He was sorry that she had pulled away, deeply, as he searched for what to say. “God gives us grace.”
“Oh, that’s what it’s called when you get turned into a monst—a Curser,” she corrected herself.
Monster. That was how she saw him now, if she had ever really seen him differently. So his love for her was hopeless. Bueno, then he could love her as he should have in the first place: as a man who had taken holy orders and was dedicated to God. The way he wanted her to love him ran contrary to those vows and could only bring them pain anyway. At least this made his choice easier.
“Jenn,” he whispered, her name the strongest prayer he knew. “Jenn Leitner.”
She was quiet for a long time. He gazed at the altar, at the flames. Then, at the scent of her teardrops, he realized she was silently crying.
“Antonio,” she whispered, and he shut his eyes tightly against the tide of his emotion. His name on her lips was the answer to his prayer. “Antonio.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. He felt her slump. He was just about to put his arm around her, to kiss her hair, her temple, her cheek. To humble himself as a man. Yes, he was one of God’s men, but he was a man, not an angel.
No, I’m not, he thought. I’m not a man.
“If,” she began, choking down a sob and clearing her throat. “If she doesn’t get better, please, if you and Father Juan can’t . . .” Jenn lowered her head. “I want it to be Father Juan who decides, not you. And—and I want him to be the one.” She pressed a shaking hand over her eyes. “So I won’t hate you.”
“Heather will come to no harm while you’re gone. I swear it,” Antonio said, making the sign of the cross, then kissing his thumb, in the old Spanish way.
“Then I’ll never come back.”
“Don’t say that. Never say that.” He turned to her, cupping her chin and easing her to face him as he half turned in the pew. “I will pray without ceasing—I am praying. I’ve been making a novena for Heather, do you know what that is? I have been saying the Novena of Divine Mercy.”
Jenn swallowed and moved her shoulders in a gentle shrug. She didn’t believe in prayer. If only he could make her see.
“The miracles are already made,” he said. “They’re all around us. We have to adjust our vision, so that we can see them and accept them. Like when you fight vampires, Jenn. You can’t see them move, so you focus on where they’ll be next. It’s as we say in the Church: ‘Do not fear tomorrow. God is already there.’”
“Where was He when Aurora kidnapped her?” Jenn demanded. “And when she—when Aurora destroyed her?”
“God wants good to happen. He fights for it, through us. And through His priests. And through His crusaders.”
“What, do you have a special line in to Him? His private number?” Jenn was making fun, but he heard the fury in her voice. He understood it.
“When I was called to become a priest, it was so that I could serve Him better. I spend hours trying to learn how to listen to Him, not to speak to Him. He already knows my heart. I am trying to learn His.”
“Then I have really bad news for you, Antonio. He’s heartless.” Jenn slid out of the pew and headed for the door. “Tell Brother Manuel I’m sorry, but I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed.”
“I can’t let you go this way,” he insisted, following after her.
She whirled around. “That’s not up to you.” She pointed to the chapel. “Go. Do what you do best.”
“What I do best, mi amor, is love you,” he said.
A dozen expressions crossed her face, a panorama of all human emotion. But in the end a numbness that hurt worst of all. “You’re a vampire. You can’t love anybody.”
Then she turned and fled.
Defeated, he let her go. Antonio went back to the chapel, pulled down the prayer bench, and knelt, reaching for his rosary in the pocket of his jeans. He began to tell the beads in Latin, reaching up to loop his hair around his ear as it fell forward and obscured his view of the statue of the Blessed Virgin. His thumbnail grazed the ruby cross earring he wore in his left earlobe. His seven sins. The seven murders on his conscience. But there were many other deaths he had to account for. He had left his mother, brother, and sisters behind in their village. And Rosalita, who wanted to marry him. He had told her that he was already taken by God’s bride, the Church, and would be faithful to Her.
Lita had died in the bombing. Quickly, he was told. She had not suffered.
But he had. He’d left her there. He was inside a seminary, studying about the miracle of the wedding at Cana—when Christ had changed water into wine—when she had been killed. His father confessor had told him that hatred and despair were sins. That night, sobbing before the cross, Antonio had sworn before Christ that he would never, ever again fail to protect a woman he loved. For yes, he had loved Rosalita, and now he loved Jenn.
And now Jenn was leaving to face Dantalion without him.
“God, give me strength,” he begged. “Show me my path.”
He returned to his rosary, and his fears.
MOSCOW
TEAM SALAMANCA MINUS ANTONIO
“Well, that was fun,” Jamie said, as they cleared customs in the grim and dingy Sheremetyevo-2 airport. Beneath strange brown decorative tubes that might have been some bureaucrat’s image of interior decoration, the team waited in one of two serpentine lines. As everybody shuffled along like zombies, the guards would scare the regular people but let rich Russians jump ahead when and as they pleased.
Look at her nibs, and the other girls too, wearing their disguises. Jenn had on a black wig; Skye was wearing an olive-green beret; and Eriko sported a knitted cap, like Antonio’s, that did nothing for her beautiful Japanese complexion. All three of them wore winter wear—turtleneck sweaters and heavy jackets, jeans, boots, gloves. Skye had cast glamours that were designed to deflect interest from them. He wasn’t sure Skye had got the proper hang of it. Seemed like everyone had been staring at them as if they were pop stars.
Or hunters.
His girl didn’t look well these days. Her cheekbones could cut cement blocks. If she caught him looking, she’d tell him she was cold. Pile o’ shite, that was. All her aches and pains were getting worse. He’d planned to say something to Father Juan about it before they’d left, but the good father had said Mass for them, then gone back to rehabilitating Jenn’s demonic little sis. Couldn’t spare half a moment for the team he was sending away on another damned fool’s errand, which was being led by their little American squirrel. Death trap, meet a complete and utter failure as a leader.
What did the American kidlets say? Epic fail. That was for certain. Only reason Jenn was wearing that crown was Antonio wanted it on her.
“I’d begun to think we were going to start dating, that guard and me,” Jamie went on, mostly to fill the silence as they headed for the exit. Not a fan of it.
“He wasn’t,” Holgar drawled. “I read his body language. You’re not good-looking enough.”
“And the sad thing is, you think saying that will bother me,” Jamie shot back, hating Holgar more than usual today. Or maybe just on principle. Or maybe because he’d had to leave his nearly finished gun with silver bullets back in Salamanca. He’d been thinking a few more hours’ work, a nice, dense Russian forest, a good firelight, and Holgar might not live to turn into a rampaging beast on the next full moon.
By Father Juan’s edict they had been forced to leave all their gear home, even their holy water. Marc Dupree, the (dead) leader of the (crushed) Resistance back in (vampire paradise) New Orleans, had told them they were only kidding themselves if they thought magick spells would protect their luggage from being searched by airport security. It had worked well enough flying out of Madrid the last time. But no.
No worries; Jamie figured that in Russia, with only two hunters of the original twenty left to use the provisions they’d smuggled in, there would be a lot of extras lying around for the Salamancans. Things to kill Cursers with too.
“By the way, that woman guard did want to date you,” Holgar said. “The one with the mustache.”
Jamie grunted. “Then that wad of euros Skye slipped her must have been a down payment, not a bribe.” He glanced over at Skye, who had in reality bribed the guard to stamp their passports, as everyone expected foreigners to do, while casting a spell so she’d stop being interested in them—a little trick Skye had picked up from her mates in Pamplona.
“Guys, please,” Jenn hissed, and they emerged from the building into a crazy honking mess of snarled traffic. “Start looking for our contact.”
The night was black and raining. One of the Fellowship of the Mid-East Stake, an eighteen-year-old Muslim named Taamir, was coming to pick them up in an old military truck. How the intel for the rendezvous had been relayed to Taamir’s sultan back in Gaza, and from there to Father Juan, was a mystery to Jamie. If they could manage all that, why not send some more of their own guys to clean up their problem?
“There,” Jenn said, pointing as a camouflaged box truck rumbled down the street. “That’s got be him.”
“Hai hai,” Eriko said.
“We’re supposed to meet him around the corner,” Jenn reminded them.
Jamie frowned at her. That was an idiotic idea, and she should never have agreed to do it. They’d look bloody conspicuous sauntering down the street toward a military vehicle. Any second now some Russian polizet was going to demand papers or a bribe, whichever struck his fancy. Maybe both.
But before Jamie could complain, they were down at the corner, scrambling into the cargo area of the truck. Jenn climbed up front with the Arab, and they bounced into the traffic. Eriko was squashed next to Jamie. Skye settled in next across from them, making room for Holgar, who pulled out an iPod and put in his earbuds. Holgar blinked, pulled out one of the buds, and put it in Skye’s ear. They shared a smile. How darlin’.
Jamie closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He was in the mind of thinking about his dead sister and his ma. He wasn’t sure why, just that the rage simmered inside him. Another damn trip to save someone else’s arse. They’d gone to New Orleans for that, and look what a pile o’ shite that had turned into. Venice, another mess. He swore in silence as colorfully as possible and set his jaw. He should just hop a plane to Belfast and to hell with the lot.
Except . . . Eriko.
He opened one eye to see her sneaking a rub of her ankles. He closed it quickly before she could glance his way. He had a thought: If this whole Hunter thing was taking too great a toll on her, maybe she’d give it up and come to Ireland with him. She could still do the fightin’ and brawlin’ if she had a mind to. But they could get away from all these misfits and, y’know, also lead a semi-normal life. Maybe eventually even have a little superbaby kid. If she was a girl, they could name her Maeve, in honor of his sister. Maeve Sofia.
SALAMANCA
ANTONIO, HEATHER, AND FATHER JUAN
The plane had taken off.
Jenn was gone.
Now Antonio sat in front of Heather’s cell, empty of prayers, filled with worry. From the school’s lost and found he had picked up a paperback copy of a novel about a girl who had fallen in love with a vampire. There were a lot of such novels, more than ever now that the Cursed Ones had revealed their presence to mankind, and he felt a strange sort of enraged tenderness as he turned the pages. This was not their reality, but Solomon and the others had exploited this romantic yearning to their advantage. So many young girls wore those bat-and-heart necklaces now. Would their vampire “boyfriends” drop the act at some prearranged signal, ripping out their throats?
Because that’s what we do, Antonio thought. We rip. We don’t sweetly pierce and gently drink. We attack. We drain.
We kill.
“Hasn’t the Church banned that one?” Father Juan asked, chuckling, sitting beside him.
“Do you think Jenn’s read it?” Antonio mused. He looked through Heather’s bars. She had pulled a blanket over herself and lay inert, as if she were sleeping. But vampires didn’t sleep.
“If you’re asking me if Jenn thinks it adds to your allure, trust me, she doesn’t,” Father Juan said bluntly. “She wishes you weren’t a vampire.”
“So do I.” Antonio closed the book. “I think the people in this book are very sweet. He struggles every day to be worthy of her. And she expects it of him.”
“Vale, vale.” Father Juan cupped Antonio’s cheek. “Antonio, you’re old and yet filled with youthful idealism.”
Antonio cocked his head. “And what of you, Padre? How old are you?”
A silence fell between them. Antonio looked hard at Father Juan. He saw the same face as on the images of St. John of the Cross—the saint whose name in Spanish was the same as his own, de la Cruz. A priest who gazed into crystal balls and swung pendulums over tarot cards. A child of God who left flowers in the woods for the Goddess. Antonio had followed him, watched him honor her and call himself her devoted son.
“Are you the saint?” Antonio asked sharply. “Are you here because these are the end times? Are the angels coming to help us?”
“Better, perhaps, to ask yourself what you are,” Father Juan replied.
Then Heather started screaming. She threw off her blanket and leaped to her feet, spinning in a circle with her head thrown back. Her shrieks pierced Antonio’s ears; then she raced forward, flinging herself against the bars, wailing.
“There! Blood! She’s there!” Heather screeched. Her voice was inhuman. She sounded possessed. But they were her first words since her conversion.
“She’s there!”
“Heather,” Antonio said, as he and Father Juan rushed forward. Antonio reached for Heather’s hands, but she thrust herself backward, landing hard on the floor. She kept screaming.
“A bad dream?” Father Juan said.
“We don’t dream,” Antonio reminded him. “We don’t sleep.”
“No, no, no, no!” Heather cried, arms outstretched again, backing away as she stared at the ceiling. “Dantalion!”
Father Juan and Antonio traded looks.
“What about Dantalion, Heather?” Father Juan said calmly. “Can you tell us?”
She screamed.
Antonio opened the cell and stepped in, shutting the door behind himself. Cautiously he approached her. She didn’t seem to notice him, only continued to scrabble away from him.
“Listen to me, to my voice,” he said. He crouched over her, holding her chin in a viselike grip. Her eyes jittered from left to right. He exerted his influence, pushing.
“Listen.” Antonio pushed again, and her voice dropped to a horrible, mewling whimper. He put his forehead against hers, forcing her to look into his eyes.
“Antonio, cuidado,” Father Juan said. “Be careful.”
He saw nothing in her eyes but fear. He sought to overcome it, whispering softly, “It’s all right. You’re safe with me. You’re safe.”
“She’s . . . there,” Heather said. “Dantalion!” She burst into tears and batted at him, flailing, kicking. As he tried to hold her, he pushed one more time.
“You’re safe. With me,” he said gently. “Tell me about Dantalion.”
She stared at him, and sighed heavily. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed into his arms.
“Dios,” Father Juan said. “What was that?”
“I mesmerized her, to calm her,” Antonio replied, easing her onto her back. He opened one eye. Heather appeared to be unconscious. “But she fainted, perhaps to avoid talking to me.”
“Did someone else mesmerize her, perhaps from a distance?”
“We can’t do that,” Antonio said. “At least I can’t. I must be able to look into the eyes of the person.” He opened her other eye; then he lifted his arm and pushed back his shirt sleeve, preparing to place his wrist against her mouth. “Perhaps if she fed, we could wake her. Human blood would be better, but she can get sustenance from mine.”
“No, don’t,” Fa
ther Juan said quickly. “Don’t you feed her.”
Antonio frowned. “Why not, Father?”
“I’ll get some blood from the refrigerator for her. Just . . . don’t.” Father Juan gestured for him to come out of the cell. “Drinking from you is still drinking from flesh, and it could undo all the effort we’ve put in.”
Antonio parted his lips as Father Juan unlocked the cell. Surely in the midst of a crisis they could forgo the niceties. Nevertheless Antonio came out and shut the door, making sure it was locked. Heather stirred. Then she lifted her head, sniffing the air. She rolled over onto all fours and charged the iron bars. Babbling and yelling, she reached for Father Juan.
“Tell us about Dantalion,” Father Juan said.
She kept raving and gibbering, making no sense.
“It was a vision that she had,” Antonio said. “From magick, maybe. Or from God.” He looked at Father Juan. “I’m going to Russia, Father.”
“Antonio, no.” Father Juan looked at him. “We don’t know what this means. I forbid you.”
“Then forgive me, Father.”
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
TEAM SALAMANCA MINUS ANTONIO; TAAMIR AND NOAH
“We’re here,” Jenn announced, standing at the back of the truck. The door was still shut. Skye was leaning over Jamie and moving her fingers in quite a suspicious manner; Jamie wondered if she’d put him—all of them—to sleep with a spell. He yawned and cricked his neck, then rolled his eyes as Holgar yipped in his sleep. The wolf did it again.
Jamie swore in colorful Irish, then said to Skye, “Can’t you shut him up? If the foreigner hears him, we’ll be in trouble.”
“I did shut him up,” Skye said. “I turned Holgar down nearly to zero.”
“And why didn’t you go all the way to zero, hmm?” he queried.
She pursed her lips. “Because I’m tired, Jamie. Magick costs, just like everything else.”
“Jamie-kun, please,” Eriko said.
The door opened into gloomy, snowy sky, and an olive-skinned lad with big ears nodded a greeting to Jamie and the others.
“Hello. I’m Taamir,” he said. Since everyone except Jenn had hopped into the back without being properly introduced, no one else had actually met him. “Noah is at the camp with the noon meal.”
The Damned Page 8
