The Damned

by Nancy Holder; Debbie Viguié

  She moved her hand and whispered a dispersing spell; the people eased away from her and Holgar, leaving the field around them clear. It was safer for everyone that way. Protective magick; it’s okay.

  Holgar gave her a lopsided smile as he tugged on the wooden cross Father Juan had given him at graduation. Hanging from a leather cord around his neck, the cross had a lamb carved into its center, and the arms of the cross ended in intricately carved wolf heads.

  “Christians, witches, beasts—I guess sooner or later we had to end up in a coliseum,” Holgar said.

  Skye couldn’t help but grin back. No matter how bad things got, Holgar always managed to find the lighter side of a situation, or at least pretend to. Not that there was a light side to getting slaughtered, but somehow his attitude made it easier to cope.

  The bullfighters were performing a sort of ballet of stylized grace. Their red capes were draped over small swords with sharp-looking tips, which flashed with the vampires’ movements.

  “We’ll have to dodge those swords,” Skye said.

  “I will if you will,” Holgar told her.

  Discreetly they placed themselves between the vampires and the hysterical captives. The plan was to thin the ranks of matadors as much as possible before the hunters started herding the humans toward the invisible hole. Skye was fairly sure the presence of the hunters had not yet been detected. For the moment they held the element of surprise.

  She cast one more glance in Holgar’s direction as the bullfighters took off their black caps and bowed to the stands. It appeared to be the signal that the fighting was to begin. One of the matadors headed her way, a cocky grin on his face. Gold tassels swayed against scarlet satin and ebony silk as he advanced. Skye held her ground. Eyes glowing red, fangs extended, he brandished his cape and shook it at her, engaging in the ancient ritualistic death dance.

  “¡Olé!” the vampires cheered. The few humans among them cheered too. Collaborators, fraternizers. Skye had other, harsher words for them. Maybe they were simply people, so afraid of dying that they would do anything to survive. Perhaps they were to be pitied more than hated, but Skye was not yet that evolved.

  The matador had closed up the space between them and thrust forward his cape, shouting, “¡Toro, toro!” at her. Rather than cower, as he seemed to expect, she spun to the side, grabbing for the cross she had tucked in her waistband. As he charged her, she pulled it out and thrust it into his face. The crowd began to jeer and hoot, as if she’d been caught cheating.

  The Cursed One jumped backward with a snarl, raising his cape to shield his face as he stumbled, falling right onto the stake Holgar extended as he rushed to help Skye. With a whoosh the vampire disintegrated, turning to ash.

  “Nice!” she cried to Holgar. He grinned at her, then scanned the ring for the next attack.

  The crowd roared, but whether in approval or disapproval Skye couldn’t tell. A couple of the humans in the ring turned to see what had happened, sensing a shift in the balance of power.

  If only they were all that easy, Skye thought.

  A second matador approached, taller and more muscular, and from his cocky demeanor Skye knew that this one would be much, much harder to kill.

  “I’ll take this one. Get some of these people out of here,” Holgar said, moving close in. Vampire dust coated his cheeks.

  Skye hesitated, not wanting to leave her fighting partner unprotected.

  “I’m serious.” He kept his eyes on the bullfighter, head dipped to avoid his mesmerizing gaze. “Save as many people as you can before the other C.O.’s get wise.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, go!”

  Skye ran toward a man and a woman who had stopped to see what had happened. They both looked dazed. She grabbed their arms and tugged.

  “I’m going to get you out of here. Come with me! You, and you, let’s go!”

  Skye quickly gathered more and more people. Bewildered, nearly paralyzed with fear, they did as they were told, stumbling as they followed her toward the wall. Like the Pied Piper she gathered them with magicks, trying to reach them while attempting to remain unnoticed.

  She had collected maybe twenty. When they were steps from the hidden hole in the wall, she turned and scanned the arena. No one else in the ring was looking at them, and those in the stands seemed to be fixated on the fighting. Eriko and Jamie were ducking capes with Krav Maga movements, but she couldn’t locate Antonio and Jenn.

  “It’s a wall,” one of the women protested.

  “It’s magick,” Skye said, shoving them both through the hole.

  She turned and headed for the next closest group of people, prepared to do the same, just as Holgar decapitated the second matador with one of the short swords. The head burst into dust, and the crowd in the stands booed.

  Miss me? the voice asked in her mind, returning. She halted in her tracks, her own fear now vying with her need to get people to safety.

  Then, shouting and booing, the Cursed Ones in the stands leaped down into the ring, grabbing at anyone they could, sinking their fangs into their necks, draining their blood in an instant, and dropping the bodies to the ground. The jig was up. It was time to go.

  Antonio and Jenn ran toward her, herding as many people in front of them as they could. Eriko appeared behind Jenn and Antonio, carrying Jamie’s body over her shoulder. The sight of him limp and bloody galvanized Skye into action, and she sprang forward.

  “This way!” she screamed. “You can’t see it, but it’s there!”

  Holgar loped across the blood-drenched dirt, shouting in Danish and pointing toward the location of the hole. Several dozen Spaniards poured through. Eriko darted in with Jamie. Antonio and Jenn were next, and then Holgar was dragging Skye along with him. As the hole began to close, Skye looked back. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled, their limbs at impossible angles, and at least fifty of the living raced around, shrieking—people the team could no longer help.

  The hole closed.

  Tears streamed down Skye’s face as the team retreated, veering off from the locals, who were scattering to their homes or other places of safety. Enraged vampires denied their sport erupted from the bullring in pursuit.

  With only seconds to their advantage the hunters wound through twisting streets lined with gold-colored stone buildings with arched windows, racing away in full retreat. They needed a safe house. Moncho was to have provided one, but he had still not appeared.

  They ran down passageways and alleys like fleeing rats. Vampires shouted to one another, searching for them. Human screams pierced the night as Pamplonans were dragged from their homes and interrogated: Have you seen six humans traveling together? Are you hiding them?

  Spaniards screamed.

  Died.

  The hunters kept running. Draped over Eriko’s back, Jamie was pale as death. Skye gave them all a magickal boost of energy, but she was exhausted. She couldn’t go on much longer.

  “Goddess, help us,” Skye murmured. “I am your faithful daughter. Grant me this boon.”

  And then, as they passed a large house of weathered brick with concrete medallions and a sloping tiled roof, Skye felt . . . nothing.

  “Jenn, here,” Skye whispered sotto voce. She stopped in her tracks and pointed at the ancient structure. Jenn raised a hand, and the others stopped too.

  Very slowly, a broad wooden door edged with wrought iron creaked open. Leading the way, Jenn crossed the threshold, the others following. The door slammed shut behind them, and they stood inside a dark foyer.

  Then the foyer melted away, and they were in a parlor, where half a dozen men and women had risen from dark wooden chairs set around a table covered with tarot cards and a crystal ball. The scent of burning sage—a cleansing herb—wafted in the air. Between oil portraits and landscapes on the walls, and on the bare stone floor, dozens of signs and sigils, markings of protection, had been painted or carved. Skye read them, understanding them at once, as she had been classically educated in the A
rt. These were medieval symbols designed to ensure the safety of the house and its inhabitants by making the house seem uninteresting. It was that void created by the markings that she had felt. Most places gave off their own vibe, much like people did, but this house was neutral, missing its echo of time and emotion. Only magick could do that to a house as old as this one.

  “I’m a White Witch.” Skye addressed the coven as a whole. She held up her ring, a crescent moon, and the Spaniards reacted, murmuring to one another.

  A woman in a black dress decorated with silver crescents identical to Skye’s ring opened wide her arms. “Welcome, hermana,” she said in heavily accented English. “The blessings of the Goddess upon you.”

  “Jenn, we’re among friends,” Skye told her leader.

  “We’re hunters,” Jenn said, panting. “I’m the leader. Please help us.”

  “The vampires seek you, eh?” the woman said.

  “Sí,” Jenn replied. “We were in the bullring. We helped a lot of people escape, and now the Cursed Ones know we’re in town. If you can keep us safe until they’re gone, we would be grateful.”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “My brothers and sisters, we must help these people. Carlos, Amalia, por favor.”

  Her words galvanized the group. A man and a woman rushed to Eriko’s side. They led her to an upholstered sofa, where she carefully laid Jamie down.

  “Are you resis—,” Jenn began, but Skye cut her off. If these witches were involved in the fight against the Cursed Ones, they would not join a resistance cell. They would be members of the Circuit, and she, as a Circuit member, had pledged never to reveal the existence of the group of witches dedicated to the freedom of humanity.

  Of course, she’d broken that vow, blurting out the truth to Jenn. And after New Orleans, Skye had confessed as much to the Circuit, and they had cut her off, refusing to help her anymore.

  “I am the High Priestess of this coven,” the woman in the dress informed Jenn. “We will shelter you until the search is called off and you may safely leave Pamplona.”

  “Blessed be,” Skye whispered.

  “Merrily met,” the woman replied.

  “Not so much,” Jamie muttered, his lids fluttering, and Skye’s heart leaped. Jamie was as snarky as ever, which meant that he’d live. He sat up on the couch and yawned, as if their near escape from death had been a trifling bore.

  “Don’t suppose you could spare a bit o’ sumpin? Pint of ale, a bit of whiskey?” he asked the High Priestess.

  The High Priestess’s mouth twitched. “I suppose,” she said. “But please, everyone, sit down before you fall down. All of you. Eva, Estrella, see to their injuries. I will get a ‘bit o’ sumpin.’”

  “Thank you,” Jenn said, taking a chair. She sank down wearily.

  “No, we thank you. We are in your debt,” the High Priestess said. “Unlike you, we cannot fight. But we can heal the fighters.” Her eyes glinted like flint. “And we will.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Salamanca Hunter’s Manual: Allies

  As the Hunter, you must walk alone. Beware of entanglements. You cannot love as others do. You must love duty. You cannot have friends. Others will curry your favor, only to betray you in your darkest hour. Your sacred duty is not to save, but to hunt. Stake twenty vampires, and thirty souls will curse your name because a child was taken. Stake a hundred, and you will be hunted because the village burned. The Savior is aptly named, and so are you.

  (translated from the Spanish)

  PAMPLONA, SPAIN

  TEAM SALAMANCA: JENN AND ANTONIO, SKYE AND HOLGAR, AND JAMIE AND ERIKO

  The witches of Pamplona kept the hunters of Salamanca safe while the Cursed Ones went from house to house, searching for the humans who had dared to vanquish their matadors in the ring. The High Priestess, who was called Maja, created a spell to muffle the screams and shouts erupting from the night as the vampires terrorized the neighborhood. But Skye could hear them in her aching heart. How many were they killing in retaliation? Were any of them escapees from the bullring? Would it have been better for Pamplona if the hunters had not come?

  “This is why we do not fight,” Maja said to Jenn. “We only heal.”

  Skye stared down at the floor, and Jenn moved to her side. Protectively, Jenn laid a hand on Skye’s arm.

  “Someone has to fight,” Jenn shot back.

  “I don’t mean to judge you,” Maja said. “I agree. Someone has to fight. If, perhaps, more had fought earlier, we wouldn’t be in such a desperate situation now.”

  Two of the witches and Holgar went on recon in an effort to assess when it would be safe for the group to head back to their well-concealed van. Everyone cleaned up, and the witches gave the hunters fresh clothes. About three hours later Maja herself joined an escort of four witches to magickally protect the hunters as they snuck back to the van.

  Antonio drove. It was a distance of two hundred fifty miles, and they were cutting it close to sunrise. It was true that vampires could not walk in the sun. If Antonio stayed out of direct sunlight, he would be safe, but the rays of the sun fatigued vampires and made it difficult for them to function. They felt a pull to go down to the earth—into coffins, catacombs, basements, sewers—which was one of the reasons the gods of their faiths ruled the underworlds: Hades, Baron Samedi, or in the case of Antonio’s sire, Orcus.

  During their drive home Jenn called Father Juan and told him about their failure via cell phone. So many had died, and they still had no idea what had happened to the resistance members they had gone to meet.

  “I’m sorry,” Jenn concluded.

  “Time for tears later,” Father Juan replied.

  Skye performed round after round of healing spells on the team, concentrating on Jamie, who began criticizing “the mission” as soon as the van doors were shut. He didn’t have any specific criticism; he was just angry, and Jenn’s “ineptitude” was fair game, at least in Jamie’s mind. Skye made a few attempts to defend her, reminding Jamie that Jenn was in charge, not him, which made him even angrier.

  “Yeah, about that,” he began.

  Finally Holgar growled pointedly, and Jamie fell to swearing under his breath about things being all arseways.

  It was still safely dark when they reached the gates of the University of Salamanca, but Jenn could hear the trilling of birds singing to the dawn. Father Juan shepherded them straight into the chapel, where he put on a white chasuble—a priestly overgarment, the color choice to honor the dead—and conducted a brief Mass for the repose of the murdered innocents, and to give thanks that the Salamancan hunters were spared. Jenn was not a Catholic, but she was respectful, and she knelt beside Antonio on the prayer bench. Cold emanated from him—he had no body heat—and he moved slightly away, as if he thought that was bothering her. Things were very different between them now, strained, since . . . Heather.

  Grief flooded through Jenn, and she rested her face on the backs of her hands. She was exhausted. She’d been wounded in the chest in New Orleans, and while she’d been put back together and returned to the battlefield, there were times when her injury pained her. Or maybe her heart was simply broken.

  Beside her, Antonio murmured in Latin and crossed himself. His rosary beads were wound around his hand like a bandage. No other vampire they had ever come across could touch a cross or any of a myriad of religious symbols without being severely burned. That meant he wasn’t like the others. He was different. But it was hard for her to believe that anymore, now that her little sister had been converted. Heather had been the sweetest person Jenn had ever met, and that sweetness was gone. If someone like Heather became so completely different, why hadn’t Antonio? Maybe he was just a great faker, pretending to be good so that he could one day turn on them. Magicks might be protecting him from crosses and holy water.

  No. I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that.

  But doubt poked at her like the tip of a blade.

  “Go in peace. The Mass is ended,”
Father Juan said in English. Jenn jerked slightly; she’d drifted during the service, as she often did. Maybe some of the others found comfort in the ritual. She tended to tune it out in favor of worrying about the dozens of things on her long, long list.

  She gazed at Antonio, whose head was still lowered in prayer. Flickering candlelight caught the blue-black highlights in his hair. She wanted to run her fingers through it. Before she had known that he was a vampire, she had spent hours staring at Antonio, wishing he would look back. Practically every girl in their class had swooned over him like he was some rock star, chatting and flirting with him every chance they got. Everyone had been told that he was a seminary student—studying to become a priest—which made him even sweeter forbidden fruit.

  And then, on the night of their final exam, Antonio had been paired with Jenn in this very chapel. And he had confessed his feelings for her. And why he could never act on them.

  “It was you, Jenn. You who captured my heart.” His voice echoed in her mind even now.

  But I didn’t know then what I know now, she thought. I didn’t know what it really means to become a vampire.

  An image of her sister rose in her mind.

  “Jenn?” Antonio murmured, looking at her.

  Everyone else was leaving the chapel. Jerking, she got to her feet and sidestepped out of the pew. Antonio bent his knee like a noble courtier, lowered his head in the direction of the large cross hanging over the altar, and crossed himself.

  “Come to my sitting room. We’ll talk,” Father Juan invited them, leading the way. The private sitting room was very spare, dominated by a large olive-wood crucifix that hung behind a brown leather sofa. The priest went through another door to fetch a bottle and some glasses, and everyone sat down wearily.