The wooden door set into the stone face of the wall opened, and Sister Evangeline came through. Her long skirts whispered as she crossed the chamber. She came up next to me, nudging back long sleeves to expose pale but muscular arms.
“What now?” I asked wearily.
“There are some things brute strength will not get you,” she answered. She shifted, and I saw Sister Elsbeth bring in a case she lay at Sister Eva’s feet and flicked the catch.
As I observed with increasing interest, Sister Eva opened the case displaying a set of exquisitely made knives, their blades razor sharp and wicked. Sister Anna was across the room, taking one of the wooden tables and dragging it across the floor until it was centered. She brought out blocks of soft wood and grouped them up on the table.
I squinted. I recognized what this was. I worked on knife throwing as I trained with my katana although it wasn’t my strength. I could hit the target, but I was considerably more skilled up close with the long blade.
Sister Eva bent and plucked out a dagger from the case. She spun it in her hands, the metal reflecting a dizzying light, and then it was gone. I didn’t realize she threw it until I glanced at the target and saw the quivering handle.
“You are an artist with your sword,” Sister Eva said. “But we must expand your palette.”
Sister Eva turned out to be a grueling taskmaster. She was exacting with form, with technique. She was demanding and firm, but I learned more from those nuns in the months I was there than I did from any of my other instructors during years of martial arts training.
“Yes,” I answered. “I know what you can do.”
It was hard to visualize going on to the backstreets of downtown Louisville with a nun as my backup. It was hard to imagine her active in battle too, but I had seen it. There were many eye opening episodes in my training, but I wouldn’t doubt any of the women in the order ever again.
“What other arrangements have you made?” I asked the two women. Alex smiled at Sister Eva, and Sister Eva smiled back, her expression wise and a tiny bit smug.
The place smelled of nothing so much as it did age, the wearing a way of time, of old popcorn and dusty dreams. If it was open and running in my lifetime, I certainly didn’t recall it on our few visits to Louisville. The structure wasn’t a complete loss. The builders of the place did a more than adequate job in their attempts to make it last. The bones were good. My feet didn’t produce the slightest squeak as I rounded the corner and peered down the long aisle to the stage.
As was commonplace in theaters of the age, the seating was limited; the screen hidden behind a heavy velveteen curtain. The rows of seats, covered in a burgundy fabric much like the curtain, marched in perfect formation from the farthest door in the rear to the stage in front. They were bolted to the floor, and even the most enthusiastic vandal couldn’t have moved them without an array of tools. They settled for marking and shredding the cushioned seats, grey foam and stuffing spilling from the chairs like entrails.
To my surprise, there were lights. The thrum I heard came from a generator, I suspected, situated somewhere outside the building but maintaining adequate power for some free-standing light fixtures and one slowly rotating fan. This did not look like a place where the high and mighty of the church might gather. There was far too much dust and deterioration for any one of them to perch in the seats in their satanic Sunday best.
I crept further inside. The outer lobby, with the old counter still standing, protecting glass shelving that long ago was smashed into shards of glittering glass, was empty. It was not the same here. Up and down the walkways, there were crates, and in some of the chair seats, there were the same. Whatever they were doing with the place, they were also storing material. I thought of the empty warehouses, disturbed by the scope of their properties. How much of this stuff did they have to require so many storage areas? Or was it the same artifacts brought from building to building to preserve secrecy?
I didn’t care much. If I ever figured out what they were doing with the religious relics, I could tell Brother J, who in turn could put Victor on the trail. It would be right up Vic’s alley, catching the bad guys and cracking some heads.
On second thought, if the relics were as Sister Eva said, pieces from the crusades where the Order of Sainte Aalis operated, then I didn’t want to be overly impulsive in handing over the job. I owed the women a compensation. They saved my life and were expending an awful lot of time and energy seeking to preserve my immortal soul. I owed them a big one, and if the Church of the Light Reclaimed was snatching up holy relics that legitimately belonged to the Catholic Church, and in relation, my abbey, I wanted to stop it.
I shook my head slowly. When did it become my abbey, anyway?
I heard slow steps from up ahead and froze in my tracks. There was a shuffle, then the sound of a lone person applauding, and the curtains parted soundlessly. Standing in the middle of the stage was a figure, conservatively dressed in the same charcoal gray pants, maroon tie, and white starched shirt. Bankers clothes on a killer. Roberts was still clapping when the lights flickered and brightened, revealing him in all his undead glory.
“I cannot express to you how delighted I am to see you,” Roberts began, stepping forward. He looked as though he recovered much easier than Alex from their run in. I couldn’t see a single scar to indicate where my blade embedded in his throat. Apparently the soulless weren’t far off from the Infernal Lords in their healing capabilities.
“I wish I could say the same,” I responded, struggling to match the light tone.
“Well, now, I am a little disappointed,” he began. “You didn’t bring your peppy little friend?”
“How do you know I didn’t bring an army of my friends?”
His grin was broad but humorless. “There are certain,” he seemed to be considering the proper term, “gifts we receive when we become one of the faithful.” He took another step forward. “I just know,” he emphasized the word with the tone of his voice, “you haven’t brought an army of followers.”
I strode forward, my boots firm on the slightly sticky carpet. “Paul,” I paused, “may I call you that?”
He nodded. “A lovely lady like you, you may call me whatever you like.”
“Paul,” I continued, not acknowledging the compliment. “You obviously were hoping for another discussion. I got your note.”
“Ah, wonderful,” the smile was a trifle more genuine.
“I am not saying I wasn’t looking forward to facing you again,” I added. “You hurt my friend, and that makes me extremely angry.”
“It couldn’t be avoided,” he replied, his eyes on me. “I believe it could be termed as self-defense. Although,” he held out his hand as though to check any response I might have made, “I must concede I may have responded too strongly.”
“You threw her across the room like a rag doll.”
He was shaking his head again. “Unfortunate, to be sure,” he answered, his body language indifferent. “But I genuinely wanted to meet you again. And this time for something altogether different. Therefore, I’ll apologize for my behavior earlier. You were right. I should not have damaged your friend.”
I worked hard not to stare at him. The whole tableau was feeling surreal. I came to the theatre to poke around, to search for clues, to fight if necessary. I never expected this was going to be a protracted confrontation between me and one of the soulless. I assumed the church used the building, but I didn’t expect Roberts would be here.
Roberts was moving again, and I realized the curtain was fully opened, additional lighting revealed at the far edges of the floor. Sitting on the stage, like a scene for a drama, there were two wingback chairs and a narrow table set between them. On the table were two glasses, crystal at a guess, and they captured the artificial light like diamonds. An equally lovely decanter sat between them, the liquid inside a deep golden color.
“Come,” Roberts began, and beckoned me. “I won’t hurt you. This is our oppor
tunity to talk. Just that.”
“You act like you set this up. You knew I was coming. How?”
Roberts cocked his head. “I’d hate to give up all my secrets,” he responded. “Let me keep some of my mysticism.”
I stepped closer to the stage. The chairs and table were in perfect condition as though they were delivered to the house that morning. The contrast between the polished dark green fabric and the dusty stage floor was odd.
I moved to the side of the platform where a short flight of stairs led to the stage level. I took them quickly, a hand hovering above the smooth handle of the katana. I sensed Roberts, but no other presence. If I was accurate, he was the only supernatural visitor to the place. It didn’t mean there weren’t sharpshooters concealed in the wings waiting to put a bullet through my brain. But that was not Roberts’s style, I hoped. He sounded to be entirely too confident to want someone else getting the final shot. No, he would choose to kill me himself. Or, perhaps, bring me to the Church of the Light Reclaimed.
But then again, it didn’t seem to be his intention today. “Come,” he said, his voice pleasant and relaxed. “Come, sit.” He was waving me to the chair opposite of where he stood.
I studied the chair for a moment and then perched on the edge, Roberts sinking into the other one with the peculiar grace of the undead. He picked up the bottle from the table and splashed a generous amount in each glass.
“Parker’s Heritage,” he said beaming with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. “It’s hundreds of dollars a bottle. I have cases of it. My one downfall.” He paused and raised his sandy eyebrows. “That and fascinating women.”
“I don’t drink bourbon and I’d add a fall from grace to your list,” I answered.
“Taste.” He shook his head mournfully and then lifted his glass and raised it, a one-sided toast. He drained the glass, his eyes studying mine as he drank. “Mmm, at least try a sip. I wouldn’t dream of drugging it. Ruin a most excellent liquor.”
“I’m fine,” I replied, waving away the offer.
He inclined his head, and I wondered for a moment what he was like before he peddled his soul. Was he a financier like he appeared? A lawyer? A businessman? How old was he, anyway? Did he have a family, children who were long passed to dust? What did he value enough to determine his immortal soul was worth trading?
“I am here as a representative of a good friend,” Roberts began.
“Really?”
He bowed. “My friend, Rowan, wishes very much to make your acquaintance.”
I felt the fission of emotion like an electrical buzz rise up my spine and into my skull. The name was like a dissonant music to my ear, instantly causing my heart to beat a little quicker.
I cocked my head but didn’t respond immediately. I suspected with his acute senses he could pick up my pulse, he could sense my rising excitement. It was giving away too much, but it was inescapable.
As though reading my mind as well, he gave a cruel little smile. “The name is not unfamiliar to you,” he remarked. “Yes, well, these things do get around.” He paused, and seeing I wasn’t going to touch the other glass, plucked it up gingerly and, eyebrows raised until I acknowledged my assent, took a sip. “Rowan has very much wanted to make your acquaintance. This is not to harm you, by the way. There are no plans of battle. It is only a meeting, perhaps an arrangement, a compromise can be made.”
“I don’t deal with demons,” I answered without hesitation. “Or the Soulless.”
Roberts made a sharp little movement, an expression of displeasure flitting across his face. “Please do not jump to any conclusions,” he scolded. “This may be a beneficial meeting for you both.”
I leaned forward, my eyes narrowed on Roberts’s face, watching for any expression change. “Let me get this straight,” I responded in a low voice. “Rowan,” the word tasted foul, “arranged for me to be captured, arranged for me to be imprisoned, to be tortured. And now wants me to meet and arrange some kind of compromise, like a little celebration?”
Again, there was a glimpse of some emotion and it flooded Roberts’s face and then waned as swiftly, leaving him looking bland and superior.
“Rowan may have given a suggestion you be detained,” he began, “but it was the despicable worm Wheadon who determined how you were to be treated. He was not worthy to speak of Rowan.” His tone carried a distinct edge of fury. “He has been taken care of,” he concluded, and the blackness of his tone and in his eyes caused a wave of gooseflesh to rise on my arms. It would not do to underestimate this man, this monster.
I resisted leaning away from him, acknowledging his menace. “What does Rowan want?”
Roberts inclined his head, a pensive expression on his face. “Rowan is a generous lord, ruling with equanimity. We wish only to give you the opportunity to join us.”
I felt an odd choking sensation. “Join?”
“You have skills which have not gone unnoticed, Samantha Tyler. You have associated with powerful people. The Hand of God yields to your whim. You have been trained in the Abbey of Sainte Aalis.”
My mouth was dry. I thought myself clever, my excuse for my absence. I believed, wrongly, no one knew where I was beyond Brother Joshua. “And if I refuse?” My chin tilted up, my tone challenging.
“Then we will move heaven and earth to take you to your grave,” Roberts responded, his tone still very mild. He poured more bourbon into his glass, pausing to swirl it under his nose, his eyes closing with satisfaction. “Are you certain you won’t have a drink?”
I shook my head. “I will think about what you have said,” I told Roberts. I wasn’t lying. I would contemplate the proposition. I wanted Rowan. How far would I go to get him?
Roberts finished the golden liquid. I examined him, weighing his sobriety. Did the soulless get drunk? They could be injured, but they were hard to kill. Would alcohol even impact him? I doubted what he consumed was sufficient to dull his abilities. And our plan?
I rose slowly. My fingers caressed the handle of my weapon. I genuinely wanted to take his head off. I was fully prepared to do it. I knew Alex was out in the car, watching for additional threats. From her silence, I believed Roberts came alone. With my secret backup, I was confident we could finish him. And I could taste the victory, the vengeance for what he did to Alex. But I wanted Rowan and he could lead me to him. Better to deal with the devil you know.
Roberts rose with a quickness I found disconcerting, and I stood as well, backing away, my blade out in front of me.
“Be assured. I will stay in touch, Samantha.” He offered me a chilly little smile and straightened his tie in a well-practiced gesture.
“And if I choose to talk with you, or with Rowan, how do I contact you?” He took a step back, and I realized he could slip away quicker than I could seize him.
“Well, now, we will make certain and contact you.”
I bristled. I struggled to relax my stance. “How about I call you,” I told him, trying to look casual. “Do you have a cell phone?” I couldn’t imagine asking Dracula if he carried a cell phone but asking this businessman didn’t seem so off kilter.
“I do.” He inclined his head. “I’ll give you my number.
“Okay.” I thought of the throw away cell phone I kept back at my house. One yet to be activated. I purchased them as soon as I returned to the United States after my visit to the abbey. I bought three, completely aware they were practical but too easy to trace. “Give it to me.”
I was surprised again when he reached his fingers into his back pocket and drew out a business card. I watched with sharp suspicion as he approached me.
I assumed a defensive stance, with the katana held high. “Put it on the table,” I snapped.
He gave me a single nod and did as I asked, placing the card on the table, next to the empty glass.
When he stepped back a few paces, I speared the card with the tip of my katana and plucked it from the blade, then slid the card into a pocket of my jeans.
“Paul,” I realized he was leaving, and there were so many things I wanted to know. One thought came to mind first though, so I asked the question. “What are they doing with these things?” I gestured to the crates in the theater. “Why gather up artifacts from the Crusades?”
“Then you’ve figured that out, have you?” He sounded pleased, like a teacher whose star pupil answered the problem correctly. “Remember this, Samantha Tyler, old things have power from their history. It increases.”
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he held a finger to his lips. I could see the stirring of the drapery, and we both glanced toward the side of the stage.
“And my ride is here.”
Before I could stop him, or even get close to him, he whirled and with his unnatural speed, swept through the gaping curtains and behind stage.
I growled in frustration and took off after him, hearing the door close behind him, and hit the back door a second after it clicked. I pushed through, emerging into the alley as a late model Lexus turned onto the main street. I could have chased it. Maybe even brushed the polished chrome with my weapon, but it was too fast for me to stop it.
I remained there for a moment until a form detached itself from the wall and started toward me. Sister Evangeline with the sleeves of her habit rolled up, and I could see a single long-bladed knife in her hand. My backup, armed and ready.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said.
“I saw that,” she responded.
I sheathed my katana but kept my hand by my side in case I needed to draw. Frustration was bubbling up, but I couldn’t do anything about it now.
“Calm and patience,” Sister Eva glanced at me, the light from the orange tinted street lamp catching her glasses.
I rolled my eyes, but continued walking, stopping as I arrived at the sidewalk in front of the theatre.
“There are some boxes and objects inside,” I began.
Vengeance (A Samantha Tyler Thriller Book 1) Page 17
