Chapter Text
September 17th, 2025 – Serra da Mantiqueira
The man went down with a dull thud. Mizrak didn't allow himself the time to think about the fact that this was already the tenth body he was leaving behind. He wasn't even sure whether he should feel remorse or not. For more than two hundred years he had avoided killing humans. Now they had left him no choice. They had Olrox.
His vampiric senses told him more than the cold light of the concrete bunker. Just around the next intersection, five men were waiting. Two right, three left. They were silent, but he could hear their heartbeats. Calm. Controlled. These were professionals, accustomed to fighting vampires like him. They certainly had equipment that told them exactly where he was.
Mizrak surged forward. The soldiers were fast. Faster than ordinary humans. And stronger. But not fast enough for him. He had taken down the first two before they had even registered his presence.
Searing pain flared across his neck and grazed his face. Those damned UV lamps!
Mizrak spun around. He ducked beneath the beam and slammed the soldier into the concrete wall. He heard — and felt — every rib break. Neither the Kevlar armor nor the ceramic reinforcement had helped. Grim satisfaction spread through him as he wrenched the flashlight from the man's grip and turned it on the nearest target. The man threw up his arm to shield his eyes, but not quickly enough. Mizrak seized the moment and snapped his neck.
Gunshots cracked through the corridor. He dodged on instinct and killed the last soldier just as swiftly as his comrades. Milliseconds of reaction time no human could follow. Enhanced by chemical drugs or not.
For a moment Mizrak stood still and listened. Over the gurgling breath of the dying man he could hear the hum of machinery deep within the complex. Climate control, perhaps. Hopefully. But he sensed something else. He turned left and ran down the corridor. Doors flew past him as he followed the feeling that guided him through the underground facility. The hallways were deserted. No one tried to stop him.
He stopped before a reinforced steel door. Secured with a keypad lock. This was it. Mizrak let out a contemptuous snort. He drove his claws into the metal and tore it from the frame. Gunshots cracked. In the same moment he smelled it. Olrox. His blood. Buried beneath the stench of chemicals and medication.
A growl escaped Mizrak's throat. The carefully restrained fury of the past hours boiled over. He would give them no further opportunity to regret what they had done.
He hurled the steel door in the direction where he sensed three heartbeats. One fast, the others slow. At least until the door hit them. One panicked lurch, then silence.
Two remained. Another frantic pulse — and Olrox's far too slow heartbeat. Mizrak spun around. A man in a white coat was backing away from him with raised hands until he hit a shelf. Between them a medical gurney, and on it —
Olrox.
Naked. His modesty barely covered by a thin sheet. Ankles and wrists bound to the cold metal. Mizrak smelled burned skin and silver. A thin tube ran from an IV into his left arm. A second line had been placed in his right. Olrox showed no sign of consciousness. Mizrak's heart clenched. The relief that his companion was alive vanished beneath the fury flaring up again.
"Please …" The man in the coat's voice trembled. "I'm just doing my job."
Mizrak narrowed his eyes. From the breast pocket, the organization's logo stared back at him. Vampire fangs pierced by a sword. The Order of Saint Michael. Vampire hunters under the control of the Catholic Church.
Once he had turned a blind eye to what some church leaders committed in the name of faith. Not anymore. Now he knew that faith was one thing, and the Church quite another.
"You should have chosen your employer more carefully," Mizrak growled. Without taking his eyes off the man, he stepped up to the gurney and reached for the clasp of the restraints. He hissed in pain as the silver seared his fingers, but he ignored it. Beneath the silver, Olrox's skin was raw and torn. Mizrak sent a quick prayer to God that he was not too late. That his beloved would recover.
A movement at the edge of his vision put him on alert. The scientist had slipped a hand into his pocket. Not a chance. He would not be caught off guard so easily. Mizrak vaulted over the gurney and lunged at him. He seized the man's wrist in an iron grip. Bones crunched. The man cried out. A small cylinder clattered to the floor, a red button blinking on one side.
Mizrak growled. He knew these small gas grenades. Humans were immune, but vampires lost consciousness within seconds.
He grabbed the man by the throat. The man struck at him feebly. For a moment Mizrak was tempted to simply snap his neck. He had attacked him. Hadn't he? "You can count yourself lucky that God taught me not to kill," he growled. Killing in combat was one thing. Executing someone in cold blood was another. With a precise strike he sent the man into unconsciousness and let him drop.
"Impressive, Mister Calloway," a voice said behind him. "Or should I call you 'Mizrak'?"
He spun around. From a monitor in the corner an older man looked back at him. Grey hair, full beard, a piercingly cold gaze from grey eyes. "Hargrove …" He had had no image of him until now, but there was no doubt that this was the man who stood behind the Order. Above the screen the light of a camera blinked.
"Don't think for a moment that this little action of yours has accomplished anything. We already have what we wanted." He held up a small vial of blood. "Goodbye, Mizrak. Give my regards to Olrox. When he's conscious again." The screen went dark.
Mizrak went cold. Hargrove knew too much. Far too much. Had that been how he had managed to abduct Olrox? He would think about that later. First they needed to get out of here in one piece. He carefully removed the needles. A few drops of blood oozed out, then the wounds closed.
How he would have liked to wait until Olrox regained consciousness — but time was running out. Every second here was a risk. He lifted him and ran for the exit. Down the corridors with their cold light. Past the dead soldiers. Were there still others waiting for them? Was Hargrove sending reinforcements? Mizrak heard nothing, but he stayed alert. As he approached the destroyed entrance he slowed his steps. This was Hargrove's last chance to stop them. No heartbeats, no rustle of fabric or scrape of Kevlar. Tense, he crossed the remains of the bunker door. The night received him cool and clear with stars. New moon. The darkness wrapped around them like a protective blanket. Only when he knew a considerable distance lay between them and the bunker did he dare to breathe a sigh of relief.
Olrox stirred in his arms and he stopped. His heart gave a relieved leap as he finally saw those luminous green eyes again. Still unfocused. Olrox's gaze flickered restlessly back and forth. "You're safe. I'm here." It took a moment for understanding to set in.
With a long exhale Olrox leaned against him and closed his eyes, exhausted. "You put yourself in danger for me …" His pulse was still far too slow. What had they injected him with?
Mizrak kissed him on the forehead. "If not for you, then for whom?" There were very few people for whom he would risk his life, and Olrox stood at the top of that list.
Olrox looked up at him. His brows drew together. "You're hurt." He raised his hand to lay it against his cheek, but stopped before he touched the burned skin.
Mizrak turned his head and kissed the palm of his hand. "It will heal." He resumed walking slowly.
Eventually Olrox broke the silence. "We can't go home."
Mizrak nodded. "Not yet." Until now they had managed to stay out of the Order of Saint Michael's way. Now they would have to face it. The idea of a life on the run had chafed him even back in France, when Olrox had asked him to come with him to the new world. Now that they had a home together, the thought was even more repugnant. "But soon."
The Order would fall. And then they could go home.