by Jan McDonald
“I won’t hesitate,” he replied stonily.
They walked in silence to the outer wall of the monastery and Lane was up and over it in seconds. She pulled the gate open and they were inside.
All the doors and windows were shut and bolted.
“Wait here,” Lane snapped. “I’m going in through the bell tower. I’ll come back and open the door for you; if I haven’t shown up in three minutes, raise hell.”
She was up the outside wall so fast that neither of them was able to track her. They saw her disappear into the bell tower at the top of the roof. In less than two minutes she was back at the front entrance, holding it open.
Beckett and Darius followed her into the cold gloom of the monastery and, despite the frosty atmosphere, beads of perspiration formed on Beckett’s brow. He felt clammy and his pulse rate was rising. This was not the time for a relapse. He said nothing, hoping that it was nothing more than anxiety.
Lane stopped and turned to Darius. “You need to know that Andrei isn’t here.”
“You’re sure? How can we have been so wrong?” He looked at Beckett, meaning ‘How could you have been so wrong?’
“Listen, if she says he’s not here, then he’s not here. And I don’t believe I was wrong. Maybe he just hasn’t got here yet?” He looked to Lane.
She shook her head. “No, I can’t sense him at all but, Beckett, Kat is here. And I think Santo and another two besides Gregori, though one is too well cloaked for me to see him properly.”
Kat was there, that was all Beckett needed to know. He pushed past Lane and strode into the interior of the monastery. Lane was with him in an instant and Darius only a second behind her. They made for the chapel.
As they entered a large inner hallway, Sister Angelique appeared before them.
“You have no business here,” she began, but could say no more as Lane leaped forwards and knocked her out cold. They stepped over her inert body and moved forwards. Lane pulled a small revolver from her hip. It had a pearl handle and was unmistakeably very old.
“You can shoot them?” asked Darius, in surprise.
“They’re flesh and blood, or most of them are. They won’t die with ordinary bullets; that’s why mine aren’t ordinary.”
“Don’t tell me, they’re silver bullets, I thought that was Hollywood.”
“Close, although pure silver bullets are most effective on werewolves. These bullets carry a small charge and they explode on impact, carrying the Anti-HVV and silver nitrate inside the body. Same principle as a tranquilliser gun, it will bring them down long enough for this ...” From her other boot she drew the hilt of what appeared to be another dagger, but when she pressed the ornate hilt, a blade shot out, the length of her lower leg, effectively turning it into a sword.
Darius whistled. “You sure your name isn’t Van Helsing?”
“Shut up,” snapped Beckett. “or get out. We’ve got work to do.”
Darius bridled momentarily, then common sense kicked in and he apologised.
Lane was already on the move and scanning the entire building, as she moved at such a speed that only her own would see her.
“They’re not in the chapel.” She stopped and sniffed the air. “There’s been a death.”
Beckett paled.
Lane shook her head, “It’s not her. The others are together … we have to be quick; they’ll already know we’re here. Move.”
Before they could obey her, Santo appeared in front of them. His canines were down and ready, he hissed and launched himself at Lane who had no time to fire the gun.
Santo took her down and raised his hand to strike. His fingertips glowed in the half light. On each fingertip he wore a gold sheath with a lancet in the end and he prepared to put an end to Lane. Darius came from nowhere and threw himself onto Santo’s back, clasping him around the neck. The masked vampire roared with rage and flung the boy off like a feather, kicking him with savage intensity in the side of the head. Darius lost consciousness as Beckett was propelling himself into Santo from the front. The gold lancet tips caught his throat, but didn’t bite deep. Beckett felt the warm blood trickle down behind his collar. He turned on Santo again as Lane caught him from behind.
Before she could act further, Nik and Gregori were on the scene. She turned and fired blindly as Beckett lost his grip on the wooden stake. It clattered to the floor and Santo took the opportunity to grab Beckett by the throat and hurl him against the wall. Santo’s eyes were ruby holes in the silk mask as he gave vent to his true nature and his fury.
Two of Lane’s random bullets had found a home and Nik was sliding to the floor with a stunned expression. Gregori roared in wild rage and leaped at Lane. “That’s my son and you’ll pay for that.”
He grabbed at her and twisted her around, pinning her to him, as he grabbed the blade from her and held it to her own throat.
There was a shrill keening noise that came from Kat, as she arrived to see Nik lying on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Mistaking his assailant, she snatched the stake from the floor and rammed it home into Gregori’s back.
He arched his back and momentarily relaxed his grip on Lane but it was long enough for her to pull free. He spun around to face Kat and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her to him in an easy gesture. Beckett ploughed towards Gregori who was still dragging Kat by the hair, the stake protruding from his back as if it was a toothpick.
“Ah, shit,” spat Beckett, as Santo lunged at him again, deflecting his contact with Gregori.
Lane reached inside her jacket but Beckett couldn’t see what it was that she pulled out. In less than a second she was flying towards Santo, her arm raised. She brought it crashing down into the side of his neck then Beckett saw that it was a syringe. She rammed the plunger home and jumped back to watch as Santo’s face beneath the mask suffused red as his blood vessels dilated and reacted to his own Anti-HVV.
Santorini was dying.
As he stepped back, Lane snatched the mask from his face and looked at him for the first time. He fell to the floor and began writhing and screaming in agony as his death throes took hold. This wasn’t the one who took her mortal life all the centuries ago. This wasn’t her maker. Her search wasn’t over.
Lane paused long enough to give a significant glance at Beckett. That had been the last of the Anti-HVV. If Beckett needed more, he was going to be out of luck. He understood her unspoken message. He was in deep shit.
A gasp from behind her made her spin around. Gregori had released Kat and was lunging at Beckett. Lane screamed at him and made a dive forwards hoping to deflect Gregori’s attention from Beckett. The ancient vampire reacted in milliseconds and moved in a heartbeat to once more take hold of Kat. Lane wasn’t quick enough; even with the stake in his back; Gregori was faster than she was. In his hand was her own long blade and he sent it home with deadly accuracy into Kat’s chest.
It had been enough to stop Beckett in his tracks. Everything was going wrong; they were not going to win this one, and he’d failed again. But this time at least he would have the satisfaction of watching Grace’s killer die from his own Anti-HVV and he would die avenging Kat. There was to be some justice before his own death.
In the seconds it took to process the thought, he started to shake, and the pain in his chest sent him crashing to the floor. Gregori was on him in an instant, dragging him to his feet and holding him upright in a vice-like grip.
“Take one step forwards,” Gregori said to Lane, “And his throat will be open in an instant.”
Lane knew that he was serious and would take Beckett’s life without thought or remorse. She didn’t move.
In the surreal minutes that followed, footsteps announced the arrival of another. Michael Rabb, born Mihai Rabinescu in Prague at the turn of the fourteenth century, was standing before them.
Kat had fallen to the floor and was clutching the blade that protruded from her chest; blood was trickling from the corner of her mouth. Lane was beside her in an instant.
“Mihai, old friend,” said Gregori amiably, as if he was welcoming the Proconsul to a party.
Lane was stunned. “You,” she whispered. “I knew it. How could you betray the Council? Have you any idea what you’ve done? You’ve effectively sanctioned the deaths of thousands of the Created. Why?”
“Call it a cleansing, if you like. We intend to eradicate the weakest part of the vampire race so that we can once again hold power. Gregori and I have been working together for years now, supporting Santorini in his work on the Anti-HVV.”
“He’s not Santorini,” gasped Kat.
All eyes were on her.
“His name is Greg Randall,” she whispered
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Gregori had more than one meal that night eighteen years ago,” Lane said. “It makes sense now, his super-fast rise to Consultant Haematologist. And of course his research into AIDS was a cover for his real work – the Anti-HVV.”
Beckett looked up at the face that had haunted Kat for so many years. “Sonofabitch,” he gasped.
Further talk was halted as Kat coughed and spluttered.
Michael Rabb bent over her and pulled the blade from her chest, and then, turning to Gregori who still had a tight hold on Beckett said, “May I?” He pointed at Beckett.
“Be my guest.”
The Proconsul stood between Lane and Beckett. She closed her eyes as she heard the thud and breaking ribs followed by the soft thump of the body hitting the deck and sounds that she was all too familiar with. The sounds of decapitation. She allowed herself to fall back, holding an open wound in her chest.
Before thoughts of approaching death had gelled in Beckett’s brain, he felt a surge of energy and in that same moment Michael Rabb brought the dagger plunging forwards. He closed his eyes preparing for the strike that never came.
The blade had gone straight past him and into Gregori’s heart.
The ancient vampire threw back his head and screamed into eternity, releasing Beckett from his grip. Rabb withdrew the blade and had sliced off Gregori’s head before the scream had died into the night.
The oldest vampire on earth was no more.
The next thing that Kat was aware of was a hand underneath her neck and someone trying to lift her. She opened her eyes and his face swam in and out of focus.
“Beckett? What have I dragged you into?”
“Shhh, don’t talk.”
Kat coughed again and more blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. She closed her eyes.
Beckett turned on Rabb. “Why isn’t she healing? What can we do? Help me do something, dammit.”
Lane shook her head. “Beckett, that blade was coated in silver nitrate and the Anti-HVV, the same cocktail that was in the bullets. The blade hit her so close to the heart the poison on it is effectively preventing regeneration. We have to wait and see. She’s strong, let’s hope it’s enough.”
“Well, she can’t stay here like this. I’m going to take her to a bed or something. She’s going to be fine,” he said defiantly.
Beckett lifted her in his arms and turned to Lane who was bending low over Nik. “How’s he doing?”
She looked up from Nik, his head cradled in her lap, and shook her head, “Go and take care of her, Beckett. There’s nothing you can do here.”
“Is he …?”
She nodded in reply and bent over him again.
Beckett strode to the end of the corridor and kicked open the first door he came to. In the corner was the usual spartan bed. He laid Kat carefully on it and covered her with a blanket. She was even paler than usual and she was still bleeding.
She opened her eyes again momentarily. “I need you to do what has to be done, Beckett, for my soul’s sake. I know because Lane told me.”
“Don’t waste your energy talking. You’re going to be fine.”
“Promise me that you’ll do that, Beckett.”
He felt suddenly weak and perspiration ran down his spine and the walls began to swim around him. He fought to stay in control.
“Please, Beckett, please promise me.”
He held her hand, “I promise,” he said. “Now rest.”
She seemed to relax then and her breathing steadied. Good, he thought, rest would help her regenerate.
A noise from behind made him turn around. Sister Maria stood in the doorway.
“How is she?” the nun asked. “How can I help?”
“You can stay with her while I check on the others. Call me if there’s any change. But if you can, leave her to rest, it’s what she needs.”
“Is she a vampire?”
“Yes, but she’s a good guy, so don’t get any ideas about that.”
Before she could reply, there was a sickening roar from the corridor. Lane let out a cry of anguish and Michael Rabb was shouting. Beckett tried to run but found his legs weak and unsteady, he held on to the wall and pushed himself forwards in time to see Rabb disappear towards the chapel. Lane was picking herself up from the floor, an ugly wound on her forehead already closing.
“What the hell …?”
Lane looked at him, despair and disbelief etched on her face.
“It’s Nik,” she said, “He rose. Rabb has gone after him. Jesus, Beckett, he’s one of the Undead.”
She looked at him more intently. “Beckett? You don’t look so good.”
“Won’t bore you with the details but, short version, I think I may be turning. So how’s that for the kicker, eh?”
Lane looked crushed. He held up a hand. “Not now, it’s not the time. I’m going after Rabb.”
“Beckett,” she whispered as he turned for the door, “It’s okay, do what you have to do. It has to be that way.”
As he reached the door, Sister Maria appeared in front of him.
“I think you should come,” she said.
Beckett pushed past her and down the corridor, holding the wall as he went. Inside the cell, Kat was lying in a widening pool of blood; her fledgling vampire cells were losing the battle for regeneration.
He took her hand, feeling helpless. She read him and tried to squeeze his hand. “It’s okay Beckett; I think I always knew it was going to end this way. But you know what I need you to do for me now. If you don’t, my soul can’t return to the source. Only you can do it, Beckett. Only you.”
Beckett knew what she wanted of him and he couldn’t do it. Kat wanted him to pray for her soul as it departed her body. If someone who truly believed in the all-powerful divine, prayed for her soul to be saved as she died, her vampire existence would be over and her soul would be free. But he didn’t believe. Not any more. Not since Grace. And not now.
There was a subtle change in her breathing and he couldn’t feel a pulse at all as she slipped from him. The weight in his heart was too much.
“I can’t!” he yelled. “I can’t do it.” He lay across her as if she would give him comfort.
“Father, you must pray for her,” whispered Maria.
“Why do you call me that? I’m not a priest.”
“But you are. You just lost your way, that’s all. It happens. This is the way back.”
He lay quiet and still. “And who am I supposed to pray to?”
“To God of course, whoever or whatever you perceive the Creator to be. It doesn’t matter. You have to connect yourself back to the source and pray for her.”
He stood up, pale and dishevelled with deepening dark shadows around his storm-grey eyes. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said thickly, “You pray for her.”
He moved painfully towards the door.
“But you made her a promise. I heard you,” she said.
Beckett stopped dead. It was true, he had made a promise to her, but it had been a promise that he never dreamed he would have to make good on. He looked down at Kat, the mask of death apparent already. ‘Beckett, you promised me,” she seemed to say.
He fell to his knees and punched his fists into his temples.
Maria moved silently to
his side. “Sometimes things happen just the way they are supposed to. We can’t change it and we can’t just blame God all the time. Sometimes, that’s just the way it is. Who are we to question what the divine has planned for us? We just have to do the best we can with it. Pray for her Father, I will stay with you.”
She knelt by his side and began fingering her rosary as she had for all of her life. Her prayers and concentration deep and yet her face was an image of serenity.
He felt her peace transferring itself to him and with it a strength that he hadn’t known before. Everything seemed surreal. Distant and out there, as if it wasn’t happening to him.
Warmth that began somewhere above his solar plexus spread throughout his body and the air suddenly felt rarefied. His head was full of ancient prayers that he had recited a thousand times before but now they were sharp and clear in his mind. Now he understood their true meaning. He realised then, in an instant of understanding, that all prayers ended up at the same destination. Prayers to God, Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Mother Mary, The Great Mother, The Goddess; all faces that mankind had put on the faceless in an effort to understand the divine, all externalisations of the truth that had suddenly hit home. That we all contain God in our own being and our endless search for the divine would always be fruitless while we looked outside. A departing soul needed words and ritual, especially a soul that had been lost and needed to find its redemption. He knew the words to say. He crossed himself slowly and tears formed in the corner of his eyes. He had come home.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. I beseech you, God, in your mercy, to have pity on the soul of your daughter Katerini, who you have freed from the perils of this mortal life, restore to her the portion of everlasting salvation. Amen.”
He lifted his head and looked at Kat. There was an unmistakeable air of peace about her. Maria’s rosary was still clicking as she silently invoked Christ and his Mother.
What had he been expecting? A fanfare? A vision of light? A welcome back?
Outwardly nothing was different; there was no holy vision in front of him, just the open door to the corridor.
