There was no answer from heaven, no vision of angels. He was not being given divine dispensation for this act.
In that instant, Damien had a moment of affinity with Dippel’s other creatures—his evil brothers that he had killed this night. He understood them now. Damien had a mission set in motion by Dippel, and he, too, would have to keep moving even after he was dead.
The lightning came.
One-one—
Thunder on the inside. And it seemed that all the light in the world—even the cold moon hiding in the clouds—roared aloud and then stabbed through his skin. It entered every fiber of Damien’s body, spreading its cruel fire. It was the fire of a neutron bomb. But it didn’t burn; rather, it melted. It filled his head with merciless white noise, a noise not understood by the ears but was rather a vibration that altered tissues, disturbed the molecules of the body and drove them into violent rearrangement. Then the flock of black birds, or perhaps bats, swooped in and buffeted his brain, confusing him and making it so he could no longer tell what was happening to his body, though he knew that death was closing in quickly.
He prayed that Brice didn’t feel it. He knew she was being electrocuted. Her body had bowed, lifting him off the metal monster where they lay. But she didn’t make a single sound.
It lasted forever, pain and light trying to pull his soul from his body.
“Noooooo!” Damien screamed as his agony reached its zenith.
And then it was over. Lightning danced over the iron monster and died out slowly, a last climax of eerie, incandescent light. And then Damien’s world went dark. He was blind.
He was dead. Again.
But he had expected this. It happened every time. He would not be afraid—and he would not fail.
Damien reached down into the snow and felt for the adrenaline. It took a moment to locate the syringe with his clumsy fingers.
He touched his burned chest. There was no heartbeat. Feeling between the ribs, he found the correct spot and jammed the needle home.
Pain! Terrible pain as the adrenaline hit! But his heart was well trained and began to beat again almost immediately. The windmill of thought started back up in his brain, its sharp blades rotating through his head, slicing the veil that shrouded his thoughts. Clarity returned.
Gasping as his lungs recalled how to function, he felt for the second syringe. He ran his fingers along the large needle. Slowly his vision returned.
His first sight was Brice. Her mouth and eyes were open, her face a picture of frozen agony. But the wound in her neck had closed. It was, in fact, barely visible.
“Forgive me,” Damien whispered, shoving the medallion between her breasts aside. She, too, was burned, but the small spike wounds closed almost instantly. “I never meant to cause you pain. I never meant for this to happen. And if God is offended by what I do, His anger will be with me.”
He reached for her chest with clumsy fingers that seemed to have forgotten where their joints were located. Her heart was still—still and dead—and her face was absolutely colorless. But he could feel the spot where he needed to inject. It was marked with a small golden scar that glowed eerily even though the lightning had gone.
Reassured by this sign of potential life, and not allowing himself to reconsider his actions, Damien drove the needle into her heart.
“Start,” he pleaded, pulling the empty syringe away. “Live! God—You let her live! Don’t You punish her because You’re angry with me!”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Brice’s eyes and mouth moved, and she shuddered and started retching, trying to gulp in air with lungs that had forgotten how to do their job, trying to roll off the gargoyle and escape the cold and pain.
He grabbed her so that she wouldn’t fall off the roof and pulled her away from the narrow parapet that was slick with ice. The snow clung to her bare skin.
All at once, Damien could feel the cold eating at his body and knew that she would soon feel it too. They had to get back inside before their organs froze. For a short time, they would be vulnerable to the elements.
Trembling, he picked up her still spasming body and staggered into the library. He didn’t want her to regain awareness and see Dippel’s body, to awaken in the place where she had been killed. But they both had to get warm. Immediately. And inside was the only available fire.
Chapter Nineteen
If I am a poet, I owe it to the air of Greece.
—Byron (translated from the Greek on Byron’s Stone)
If my son were of age—and the lady properly disengaged—it is still the last of all connections that I would wish to take place.
—Letter from Byron’s mother to her attorney before his marriage
Brice’s eyes opened onto a world of dazzling fire, but she was not afraid because Damien sat between her and the flames and there was gentle music in the air.
“We have power back,” he said, smiling. “The good guys won.”
Brice nodded stiffly. Her neck hurt. “He meant that to be your crematorium,” she said after a moment, her voice a harsh whisper.
“I know. I’m not sure why, but his intent was fairly clear. Here—you must be thirsty.” Damien helped Brice sit up, using his body as a prop and a pillow. He offered her some brandy cut heavily with water.
“Are they all gone now?” she asked, certain they were because Damien was so calm. The worst of the storm must also have passed over them because his scars were barely noticeable.
“Yes. At least…well, they may not be completely dead yet, but they aren’t going anywhere.”
“I tried to glue one to the floor,” Brice told him, swallowing some more of the weak brandy. It seemed to be helping. The tightness in her throat eased, and she was beginning to feel comfortably warm. It was the first time in hours that the chill hadn’t gripped her bones.
“I saw that. It was ingenious.” Damien’s voice was gentle, as were his hands as he stroked slowly down her arms.
“Well, I tried conventional methods and they weren’t working. Strange to think that in a building this size I couldn’t find a single canister of mace or pepper spray.” She turned her face into Damien’s neck and inhaled. He was sweaty and smelled of cordite, but she drank in the scent because it was his.
A small eruption of sparks went up the chimney. Looking toward the fireplace, Brice finally noticed her nudity, and then Damien’s. She asked without much interest: “Where’s my robe?”
“Outside. With my clothes,” he answered. Then, diffidently: “Do you remember what happened?”
Brice touched her chest, tracing its new scar. Her hands were more or less clean, but there were traces of blood under her fingernails that he had missed when he wiped her clean.
“I…no. I know what happened—what you did—but all I really recall is being attacked by a murder of crows.” She looked toward the windows where the gargoyles perched. “Then, when I thought I couldn’t stand it, they turned into doves and everything went white.”
“An exaltation of doves,” Damien said. “That’s what they call such flocks.”
“An exaltation,” she murmured. “That sounds beautiful.”
Brice wasn’t certain that the crows and doves had been real, but she hoped they had headed south and weren’t trying to weather the storm. Enough death had come to New York that night; she didn’t want to see any more.
Damien watched his beloved gaze into the night, wondering what she was thinking, and also wondering when he would be called to account for what he had done.
As he had carried her inside, he’d thought about what he’d ended—both for Dippel and for Brice. His retaliation against his nemesis had been swift, brutal and merciless. He had become a feral animal that knew no compassion for the thing he killed. And he wasn’t the least bit sorry. Dippel had tried to kill Brice—had, in fact, succeeded. That Damien had later managed to bring her back was irrelevant. Her life as she knew it was over, taken from her without consent. Dippel deserved to die with fear o
f hell bright in his mind.
Damien looked at the impossible treasure in his arms. A wild zigzag of scar tissue bisected her body, unlike his own which was covered in fresh golden marks that still faintly glowed.
Brice turned to face him.
“Am I…will I live forever now?” she asked. Her voice held neither wonder nor fear.
“Not unless you want to. There will come a time when you will have to choose whether to go back into the lightning or face death.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I made it almost fifty years before I was called the first time. You will know the moment, though. That wound in your throat will begin to ache and eventually bleed.” The words were hard to say.
“It’s bad? When it comes back?”
Damien nodded. Suddenly his eyes felt filled with acid. They flooded with bitter tears as he recalled the slow return of his epilepsy. It had seemed terrible. Things would be even worse for Brice.
“I see.” She touched her chest, tracing her scar. Would she think it hideous? A mark of shame?
“Damn it.” Damien blinked, hard. He hated weeping. He would not do it!
He also hated that he had reason to fear for Brice. More than anything, he wanted to spare her the pain she had endured and would endure again. But that was impossible. He abhorred this fact—this condition—of their existence, but that was the deal, the terms of survival. Damien kept his voice steady and calm as he spoke to her. He would not lie about this, nor would he weep in her presence. He had no right to burden her further.
Brice’s hand reached for her neck. The wound was closed, the scar barely noticeable. For now.
“I wouldn’t have chosen this,” Brice said softly.
Damien stopped breathing.
Then she smiled faintly and looked up into his eyes. “But I wasn’t ready to die tonight either—so thank you. Thank you for giving me back my life.”
Damien exhaled slowly and buried his face in her hair. Forgiveness, he thought. So this is what a state of grace feels like.
The stereo began playing Neil Diamond’s “The Story of My Life,” and Brice, listening to the lyrics for the first time, felt an odd stirring of emotion. Her eyes were misty with tears. The pain the song summoned was sharp and sweet. When was the last hour she had felt—or even believed in—a love like that?
She knew the answer, but didn’t look at it too closely. It belonged to another life, the life she’d had before she met this stranger whom she now knew better than anyone on earth.
Damien, looking at the salty diamonds on the ends of Brice’s lashes, thought she wore tears well, but he couldn’t bear to see them. There had been so much pain already. He stroked them away.
“Hush, love,” he said. And he took her in his arms and pulled her to her feet. By the light of the fire, they danced.
“I know that using the name Byron isn’t wise,” she whispered a few minutes later. “And Damien is a fine name, of course, but do you think in your next incarnation that you could be George? I’d be more at home with that. You might be too.”
Brice was her logical self again. Damien smiled.
“That can probably be arranged.” He kissed her hair, still reveling in his blessings, wondering if this meant that he would have to be less angry at God now.
Probably.
“You can choose another name for me too. When the time comes,” she volunteered. “I’m not fussy. Just don’t call me Gertrude. Or Mavis. I had an Aunt Mavis and absolutely loathed her.”
“You know, I must tip my hat in admiration,” Damien said. Awe and a bit of laughter filled him.
“It’s nothing,” Brice assured him. “I’ve always wanted a pseudonym.”
“No, not that. You were hit with what amounts to a natural impossibility—something that should have bent your brain into knots and landed you in a sanatorium—and you not only grasped the facts immediately, you also waltzed them twice around the floor before vanquishing your fear.”
“I shot those monsters too,” Brice bragged. She swallowed and cuddled closer, resting her cheek against his bare chest. “I’m glad I did it. Glad I could do it, so you didn’t have to. But I didn’t like it at all.”
“Yes, I know. But you did what you had to. You climbed a skyscraper in a snowstorm, braved the dark on your own, killed a zombie, faced a supernatural madman—and are still smiling. You are without any doubt the most valiant person I know. And I shall be grateful from now until my dying day that I have known you.”
Brice smiled. “Hopefully, that day is a long, long way off. Where’s Dippel now?” she asked after a moment. Her question was practical but her body was still relaxed against Damien’s. She was finally warm, and any other urgency was slow to show itself. Brice wondered if that was because the storm had not yet retreated, or if it was a side effect of all that had happened. After all, once you’d faced violent death, everything else was bound to seem less important.
“Outside. But let’s not worry about him for a few more minutes. We need to bathe and get dressed.” Damien didn’t add that it would probably be less distressing if the zombies quit moving before they saw them again.
“We’re going to have to get rid of the bodies, you know. There’s no explaining them,” Brice remarked, as though reading his mind.
“I know. Don’t worry. I have a plan,” he assured her. Then Damien lifted her into the air and spun her about.
Brice laughed softly. “Of course you do.”
“I’ve never known as much horror, fear and pain as I have this night,” Damien told her.
“I know,” Brice answered as she was set back on her feet. “Me either.”
“But you know what I feel now,” Damien said, standing still and looking deeply into her dark eyes. It was almost a question. There was a half smile on his lips. “It isn’t just the end-of-the-storm high.”
“Happiness,” Brice said. Her smile was wholehearted. And it wasn’t the storm that affected her either.
“Yes.” Damien pulled her close and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty
Can you commit a whole county to their own prisons? Will you erect a gibbet in every field and hang up men like scarecrows?
—Lord Byron’s speech to Parliament in defense of the poor, February 27, 1812
The enemy is without, and distress within. It is too late to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in defense of things more important.
—Lord Byron’s speech in defense of freedom of religion to Parliament, April 21, 1812
“We must be practical,” Brice said as Damien blotted her hair dry with a towel. It was a relief to finally be rid of the last of the sandalwood oil. Though she had enjoyed the smell, she would now always associate it with the second-worst night of her life.
Or perhaps she was looking at this the wrong way around. She and Damien were still alive. Maybe this was the best night of her life.
“Of course.” There was enough of a smile in Damien’s voice that Brice felt compelled to push the towel away and make eye contact.
“Be serious. We have a real mess here.”
“Of course,” he said again. This time the smile was obvious.
“Do you have a digital camera?” Brice asked. She wasn’t sure what was prompting his grin. She had been filling in Damien on Dippel’s last minutes, telling him everything she could remember of their conversations— about the mob that had stormed his castle, about his belief that the only way he could achieve salvation was if all his creations were destroyed. None of it was amusing.
She had noticed that Damien wasn’t as forthcoming about how he’d spent his time away from her, but Brice didn’t press for immediate answers. The zombies were all dead, and he had been the one to kill them.
“I don’t own a camera, but Karen does. She keeps it in her desk. However, it might be unwise to take photos of this,” he said, knowing what she was thinking. “It isn’t precisely the thing to send out with the Christmas cards or put in the ph
oto album. And it could be used as evidence against us if it were ever found by the authorities.”
“But it would also be proof of…of this craziness. If we ever start to doubt what happened. Or need to prove it to someone else.” Brice leaned toward the mirror and looked at her reflection. Her eyes were now as dark as Damien’s, and she looked as if she had spent a week tanning on a beach in Hawaii. There was also the scar in the middle of her chest that matched Damien’s.
“Do you really think we’ll ever need proof?” Damien asked. “I don’t know about you, but for me, this qualifies as something I’ll never forget.”
Forget? She might want to. Brice thought about Dippel as she had last seen him. Damien had dragged his corpse out onto the roof and left it to the elements. With its clothes torn aside, it was easy to see that the body was a conglomeration of mismatched limbs. A black tongue had poked out between rows of rotten teeth. The body also smelled heavily of chemicals. It could only barely pass for human, but barely was still enough to cause trouble with the police.
“I don’t think we can leave him out in the snow. Even if we roll him down onto the sidewalk, there is no way he will pass for a homeless person caught in the blizzard. I mean, he’s missing his heart.” Brice’s voice was calm. Hysteria might come eventually, but it wasn’t there yet. “That probably goes for the others as well.”
“I’ve thought about this,” Damien answered. “There’s an old furnace in the basement. Cremation would be the safest thing anyway—I wouldn’t want these creatures somehow getting into the food chain.”
Brice looked at her lover. He was calmly buttoning his shirt. They might have been talking about what to have for breakfast instead of destroying zombie bodies before scavengers like pigeons or rats or squirrels ate them and…and what? Became poisoned? Became zombie pigeons?
“Will it…” She paused a moment to gather her nerve to ask the next question. “Will it be hot enough to do the job?”
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