorteth’s yellow eyes flicked. "The convoy was intercepted, triggering a limited release. My allies destroyed the site and for now an outbreak seems unlikely. Its instability is a boon in this case. No one wins with an army of mindless ferals on the loose.”

  Whiro grimaced, like his pear had suddenly soured.

  “Those strains came from the late Ngārara (ngah-RAH-rah). More precious than gold. We’re completely stalled without it. The virus is finally pliable—centuries of work to reach this point. But we need another Primor Wolven source to stabilize it besides my own. And to our knowledge, only my brother, and ever-elusive father remain.”

  Soren casually tapped his foot, still genuinely baffled to see how well the two leaders worked together, after a millennia at each other's throats. A begrudging respect borne of battle and mutually assured gain.

  Lura, one of the older female wolves, grumbled.

  “I'm curious what the plan is, Primum? I think I speak for a lot of us when I say we're a little worn thin. We've waited so long already.”

  “After talks with Lord Vorteth, we’ve agreed to launch two... joint missions. To keep us honest. One to acquire Primor DNA. The other? A mind brilliant enough to recover the progress we've lost. Our lead scientist on Avansen was killed too. By proxy of an enemy desolation round.”

  Murmurs rippled and gradually grew in volume, but Whiro raised a calming hand.

  “The first team has it easy, my Lord,” Turk purred, dragging a talon along her own palm, drawing blood. “The Unified Clans are still holed up deeper in the Heartland. Playing soldier. It'll be comparatively simple to find his brother with them. But the second team? They’ll have to scour the greater galaxy for a mind sharp enough to do what we desire.”

  Soren’s gaze slid down the length of the table. Curious. Calculating. The search for another egghead didn't much interest him, but hunting Whiro’s father did, though it was practically fantasy. The old wolf hadn’t been seen in five centuries, though his trail of bastards was impossible to miss. Maybe there was a lead buried in that sea of progeny. Tough odds due to his nomadic nature, but better than nothing.

  As for the Unified Clan’s Primum—Whiro’s brother—he’d be buried behind layers of well-prepared defense. And nothing short of a full-blown assault would do the trick.

  Te Whetū (Teh Fheh-too) was even stronger than Whiro. Even if, by some miracle, they found him all alone, bringing him in would be a unspeakably deadly game. The kind of danger no one could afford to downplay.

  “On the contrary,” Vorteth said at last, a slow smile blooming. “We already have a scientist in mind.”

  “Ah,” Turk mused, tapping her chin. “Directorate, I presume? Of Magisterial caliber?”

  “Correct. Your mind is as sharp as your blade, Teresa.”

  Turk smiled, smug. As if she'd aced a difficult test without studying.

  She swept her ivory strands aside and stared hard at Soren again. With a sweet smile no less, the kind that preceded a blade between the ribs. With deliberate flair, she cupped her hands and lewdly twisted them at her lips—tongue bulged against her cheek as she gagged. Wet, obscene, and incredibly immature.

  Even the vampir sat next to her shifted uncomfortably. But Soren didn’t flinch. No scowl. No visible reaction at all. He was done playing her little games.

  But below the table?

  A warmth flickered in his trousers, forcing him to slyly cross legs, in-case anyone inadvertently...noticed.

  The bitch.

  “This is who we have in mind,” Whiro said, activating the table display.

  An etheric projection burst to life and revealed the portrait of a young woman dressed in silks and baubles. Ebony skin, long ivory braids—a smile both equally sweet and cunning.

  “Her name is Tani Undali," continued Whiro. "A prodigy, if the stories hold true. Though our eagerness has fallen victim to rumors of prodigiousness before. Genetics is one of many tools in her intellectual arsenal. A very well-rounded education. She may well be the one to finally finish charting the maze etched in our blood.”

  He scanned the room, eyes lingering briefly on Soren.

  “We differ in many ways, but it is our similarities that we should focus upon. Immortals deserve to steer humanity in the correct direction again. Since we took our hands off the wheel, their technology has closed the gap of power between us. And if we tarry any longer they will overtake us in due time..."

  “...I dare say we widen that gap, yet again. Or face discovery by humanity at large, and our eventual, utter extinction."

  (ngah-RAH-rah)- Dead Primor.

  (zhoo-OW)- Creepy vampir twin.

  (FEE-roh)- Whiro Clan's Primum.

  (teh FHEH-too)- Unified Clan's Primum, Whiro's brother.

  (oom-breh-FAH-tsuh)- ceremonial mask with contorted and often uncomfortable expressions.

  (oom-bree-SHOR)- a long sword favored by higher-ranking vampir.