The stomp of Bagger Element’s boots echoed loudly through the confined concrete corridors of the subterranean complex. The deeper they went, the fewer light fixtures they found. It was clear the lower levels were meant exclusively for vampires. It was so dark they couldn't rely on ambient light to feed their night vision scopes. Instead, they had to activate the IR lamps mounted on their helmets and weapons. Though the lamps cast a heavy green taint over their vision, they allowed them to see clearly.

  The violence remained unchanged as they cleared the facility—finding neither the living nor the undead. The IR lamps would have given away their position to vampires, who, unlike humans, could see that spectrum of light. But Perelli didn’t care. His element had gone so unchallenged that paranoia was beginning to set in. He wanted the enemy to come for them. He hoped the light and the sound of their armored boots telegraphed their position, drawing the enemy down upon them. Knowing where the enemy was—even if it meant walking into an ambush—was better than the terrifying prospect of not knowing anything at all.

  "Tetsu? Hessian?" A nervous Perelli prompted the robots.

  They reported, "Elevated activity levels on the Cobalt-60 tracker. Uranium detected. We are getting close."

  Perelli pondered the implications of the uranium more than anything else. It worried him more. The prospect of nuclear weapons was almost as grim as the existence of vampires. He used to think mustard gas was the most terrifying thing he would ever face on the battlefield. The horrors humanity wrought in war were not beyond comprehension. In fact, they were entirely comprehensible. And that was worse.

  With every step deeper, an invisible force pressed against him, urging him to turn back. Get out of here. If not for yourself, then for the sake of the men you're leading.

  It began to distract him. Instead of sharply clearing rooms, an insidious fear crept into his mind. Bagger Element will meet the same fate as your comrades on the Able… and in Los Angeles.

  He found himself falling back on his most basic level of training. Not the training of the Terra Vanguard, but that of the U.S. Army circa 1918.

  Left, left, left, right, left.

  His legs carried him forward in tune with the familiar cadence. His movements became robotic, marching to the rhythm. When all else failed, instinct took over. His mind drifted.

  Suddenly, a hand clamped onto his shoulder. He gasped.

  "Boss, you good?" Weber asked in his Germanic accent, concern evident in his voice. "You're stiff as a board."

  "I'm fine. Don’t worry about me," Perelli insisted, forcing himself to loosen up. They had fallen behind the rest of the element.

  Weber frowned, unconvinced. "I'm German, sir. I know stiff. What's going on?"

  Perelli refused to show weakness. He was expected to lead—to be the anchor around which his men oriented themselves. Now was not the time. This was not the place.

  "I'm fine," he repeated, his tone firm. "Get back to Bravo."

  Weber hesitated, frowning behind his ballistic mask. For a long second, they locked eyes—or as close as they could, given the opacity of their visors. Weber’s standard blue and Perelli’s custom shark’s maw.

  Finally, Weber departed.

  "Loud noise," Milo called out, warning everyone. Right after doing so, he ran his free hand along a shelf containing a row of extremely expensive-looking bottles of alcohol. Like a petty child or a bored cat, he knocked them off one by one. They shattered in quick succession upon impact with the floor.

  "Must you be so petulant?" Tora complained, brushing glass shards off his armor.

  Milo chortled at him. "This place is fuckin' empty."

  The two stood in a spacious and lavishly decorated living quarters. It was surprisingly well-appointed. Milo had expected chains, cages, and bodies hanging from the ceiling, but instead, it was fairly normal. Its furnishings were far beyond his tax bracket, but normal.

  "Oh shit, I haven't seen one of these in forever!" he remarked, carefully picking up a revolver from its place above a fake fireplace.

  The weapon was a Colt Army Model 1860. It was fantastically preserved, its blued steel and polished brass shining perfectly. The revolver felt heavy in his hand—balanced yet formidable—its walnut grip worn smooth from a century and a half of handling but not marred. Six chambers sat in the cylinder, each waiting for a .44 caliber ball to be seated and fired. The barrel was long, just under eight inches, lending accuracy to its shots—back when men dueled face-to-face.

  Ornate engravings adorned the frame, swirling patterns that spoke of a storied history. The hammer clicked satisfyingly as Milo pulled it back, the action smooth and solid. "Single-action." He peered down the sights—primitive by modern standards but deadly enough in practiced hands.

  He lowered the weapon so it was parallel to his own holstered sidearm. Then, quick as a whip, he drew it with expert precision. He worked the hammer and pulled the trigger with a single hand, firing through the entire cylinder in two seconds. Then, he let the grip go, and the weapon tilted forward under the weight of the barrel, his finger still in the trigger guard. With practiced movements, he expertly spun the revolver around his forefinger, as if he'd done this a thousand times before.

  Milo ran his thumb along the cold metal, a grin forming on his lips. "They don’t make 'em like this anymore," he said, almost sentimentally.

  One of the SEALs had entered the room just as he found the weapon, watching curiously. "You some kind of cowboy?"

  Milo took a breath. "In another life."

  The SEAL hesitated before asking the next question but did so anyway. "So it's true. You guys are from... not here. Not now?"

  "Un," Tora answered. "Yes."

  "So you're from the Wild West?" the SEAL asked, incredulous.

  "Sort of," Milo answered. "Confederate Army. Cognovich Company. 1st Slovenian Rifles," he said with pride.

  The INTERPOL trooper nodded in amazement. "And you?" he asked Tora.

  Tora's expression grew somber as he began to speak, his voice weighted by memories long past.

  "I was born into the samurai class of the Satsuma Domain, in what you now call Kagoshima Prefecture. The government sought to modernize Japan, adopting Western ways and, in the process, dismantling the very fabric of our samurai existence. I followed Saigō Takamori into battle at Mount Shiroyama."

  Tora's hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his weapon, a gesture that spoke of both pride and sorrow.

  "We fought valiantly, but our swords were no match for the government's modern artillery and firearms. We failed." He looked up, meeting the SEAL's eyes with a resolute gaze. "Though our rebellion was quelled, the spirit of the samurai endures. We sought to protect our traditions, even in the face of insurmountable odds. Now, in this time not our own, I carry forward the legacy of my ancestors, honoring their memory with every step I take."

  The room fell silent, the weight of Tora's words hanging heavily in the air. His explanation was earth-shattering to the SEAL because it meant the Japanese man standing before him was impossibly ancient. Milo was also in awe, but only because it was the most words he'd ever heard Tora say at one time.

  A shout came from outside. "Got something here!"

  R3C Marcus, the Roman assault trooper, and the two Kilo frames had their weapons leveled at a blank concrete wall. It was the only section of the wide passageway left untouched. Another assault trooper, Waters, had his shotgun slung across his back while he felt around the blank section.

  "What do you got?" Perelli asked.

  Hessian pointed over his shield. "Radioactive trail ends here. We suspect this is a false wall and there is something beyond it," he explained. "Both the tracking device and something else."

  "Okay, everybody stack up," Weber ordered.

  Behind the assault troopers, Alpha, Bravo and the INTERPOL teams lined up in rows on either side of the passageway. They all kept their guns leveled at the alleged secret door.

  Waters banged against various surfaces with a wrench, listening carefully to how the surface echoed and vibrated. Every few inches, he moved, eventually creating the outline of a square door. He came to a stop after several minutes and took out a thick permanent marker, drawing Xs on the wall.

  "Steel construction. Locking mechanism here," he pointed. "And hinges here, here, and here. Opens inward. It's not a vault. I can breach with an explosive shell."

  "Set it up," Perelli ordered.

  Tetsu and Hessian planted their shields and took cover behind them. The rest of the element pressed themselves against the walls, preparing for the loud noise and pressure wave. Waters ejected the shell he had in the breech and replaced it with one colored bright orange.

  Waters braced himself, shouldering his shotgun in fluid movements. The bright orange shell seated in the chamber was a purpose-built breaching round—a hardened slug filled with a high-explosive compound designed to punch through steel and disrupt locking mechanisms in a single violent detonation.

  He took a half-step forward, angling the muzzle toward the X-marked section of the door. His faceplate polarized automatically in anticipation of the flash.

  "Firing!" he barked.

  The shotgun roared like a cannon, a concussive blast hammering through the tight space. The slug struck dead center on the lock with a metallic crack, then erupted with a brutal detonation. A bloom of orange fire and shrapnel fanned outward, the steel around the impact point warping and buckling as the explosive force ruptured the internal mechanisms.

  The door groaned under its own weight, hinges shearing with an ear-splitting screech. Then, with a final metallic clang, it crumpled inward, smoke and acrid dust billowing from the wreckage.

  Waters barely flinched, his armor absorbing the worst of the overpressure, but the rest of the team took the hit like a physical blow. Hessian's sensor pod bounced behind his shield, while Tetsu let out a sharp warble from his transmitter. The others, flattened against the walls, blinked through the ringing in their ears.

  "Clear," Waters said, racking a fresh round into the chamber as the dust settled.

  As the dust settled, it became clear there wasn't much inside—except for two important things.

  "Uh, Boss, you might wanna take a look at this," Waters waved him forward.

  Tentatively, Perelli approached the opening. The space beyond was little bigger than a one-car garage. A large crate sat in the center, a mess of wires and finely machined components arrayed around a central cylinder the size of an engine block. And there was a woman in chains on the ground in front of it.

  Tetsu's dosimeter went wild. The frame stepped forward quickly. "Ensign. That's the source of the tracker and the uranium."

  "What the hell?" Perelli couldn't help but exclaim aloud.

  He and Weber approached with HR-15s raised.

  When the beaten figure looked up at Perelli, his blood turned white-hot. Her eyes met his ballistic mask.

  "You." The Freikorpsman and the vampire executor both said at the same time.

  Vespera started to say, "We meet aga—" but was cut short. Perelli surged across the space between them with murderous intent. He picked the vampire up off the ground by her neck. She could do nothing to stop him with her arms bound in chains. His gloved hand squeezed tightly around the vampire’s throat.

  His HUD displayed the green tinge of his night vision, but all the junior officer saw was red. He slammed her down on top of the device. With his free hand, he leveled the muzzle of his rifle against the bottom of her chin. She struggled weakly against his grip.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "I wish I could make you suffer for your crimes, but you will know only oblivion."

  Just as his finger crossed into the trigger guard, a hand seized the barrel of his HR-15. Perelli wheeled on whoever it was, ready to knock their teeth out, but was surprised to find it was Milo.

  "Boss..." The R1C spoke slowly and carefully. "We need her alive." He gestured at the device. "She can probably tell us what happened here and what this is."

  It took Perelli several seconds to calm down enough to respond. Finally, he took a slow breath. He didn’t lower his rifle, but he did take his finger off the trigger. He also lessened his grip so that Vespera could speak.

  "What is this?" He nodded towards the device.

  "It’s a fucking nuke. What does it look like?" she said coldly. "You've walked right into a trap, you idiots."

  Tetsu crossed behind the bomb and began scanning it. "Sir, this bomb is on a timer. It also has a remote detonator."

  Weber reacted coolly, but Milo took a cautious step back from the bomb.

  "Can you defuse it?" Weber asked.

  Tetsu analyzed. "This device appears homemade. I do not have the necessary procedures downloaded."

  "I can," came a voice from the doorway. They all turned to see one of the SEALs, BMC Noble. "I have EOD certification for nuclear weapons. Long story. May I?"

  They all moved to let him through. He unrolled a tool pouch and began looking over the device. He muttered, "Never thought I'd have to use this." He turned to Tetsu. "Tell me what kind of radiation patterns you're picking up and where." Then he looked at Perelli. "Do you mind?" He pointed at Vespera.

  The junior officer picked Vespera up again and forced her to the ground, where he put his boot on her neck, pressing her face into the floor.

  The vampire seethed and bared her fangs, but there was nothing she could do. Except...

  "Tell me, slave..."

  Perelli increased his boot pressure on her, forcing her to talk between gasps.

  "How did it feel to have your soul ripped from your body?" She smirked venomously.

  A chill ran up Perelli's spine as he recalled. A phantom pain coursed through his chest as he remembered their first encounter, where she had crushed his ribs. He had to forcibly calm himself.

  He looked down at her. "What happened here?" he said through clenched teeth.

  Vespera laughed weakly. "Politics."

  "I am in no mood for games. Elaborate."

  "Hah! What do I give a shit? My life is forfeit. You might as well just kill me," she said, greatly tempting the rifle.

  Perelli's thumb rubbed against the safety of his weapon, but he resisted. A realization dawned.

  "You finally tried to execute your coup, didn’t you?" he said, probing.

  That elicited another weak laugh. "You remember. Impressive. Most mortals don’t survive being that close to a cascade with their minds intact. Tell me, have you experienced any auditory or visual hallucinations?"

  Weber looked at his officer. He knew Perelli’s role in the botched Los Angeles op, but Perelli had chosen not to tell him that part. Weber had come just as close to the same fate.

  Perelli pressed harder with his boot. "Answer the question."

  "Fine... Yes, I did."

  "And you lost?" he said with a smirk.

  She nodded.

  "Well, then I suppose I should thank you. For making this mission easy for me."

  "Oh, you’re not out of the woods yet," she said mischievously.

  Before he could comprehend her meaning, a voice shouted from the hallway.

  "Contact, rear!"

  Perelli looked through the door to see a black shape filling the entire width and height of the hall. It accelerated towards them quickly, absorbing light, causing his night vision to glitch at the sight of it. The only identifiable features were two white eyes in its center.

  The INTERPOL team, professionals that they were, didn’t need an order to fire. They opened up on the incoming mass with disciplined semi-automatic fire. The cacophony filled the tight concrete quarters with an immense racket.

  The mass writhed and dodged faster than it could be targeted. It shrank and grew, avoiding their fire. Until finally, it was close enough to lash out. It did so with long tentacles.

  Hessian moved up with its shield, planting itself firmly between the Rifles and the creature. A barrage of blows landed against the great shield, but the Frame planted its feet and held fast. But it couldn't stop all of them.

  A tentacle slithered past. It latched onto the closest operators leg, the German GSG-9 operator. He screamed as he was dragged across the floor. But before he could be endangered by the mass, a long blade cam down on the tentacle severing it. Tora stood over the severed limb as the detached section vaporized.

  The mindflayer recoiled, the severed tentacle disintegrating into dark mist. It was unconcerned about the missing limb and began gathering mass before striking again. The INTERPOL operators didn't hesitate, pouring more fire into the shifting darkness, their rounds chewing into the void-like flesh with uncertain effect.

  Hessian pushed forward, its shield raised high, absorbing a renewed barrage of blows from the creature’s writhing appendages. The Frame’s submachine gun chattered, spitting high-velocity rounds into the thing’s core, but the mindflayer’s amorphous body twisted unnaturally, dodging in ways no living being should.

  One of the Vanguard assault troopers stepped up, shotgun braced against his armored shoulder. "Frag out!" he barked, lobbing a grenade toward the creature’s center of mass. It exploded in a fiery burst, momentarily staggering the entity.

  That was when Perelli’s made a mistake.

  Distracted by the fight, he instinctively lifted his boot from Vespera’s neck, his attention snapping toward the writhing darkness. It was all the opportunity she needed.

  In one smooth motion, she lunged, her hand snapping out like a viper. BMC Noble had been crouched over the nuclear device, working quickly to disable it. He barely had time to react before her clawed fingers swiped a metal pick from his laid out tools. With expert precision and inhuman speed, she angled the tool upward into the lock that bound her hands. In only a few swift turns the chains fell slack.

  A surge of raw energy rippled through her body as her vampiric essence returned in full force. The weight of the holy chains had suppressed her abilities, but now she was free.

  Vespera’s eyes glowed an unholy crimson as she turned toward Perelli, a murderous glint.

  “Big mistake,” she whispered.

  Perelli barely had time to raise his weapon before she moved. One moment she was on the ground, the next she was upon him, gripping his throat in a vice-like grip, her claws digging through the neoprene liner and into his skin. Enough to draw blood.

  "Sir!" Weber shouted, raising his rifle—too late.

  Dark energy surged around them as Vespera's teleportation took hold.

  The last thing Perelli saw before the world twisted and blurred into an incomprehensible void was the mindflayer surging forward, tentacles coiling around the operators, Hessian struggling to hold the line, and the nuke still lying exposed on the floor.

  Then, with a disorienting blur, the world snapped away.

  When the world returned, Perelli was weightless. Wind snapped against his armor as he struggled to gain any sense of orientation. He didn't realize where he was until the ground rushed up to meet him. He bounced indignantly, tumbling across a rocky surface. "Agh!" He cried out in pain as his armor failed to soften the impact sufficiently.

  When he finally came to a stop, he quickly began to recover. His mouth was bleeding from a split lip. Blood spattered on the inside of his faceplate while the outside was thoroughly scraped. His night vision turned off to reveal he was in the open air of the mountain range.

  Weakly, he straightened. Just as he grasped for his rifle, a hand reached out and seized him by his neck again. The vampire Vespera lifted him off the ground. She bashed his head against a rock with fury.

  "Finally." she said between blows. "If I can't have power. If I can't have favor. At the very least, I will have my revenge!" She forced him to look at her. "I could drop you a thousand feet and be done with it. But I can't do that. Not after how you humiliated me." An enraged sneer crossed her face. "With you're continued existence!" She screamed.

  She threw him across the ground. "This will be personal and it will be painful." She approached his unmoving prone form.

  The vampire picked him up by the back of his tactical vest. When she did, Perelli struck. Like a viper, he swung his holy dagger into her shoulder, firmly planting the blade in her flesh. She cried out in pain.

  He grabbed her close and refused to let go. He twisted the blade, causing her powers to unexpectedly activate against her will.

  Once again, he was sent flying through the air. But this time, he landed on a flat surface. Though, still hard and course. Just as he began to recover, a loud roar sounded next to him and a rush of hot air from a jet engine hit his chest, causing him to be blown back another dozen feet. When he looked around, he realized he was on the flight deck of the Cry Havoc.

  Perelli barely had time to react before Vespera materialized a few yards away, already in motion. She was a blur, closing the distance with unnatural speed, her fangs bared in a feral grin. He barely got his rifle up before she was on him, swiping the weapon aside and hammering a knee into his gut. His armor absorbed some of the impact, but not enough. He staggered back, gasping for breath. A few months ago, that would have crushed his ribs. The new ones held up nicely.

  On the bridge, Sky-Captain Kilmer watched the flight deck camera swivel to focus on the fight. A disgusted frown formed. Without taking time to ponder how they got there, she barked orders. "Officer of the Deck, get that trash off my flight deck." Then she snapped to the helm, "Hard to starboard, roll the deck."

  Before he could recover, she twisted into a spinning kick that sent him sprawling across the deck. He tumbled, barely managing to keep hold of his knife as his rifle skidded out of reach. A warning klaxon blared over the carrier’s intercom, and the deck lights flashed as the crew scrambled for cover—though “cover” was a generous term. Many had hastily restrained themselves with cargo straps, tied to the landing gear of fighter jets, or huddled behind tool carts, forced to watch the brutal fight unfold.

  Perelli barely got his feet under him before she was on him again. This time, she drove him back with a relentless flurry of blows. He blocked one, dodged another, but she was too fast. A hammering right hook snapped his head to the side, followed by an elbow to his ribs. His vision blurred, his head ringing.

  With a snarl, he lashed out, slashing his dagger in a wide arc. The holy blade left a sizzling cut across her cheek, making her recoil with a hiss. Perelli seized the moment, lunging forward and driving a brutal knee into her stomach. She grunted, but instead of staggering back, she grinned.

  “Good,” she breathed, licking the blood from her lip. “Keep fighting. Makes it more fun.”

  Then she was behind him. He had no idea how she moved so fast after he had cut her so deeply, but he barely had time to register the shift before her arms locked around his throat in a crushing grip. Perelli struggled, prying at her vice-like arms, his lungs burning for air.

  His vision started to darken when instinct took over. He threw his weight backward, slamming her upwards into the fuselage of a parked Screecher with all his strength. The impact forced her to loosen her grip just enough for him to drive an elbow into her ribs and roll free.

  Both scrambled to their feet at the same time, facing each other in the flashing red deck lights. Perelli was panting, his face streaked with blood, his body screaming in protest. Vespera, though bloodied, looked almost amused.

  But her moment of arrogance cost her.

  Perelli surged forward, catching her off guard with a brutal shoulder check that sent her stumbling. He followed up with a strike to her jaw, then a savage slash of his knife across her chest. She screamed as the holy blade burned her flesh, staggering back.

  He didn’t let up. He tackled her to the ground, straddling her and driving punch after punch into her face. She clawed at him, screeching, but he didn't stop.

  A final, crushing blow sent her head snapping back against the deck, dazing her. Before she could recover, he planted his boot on her throat, forcing her down with all his weight.

  Vespera gasped, her fingers clawing at his boot, but she was spent. Beaten.

  Perelli popped open his faceplate and sneered down at her. “You should’ve dropped me when you had the chance.”

  He pressed down harder.

  Her body writhed, her fangs bared in desperation. The crew watched in stunned silence, some barely daring to breathe as the scene unfolded before them. The deck lights flashed, casting jagged shadows across Perelli’s bruised and battered form.

  He leaned in slightly, his voice a low, venomous growl. “No more escapes. No more second chances. I’m ending this.”

  Just as he was about to crush her windpipe, a firm hand clamped onto his shoulder.

  “Stand down, Ensign.” The voice was sharp, commanding.

  Perelli’s head snapped up, eyes wild. The massive form of Striker-Commander Federov stood across from him, gaze steady. “She's more useful alive.”

  For a long moment, Perelli didn’t move. His grip on his knife was tight, his boot unmoving. The thought of ending her, right then and there, was tempting—deserved, even.

  For the first time ever, he seriously contemplated disobeying orders. A simple pivot of the heel and he could snap her neck. He grit his teeth.

  With a final glare down at the defeated vampire, he removed his boot from her neck. Assault troopers quickly moved in to restrain her.

  He leaned down and gabbed her face, forcing her to look at him. “One day, I will slaughter you.” he muttered.

  Vespera gasped, coughing violently as she clutched her throat, her crimson eyes still burning with hatred—but behind it, just for a moment, was something else.

  Fear.

  Cry Havoc's Interrogation Room

  Vespera sat in a flimsy plastic chair, heavy chains binding her feet to the deck and her hands to her neck, allowing only minimal movement. A clay ball was stuffed in her mouth, neutralizing her fangs. The chains bore religious markings, nullifying her powers. The room was brightly lit—an intentional effort to keep her as uncomfortable as possible. Despite this, she remained stoic, sitting straight-backed and staring ahead, showing no sign of discomfort.

  The other side of the one-way glass was rather crowded. The towering Federov stroked his chin with a grin, admiring the fine prize his troopers had captured. Commander Waller stoked a cigar with a tired look on his own face. Also present were the two U.N. representatives: Special Agent Alvarez, who seemed unsure of what to do with herself, and Amelie Wagner, who furiously took notes while keenly observing the vampire. Lastly, there was Sky-Captain Victoria Kilmer and Ensign Perelli—both noticeably more irate than the rest. Kilmer didn’t want vampire trash aboard her ship; she would have preferred to execute the creature on the spot. And Perelli was more than willing to be the executioner.

  An ISR agent entered the room with a guard. The guard carefully used a thick-gloved hand to remove the clay ball from Vespera’s mouth before retreating to a corner.

  The agent took his time setting up a notepad, recorder, and a folder containing relevant files. Once finished, he spent several seconds straightening the materials to his liking—a deliberate interrogation tactic. He clicked his pen.

  "Please state your name—" he began, but Vespera cut him off with a fast-spoken, thorough tirade.

  "My name is Vespera. That is the name given to me by my former master, Queen Selene Sanguis. My mortal name was Tiffany Bellerose. I was an accountant in my previous life until I was attacked by a wild cougar while hiking in the Cascades. I would have died if not for Queen Selene. She saved me by turning me into a vampire. For that, I owed her my life and became her executor.

  As executor, I carried out her will. I have murdered over 271 humans and drank the blood of far more. I have also killed many of my own kind in pursuit of my master's wishes. I recommend looking into the crime databases of California and Washington, the Canadian province of British Columbia, and Russia’s St. Petersburg to verify my claims. I was the mastermind behind the attack on Kotlin Island, the cascade that nearly destroyed Los Angeles, and the attack on the USNS Able."

  The observers were stunned into silence, but the interrogator was not. He quickly asked, "Elaborate on the Able."

  "The vampiric forces under Queen Selene—and now Queen Persephone—have the ability to awaken and control sea monsters from the unexplored depths of the ocean. The attack on the Able was a test run. That creature could not be controlled. The one that attacked Los Angeles could. We call them Vorrkoths. They are controlled from a commandeered Russian vessel we took from Kotlin—the Kommuna. She has been extensively modified to disguise her original purpose. She now broadcasts on AIS as the MV Crimson Shamrock and is formally registered to Panama. She’s skippered by a traitorous bitch named Svetlana—Russian. She and her brother, Dmitry, are former FSB agents. They work for Persephone. There will likely be another attack soon."

  The interrogator nodded throughout, recording the scorned vampire’s very thorough betrayal of her own kind. "Where are they now?"

  "I do not know. Persephone now has many undetectable black sites she could flee to."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. She controls all vampiric forces across the world. She has usurped her peers in the Council of Equals—a council that once settled disputes between clans. I assume you found their bodies in the underground complex near Monte Cassino? Anyway, I can draw you a map. It won’t have everything, but it will cover roughly 90% of all vampire strongholds, cells, and clans."

  "What's the plan for the Black Sun?"

  Vespera let out a single humorless laugh. "Terraform."