by Tal Bauer
And he was tired, so very, very tired, of it all.
Especially now, standing in front of a hunt that had too much similarity to his past. To twelve years ago, his broken heart, and his blood-soaked vow.
“The vampires are back.” He met Best’s gaze. “A woman was murdered by one after being attacked by a ghoul.”
“That’s a bit backward. Ghouls scavenge after vampire kills. They’re carrion creatures, not hunters of their own.”
“This time, a ghoul attacked the victim first. We chased it off and stopped that attack. We put her under surveillance for the rest of the night, and at dawn, the police were called off. By midmorning, she was dead, her throat ripped out.”
Best folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips.
“Father Nicosia and I set a locating charm on the blood inside the wound to trace the murderer. The charm sent us deep into the old Roman cloacae. We went during the day to find the killer. They should have been resting.” Alain hesitated. Breathed in. “It was a trap. The vampires there attacked us, thinking we were invading. The tunnel collapsed and I was taken back to their bone cathedral. Father Nicosia escaped.”
Best leaned forward, all frowns and worried lines suddenly. “You were taken? Captured?”
“They dragged me down to their darkness. Set me in a circle of Demon Fire.”
A harsh inhale from Best, but no words. His hands clenched, knuckles going white.
“Something else. They have a new alpha. I didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t know me when he spoke to me. He wanted to know what I was doing there.”
Best sat back. He turned his head, quizzical as he watched Alain. “A new alpha… A change in leadership sometime in the past decade. Even still, they know that such a blatant murder demands that we respond.”
“They didn’t kill her.”
Silence. “Then who did? Do we have another invading nest?”
Alain rolled his neck, trying to loosen his stiff joints. He wasn’t a twenty-three-year-old anymore. A long night out, clinging to life while trudging through Rome, wasn’t the easiest to shake off these days. “Father Nicosia went back to the murder scene. Tried the charm again, this time on a drop of vampire blood he found away from the body. It pointed him toward the Castel Sant’Angelo. A totally different nest. It had been abandoned, though.”
“Damn. Two vampire nests in Rome. I hoped we’d never have to go through that again. They’ll fight it out for supremacy and hunting grounds if we don’t stop them.” Best stroked one hand down his face, his fingers scratching the sides of his jaw. “Why would you both have found the first nest? What in her blood drew you to the alpha’s location?”
“I don’t know. Lotario thinks the alpha was being framed. Maybe the second nest wants us to take out the first, do their dirty work for them. If it’s two nests fighting it out, then they’ll want to destroy each other. Why not use us to do their dirty work?” After all, they’d done it before. Bits of the alpha’s smoke-smooth voice curled through his mind. She was one of ours. “The alpha was upset when I told him she was dead. He didn’t know.”
Best stared.
“He knew her.”
“You’ll have to dive deep into her history. Why was she involved with the vampires? What happened in her life? How did she tangle with the darkness?” Slowly, Best stood, his knees and hips groaning. “This is an unusual case, Alain. And, because of your past… What you’ve been through.” He tried—and failed—to offer a calming smile to Alain. “I am here if you need anything.”
Alain raised his espresso in a silent salute. Best turned to leave. “Commandant.” Alain closed his eyes. “Where is Luca?”
At the doorway, Best hesitated. “Major Bader took some personal time. He’s away until the day after tomorrow.”
“Luca?” Alain snorted. “That man doesn’t know the meaning of a personal day. Or relaxation.”
“He’s not here, Alain.” Best fixed Alain with a long look. “He’s not here.”
* * *
It was past time to go.
Cristoph had overstayed his welcome. Wasn’t it just yesterday he’d resolved to get the hell out of the Vatican? So long Eternal City? Hadn’t he said those words?
But Alain had waltzed back into his life and turned everything upside down. Again.
Fuck it. Forget Alain and his occult nonsense. His talk of vampires. Whatever that mad blood magic had been. His crazed weapons collection and creepy apartment full of supernatural detritus. Had Alain really stayed up all night boxing up his things so Cristoph wouldn’t possibly see his stuff when he woke up? What kind of a freak was he?
He’s no Christian brother of mine.
Cristoph leaned back against the wall in his dorm room, half in and half out of his T-shirt. He closed his eyes and thunked his head back against the wall.
He flexed his toes. Rolled his ankle. Only a slight stiffness, but the pain, the brutal, bone-crushing pain, was gone.
Who was Lotario Nicosia—other than an asshole, good for nothing priest—who made him see red, who cupped Alain’s face and stroked his cheekbones, and who had healed his ankle with just his touch?
These were questions he wouldn’t ever have an answer for. It was time to go. Time to leave all of this behind. Walk out that door and never look back.
He pulled on his shirt. A tattered duffel he’d carried since the first day of army basic training held the rest of his clothes—T-shirts, some jeans, a sweater. He palmed his phone and his wallet, unplugged his charger, and shoved it and his toothbrush and toothpaste into the bag. A final zip, and he was through packing. Not much to show, at twenty-six years old, but it was all he had in his life.
Made it easy to leave, every single time.
Cristoph slung his duffel over his shoulders and headed for the door. He was out of here.
No looking back.
* * *
Perched on top of the Vatican walls, tucked between a moss-covered crenel and a sculpted cherub, the vampire Alpha Lycidas had sent out to follow Alain lurked in the shadows. His yellow eyes gleamed in the afternoon sun, an evanescent film swirling over the surface, gained from so many years underground.
Those eyes followed Cristoph, watching as he slipped out of the Vatican and headed into Rome.
Silently, the vampire followed.
Chapter Thirteen
Lotario came to Alain’s office after Best left, blustering in smelling of cigarettes and burned espresso and bearing a box of manuscripts from the Vatican archives. He dropped the box on Alain’s desk, knocking over an empty paper cup that spun across Alain’s papers.
“I didn’t find much.” Lotario pulled out three slim volumes, old leather and hand-stitched spines creaking, yellowed papers revealing their wizened age. “One ancient Germanic story about a battle between vampires and demons, written in rhyme.” He tossed the first manuscript down on the desk. “One unpublished magical treatise from a monastery in France, studying Demon Fire after an exorcism gone wrong.” He dropped the second manuscript, and a puff of dust burst from the pages. “And one journal from Carpathia documenting a solitary vampire’s descent into madness.” He let the last manuscript fall on top of the others.
“A lone vampire?” Frowning, Alain picked at the corner of the old journal, holding it between his fingers. A rusty brown liquid stained the bottom right corner of the journal, from the heavy leather cover through the handmade, yellowing pages. “Vampires aren’t solitary creatures. They live in clans and nests. I’ve never heard of a vampire living on its own.”
“Neither has the research.” Lotario collapsed into a metal folding chair, the legs whining. “I had to dig hard for that one journal, and it’s the only thing I could find at all on a solitary vampire.”
“Why are we interested in this?”
Swallowing, Lotario clasped his hands between his knees. “Because that nest I found in Castel Sant’Angelo was small. At first, I thought it was just a few vamps, but—” He squinted and h
eld Alain’s gaze. “There was only a single vampire there. It was just a solitary nest.”
“What happened to the lone vampire in Carpathia?”
“First it was anger. Rage. Lashing out at everything. He was a captive, so he tried to attack the monks who held him prisoner. Then came confusion. Disorientation. He screamed for days. Wailed. Called out for his clan.”
“Where were they?”
“No one knew. They found the vamp half staked to the ground. No clue who did it, or why. Or where his others were. No one ever came back for him.”
“What happened?”
“One of the monks got too close. He reached through the bars of his cell and killed him. Tore him apart, pulling bits of his body through the cell bars so he could feed. After that, the monks left him alone. Ignored him for months. They came back down a year later, checking on what had happened to him all alone in the dungeon.”
Lotario hesitated.
“And?”
“He’d eaten himself. Or parts of himself. Desperate for blood, he’d started trying to drink his own. But vamps only pump blood after they drink another’s, and by the time he tried to feed off himself, he had to cut all the way inside. He’d cut himself open. Tried to cut out his heart.”
The journal clattered to the desktop. Alain’s gaze fixed to the blood-colored stains covering the corner. “Lotario… what does all of this have to do with—” He closed his eyes. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Because while the vampire was locked up and alone, while he was going crazy, the monks in the monastery reported that everything else was going crazy, too. Ghouls appeared, even though there were no signs of other vampires. No vampire kills. Revenants stalked the forest. Wraiths terrorized the village. As the vampire went crazy, paranormal activity around the monastery increased.”
“You think we have a solitary vampire here in Rome? Slowly going insane?”
“It would make sense, yes? Ghouls wandering around with no reason. The risings? The attacks? So much has happened in just the past few weeks. Could it be because of this vamp going crazy?”
“Could be.” Alain leaned back in his chair, wincing as his still healing skin rubbed against his shirt. “But why? Why is the vampire off on his own?”
“Maybe he was exiled. Or he rebelled. He may have framed the alpha and the first nest for the girl’s death. Maybe he wanted us to take them out. Revenge? Or,” Lotario spread his hands wide, “maybe it’s connected to the Demon Fire. How did they even get their hands on that? Only demons can light those flames.”
“The alpha was wielding them down there.”
“Is there some kind of alliance between the demons and the vampires? Is that why they’ve burrowed so deep underground? Deeper than before?” Lotario shook his head. “None of this makes any sense. All we know is that we have a lone vamp somewhere in Rome that killed yesterday. And who is slowly going crazy.”
“And another nest with Demon Fire.” Alain frowned. “But why would this solitary vampire kill the girl?”
“He needed the blood? He wanted a fresh kill?”
Alain shook his head. Parts of the puzzle didn’t fit. Not everything was adding up. “The Campo is a hike from the Castel Sant’Angelo. He would have had to wander far, and then find a specific person hidden in her apartment, and in the daytime no less. It’s extremely unlikely that she was a random kill.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “God dammit, I hate vampires.”
“We just need to find this one and put him down before there’s another murder. He’ll need to feed again. We need to get rid of him before the whole city goes mad with more risings.” Lotario dragged one hand through his hair, making the ends stand wild on his head. “I’ll go back to his nest. See what I can pull from the crap he left behind—”
“I’ll come with you.”
Lotario looked away. “Alain… I don’t want to be working this case. I don’t want to have anything to do with the vampires. And I wasn’t the one who—”
Alain’s fists clenched until his fingernails dug into the skin of his palms. A tight pull, a slice, and then he felt warm wetness squishing around his fingertips. Blood. He’d made himself bleed.
How ironic.
Lotario exhaled quietly. He couldn’t hold Alain’s gaze.
“I want them to die,” Alain hissed. “I want them all to die, for what they did. For—” A drop of his blood landed on the edge of the rough sketch he’d drawn, trying to detail the vampire’s bone cathedral deep under Rome.
“We also need to find out more about this girl.” Lotario shoved his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t you get with Angelo and see what he’s dug up on her? You don’t have to force yourself into this.”
Part of him wanted to let go, to release himself into the escape Lotario offered. Sure, he’d take the research into Madelena. Lotario could skulk about the Castel Sant’Angelo and pick through the dead remnants of a crazed, solitary vampire. He could stay away, far away, from everything, and especially from his memories.
Another part of him raged. Wanted to rise up and throttle Lotario, bellow in his face and grab his throat, squeeze until Lotario fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness. How dare Lotario take this from him? Take his revenge, his vengeance? Take what he’d dreamed of for so long—a chance to destroy the creatures who had ruined his life. Who had taken so much from him. Who had taken away the man he’d loved and cursed his life, ruining any hope of finding another love? Any hope of building a future with Cristoph?
He looked up. Heat burned behind his eyeballs, flickering his vision. Red lined the edges of his narrowed gaze, a hellish haze of fury. He opened his mouth—
The antique brass telephone blared on the desk. Snarling, he grabbed the handset and tried to hide the shaking of his hands as he flexed his fingers. “Autenburg,” he growled.
“Alain, is Lotario with you?” It was Angelo.
Alain looked up and found Lotario’s gaze. “Yeah, he’s here.”
“Look, we’ve finished our preliminary workup on the girl. Processed her apartment. Brought her in. My office is handling her autopsy, and we should have the results back tomorrow.”
“You found anything yet that can help us?”
“Yeah,” Angelo sighed. “And you’re not going to like it.”
“Well, go on,” Alain prompted when Angelo fell silent. “What won’t we like?”
“The girl was a prostitute.”
“That’s hardly unusual in Rome.” Alain angled the handset toward Lotario so they both could hear. Lotario rolled his eyes.
“Rome’s oldest profession, in fact,” Lotario said.
“Yeah, cute,” Angelo snapped. “But one of her clients was one of your own. Carlo Nuzzi.”
Blood drained from Lotario’s face. He turned wide eyes to Alain. “Cardinal Carlo Nuzzi?”
“The Vatican Secretary of State.” Angelo whistled on his end of the line. “And it gets better. She had a flash drive in her desk. Looks like it’s a rip and copy of the cardinal’s hard drive. Emails, private files, Vatican documents. She had everything.”
“What in the fuck…” Lotario breathed.
Alain’s hand clenched hard on the phone’s handset. He couldn’t stop shaking. “A vampire murdered a prostitute who was spying on the cardinal secretary of state?”
She was one of ours…
“Shit.” Alain almost dropped the phone, the handset sliding along his blood and sweat-slick palms. “Shit, the alpha. He knew her. ‘She was one of ours,’ he said.”
If possible, Lotario paled even further. His thin lips pressed together. “She was spying for the vampires. For the alpha. And if the alpha and his nest are somehow working with the demons…”
“I’ve got the flash drive here. I’ll drive it over to you.”
“We’ve got to go talk to Cardinal Nuzzi.” Lotario rubbed one hand down his face, covering his mouth with his palm.
“Angelo, call when you’re on your way.” Alain hung up
on Angelo’s grunts. Behind him, his black suit jacket hung off his chair. He grabbed it, wincing as he slid it on, and followed Lotario out of his office.
A whiff of sweat and grass slipped through the air. He closed his eyes and inhaled Cristoph’s scent: green grass, sunshine, and gunpowder. He lowered his head to his jacket lapel. Cristoph flowed through him.
He slumped against the doorway as he fought to stand. His jacket had been on the back of the chair in his bedroom, thrown there sometime in the past few weeks, and when he needed a new one, he’d grabbed it without a second thought.
Now he had to smell Cristoph on him, smell his most recent fuck up, and carry that misery heavy on his shoulders.
“Alain! Let’s go!” Lotario barked at him from the end of the hall.
I am so sorry, Cristoph. Alain pushed off the doorway and jogged toward Lotario. I am so damn sorry.
* * *
“Cardinal Nuzzi, we know this occurred.” Alain leaned forward on the cardinal secretary of state’s Italian sofa in his lavish apartment’s sitting room, beneath a crystal chandelier and an original Da Vinci. “We’re not here from the Congregation for the Clergy.” The Congregation for the Clergy handled all administrative—and disciplinary—functions for the clergy within the Catholic Church. “We’re not here to punish you. We just need to know what happened and when. We need to figure out what kind of exposure we’re dealing with.”
Cardinal Nuzzi, an old man weighed down with the exposure of his guilt, leaned forward on his sofa, opposite Alain. His black cassock pooled on the floor and his red sash tumbled from his lap. His heavy pectoral cross swung in the space between his knees. He sighed, and it was as if a window opened inside a church and all the musty air inside whispered out.
