For now, he reclined in peaceful slumber, hands folded over his chest.
Fulk felt invisible ants crawling up the back of his neck. It was hardwired into his wolf soul to bow his head and submit, no matter how much he’d always hated that.
“Do you have the book?” Dr. Talbot asked, brightly, unaware that Fulk wrestled with every ounce of his better judgement.
“What?”
“The wolf book. Do you still have it?”
Fulk shook his head, baring his teeth a little. “I sold that eighty years ago. To a Frenchman headed for Moscow.”
“Shame.”
“We don’t need the book for that – it’s only if you’re trying to turn a wolf.”
Dr. Talbot beamed. “That’s helpful to know. Whatever else you need, then, it’s yours. We are very well-stocked.”
And they were. Beyond the ring of light surrounding the coffin were two teams of medical techs with an assortment of wheeled carts. Gauze, swabs, covered dishes of food. A defibrillator.
“You’re going to need some blood,” Fulk said, and watched the techs shrink back. “He’ll be hungry. And disoriented.”
Someone cursed quietly.
Dr. Talbot nodded. “Jennifer, four pints, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I need a knife. A sharp one.”
A sheet-white boy tech approached him cautiously and offered a scalpel.
Fulk took it from him and paced slowly around the coffin, moving to stand behind the sleeping figure’s head. If he was the sort of person who was easily impressed, who cared about celebrities, he would have been shaking with delight, here in the presence of a true son of Rome. Vampire royalty – figuratively and literally speaking.
But as it was, he was merely shaking with nerves, sick dread heavy like a stone in his belly.
He sought Anna’s gaze one more time, the love and softness in her eyes. Her jaw was set, ready for any sort of resultant violence, but her eyes were gentle for him.
God, he loved her.
He hoped…
He took a deep breath. “Be ready,” he said, grimly. And then began the chant. The words themselves weren’t important, not on the grand scale of things, but they were part of the ritual. The Latin felt thick and unwieldy on his tongue – not that the mortals would notice – so long had it been since he’d used it. But the farther he went, the less he tripped. He smelled his own fear; he smelled something ancient wafting up out of the coffin, old stone and melted tallow candles, and blood, blood, blood…
He lifted his left hand and brought the scalpel down across the palm in a quick slash, blood welling up along his lifeline.
In English, voice resonating with the deep wolf-growl building in his chest, he said, “Thus I command you to wake, Vladimir.”
He tipped his hand and poured his wolf blood onto the sleeping monster’s face.
Vlad’s eyes opened.
To be continued…
