“There’s that faith business again,” Peter said, putting the book away. “I never used to believe in God because of all the crooks who claimed to be His voice. But I’ve come to think he may be up there after all, watching the mess, pissed off at the poseurs and wishing He could start all over again.”
“They can’t all be poseurs,” Meaghan said.
“Well, they’re not all as bad as Mulkerrin and friends, even in Rome. We know from what we just read that this pope, at least, is in the dark. But nobody’s got the whole picture right. If they did, what would be the point of God?”
“The New Church of the Undead.” Cody laughed again, then shook his head. “Faith.”
“You’ll die without it,” Peter said, and on that sober note, they parted for a rest.
Not surprisingly, none of them got much sleep. Cody spent the little time thinking more about the book and what the day and, more important, the daylight would have in store for him.
When Cody had left, Peter and Meaghan were quiet, comfortable together in their silence. Peter lay down on the lower bunk and put his arms behind his head, staring up at nothing and wondering where the hell all this was heading. His thoughts leaned toward another subject as well, one neither of his companions had considered. Just what kind of reception could they expect in Venice? It took him only a moment to decide that they would have to work fast. The arrogance and anger of the Defiant Ones, especially those with whom Peter and Cody had past relationships, could end up getting them all killed.
Meaghan went to the window and looked out at dawn rediscovering the Italian landscape. Peter assumed that she was attempting to digest all she had learned from the book, from him and Cody, and to prepare for the days to come as they upped the stakes even further. He was wrong.
In truth, Meaghan was much stronger than Peter, or even she herself, would have guessed. She had confronted his nature, the existence of his kind, the contents of the book that he had stolen back from its original owners, not to mention the idea that Buffalo Bill Cody, a hero half out of American history and half out of American myth, was there, on the train with them. She had come with Peter for so many reasons, not the least of which was simply because she wanted to. Certainly she wanted to do anything she could to get Mulkerrin, the man who murdered her best friend, her lover.
She recognized with a frightening mental clarity that she had stepped outside the realm of morality, but also that it was a morality upheld by the same systems that had created the religious beliefs she now knew were so much smoke and mirrors. She had no problem with the concept of killing Mulkerrin. That same clarity made it a simple thing to admit, and actually to embrace, the excitement, the solidly sexual thrill she associated with danger, with fear. She had entered a brand-new world, that almost nobody human was aware of. All her life she’d wanted more, and now she’d gotten it.
All of this she had realized, almost before they ever reached Rome.
And yet she knew for certain that her attraction to Peter was not based solely on these things, but on her knowledge of him. He was a hero. A kind, courageous creature whose instinct tells him to kill her, to drink her life essence, and yet who wishes nothing more than to have her, to make love to her in the way that a man, a human man, would. She could see that battle in his eyes and she trusted completely in his ability to win it, to control the darkness in him.
The Gospel of Shadows had completed something for her, a concept that had been yearning to be born in her brain, a puzzle that had at last gained a missing piece. Of all the creatures of the night, the demons and wraiths and their like, only Peter’s kind had been able to fight back, to keep their freedom, to remain defiant. Now she believed with all her heart that the reason for this was a simple one, a spiritual one.
They had souls.
As a living, breathing, rational human, it was the only explanation which made any sense to her. They were able to fight for their own destiny because they had once been human, and that is human nature. The nature of the human soul.
At the beginning she had almost lost it, almost gone over the edge. But since that time, in her apartment, when she had started down this path, she had never looked back. She was a part of this thing, no matter what new insanity threatened them. Now only one question remained to her.
Where did she fit in?
She was human, after all.
What part was she going to play in the coming conflict? Would those gathered for carnival in Venice allow her to take part? Might they not simply kill her? Against such an enormous group, would even Peter and Cody be able to protect her?
No, she’d get no rest. Rather than worry about what was to come, she knew that there was business left unfinished. She turned and walked the few steps to the bunk, where Peter had been watching her for minutes, as the sunlight blossomed on her face.
She sat by him, on the edge of the mattress, and put her hand on his chest. “Make love to me,” she said, though she didn’t need to.
Peter reached out and pulled her to him, Meaghan’s lips inviting him with more than just words. They kissed deeply, deliberately. They knew time was of the essence, and all the more reason to draw their time together out, to make it last until they must move on to the challenges ahead.
Meaghan’s robe slipped easily from her shoulders as she helped Peter with his pants. Their kisses explored each newly revealed inch of flesh with a curiosity that was more than sexual. Peter had never been with a human woman who knew, truly knew, what he was. Meaghan was overcome by wonder and fear.
“Bite me,” she whispered in his ear. “Taste my blood.”
His rhythm didn’t slow, but he frowned. “No. I don’t need to.”
She pushed him off then, onto the floor, so he was sitting there. Then she sat down on him, lifting his penis and guiding it into her again. They faced each other, sitting up, as she rode him, and now Meaghan looked directly into Peter’s eyes, so he could see she meant it, so he could recognize the sincerity of her lust.
“It’s not for you. I want it. I want you to do it. Bite me,” she said, in time with the bouncing of her hips. “Taste me, just a little.”
She kissed him, hard, then licked his lips. Peter kissed back, overwhelmed by her desire. His mouth moved down to her neck, but Meaghan stopped him.
“Not there,” she breathed, her voice filled with the whisper of need. She pushed his head down, leaning back as he licked her left breast, taking it into his mouth. He ran his sharp teeth over her nipple, then moved on and, without pause, sank those teeth into the soft flesh of her breast.
As he did she moaned, deep and loud, not from pain but from the release she felt building. His ecstasy was equally clear as Meaghan’s nails raked his back, digging furrows in the flesh that healed seconds after they were made. Again and again she scratched him as he sucked the blood from her breast, sliding on his cock, his hands gripping her ass.
He leaned back then, pulling his face from her chest, grunting and still slamming into her as he came in huge spasms within her. Peter’s orgasm was joined by her own as Meaghan quivered, impaled on his penis, her legs twitching behind his back.
Covered with her sweat—for he didn’t sweat—a small amount of blood smearing between them, they held each other close, still quaking slightly. She kissed him again as he withered inside her, and she wanted nothing more than that.
Then the train began to slow and they heard a knock, at the door this time, and then Will Cody’s voice. “Venice,” was all he said.
“Give us a minute,” Peter croaked out, but certainly loud enough for Will to hear, then he smiled at Meaghan—a smile she had never seen before. She thought that must have been the smile of Nicephorus, a brave, young, passionate man.
Meaghan looked down at the twin wounds, so tiny, on her breast, then up at Peter. The smile was gone and he looked sad for a moment. But she shook her head, smiling herself now, touched her breast, the small holes, then put her fingers to her mouth tasting her own blood and sweat. T
hen she leaned forward and looked him in the eye again.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling, kissed him, then slowly slipped off him.
She’d already decided what her role was to be. The only question left was how to explain it to Peter.
21
THE ROOM HAD BEEN BUILT FOR ROUGH play. Soft black leather filled with down and some other kind of padding beneath that prevented sound from escaping and allowed play to continue even if the walls were coated with whatever variety of human fluids could be expected to splash, drip, or smear on such surfaces.
Tracey looked around, taking in the instruments of pain/pleasure. Though she had some little knowledge of these sex games, she didn’t recognize any of the room’s furnishings. Monstrous things they were, and she turned away, back to her predicament. In the back of her mind a voice piped up, attempting to decide which of those torture machines would be the least painful and wondering how anyone could enjoy such things. Would she?
Certainly not.
Here she was chained, though most elegantly, to the wall. She sat on a black leather chaise, fully clothed, for Hannibal had given her back her things and asked her to get dressed before incarcerating her. In general she had no plans to cooperate with him, but she couldn’t refuse to get dressed. She’d nearly frozen to death in that water, and even now was chilled to her bones. She knew that she must be getting sick. How could she not? The room itself was fairly warm, and smelled of something terribly sweet, like sticky cinnamon buns. And it was black, but for the lamp next to her, which was green and obviously not a part of the room’s usual decoration.
Everything was black—the walls, floor, and ceiling, the machines, the door, even the chains. The one that kept her here led from a black metal plate on the wall to a shackle, padded on the inside, around her right ankle. The links of the chain between were invisible, the whole thing covered in a padded black leather sheath of some sort. The other chains in the room were not as forgiving.
For captured prey, she was being treated fairly well. She’d been fed, allowed to choose a book from the library, and was treated with deference by Hannibal’s human servants, none of whom was shackled.
Now she sat, her throat raw, her forehead hot and her nose running like crazy. She was getting very sick and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Of course, Hannibal had two quick and sure cures for her illness, but neither was terribly attractive to her. No, now that the sun was up—and she knew it was, for they would never have chained her if Hannibal was around to hunt her down if she got free—she pretended to read while her mind analyzed every escape plot she hatched, and rejected them all.
She had to get out! She had to call in the damn story. CNN had a bureau in Rome, but there was an outside chance that there’d be a team in Venice to cover carnival. Certainly there would be some reporters here, and even if CNN had to share the story or the tape, it would still be her story, and that’s what mattered. Not only did the world desperately need to be warned, but she wanted—no, needed—to be the one to warn them.
Patience!
After all, they’d have to feed her.
“Look at me, damn you!” Peter yelled.
He and Meaghan were standing on the train platform, both urging Cody to step out from the shadows of the train itself. Will had stood aside as the other passengers had filed past him, and Meaghan had run to buy both men hats and sunglasses in the station. She was gone only minutes, and Cody had made a little joke about the hat. A man used to sombreros and cowboy hats, his dislike of its narrow-brimmed style was plain.
“It’ll keep the sun off your face,” Peter had said. “That’s all you need to worry about for now.”
But now he wasn’t being quite so kind as the train conductor walked toward them, clearly curious as to why their fellow passenger refused to step down from the train.
“Look at me, Will!”
“I’m looking,” Cody replied, exasperated. “Doesn’t it hurl, at least?”
“Yes, it fucking hurts! It really hurts at first, like every inch of uncovered skin getting stung by bees all at once. But it doesn’t last, understand. It wears off until it’s just an uncomfortable ache, like a light sunburn. Surely you remember sunburns?”
“I hated them then, when they weren’t likely to kill me, and I surely hate them now,” Cody snapped.
There was a long pause, and the conductor was almost upon them. Meaghan knew he would tell them to shove off, and she didn’t want to get into an argument. She turned to Cody.
“You damn coward!” she growled.
He looked like he’d been slapped, then began to stutter some kind of reply, but she was having none of it.
“Some hero you are! The noblest whiteskin, the great scout, the world’s greatest showman. Sounds like a bunch of buffalo shit to me! You’re supposed to be the man’s man—gambler, lover, hunter, horseman, the best at everything, the symbol of the Wild West. But that’s all crap, isn’t it, because William Frederick Cody, the hero of children around the world, Buffalo Bill, is afraid of getting a sunburn!”
While Peter looked stunned, Cody’s face went from shocked to embarrassed to angry, and the train conductor, who’d finally reached them, tapped his foot patiently and waited for her to finish, obviously recognizing Meaghan as a force to be reckoned with, and not to be interrupted. When she did finish, all three men fumbled for something to say.
Meaghan didn’t afford them the luxury.
“Come on, Peter,” she said, turning on her heel without so much as a look back, “let mama’s boy ride the train back and forth until nightfall. It’ll probably all be over by then anyway.”
Peter looked after her, eyebrows raised. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out and she kept right on walking. He turned to Cody and shrugged, a guilty, silly grin fighting to break out on his face. Finally he shook his head and laughed, then followed after her, catching up easily. The conductor watched them for a moment, then turned to their reluctant companion.
Red-faced with fury and humiliation, not daring to give it another thought, Cody was out in the sunshine and hurrying after them before the first word was out of the conductor’s mouth. He didn’t understand Italian anyway.
“I know what you tried to do,” he said to Meaghan as he caught up to them, “and it didn’t work. I’m out here because I want to be, not because of your petty childish antics. Lord, woman, but you are a pain in the ass! And you,” he said, turning on Peter now, “you’d better be right, ’cause right now I’m hurting like hell.”
And indeed, his flesh felt like it was on fire. But, he consoled himself, at least it only felt like it.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little face, Will.” Peter laughed. “We’ve got more than enough worrying to do to keep your mind off of dying.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, no more delays.”
“Okay, look,” Peter said, their conversation taking a sober turn. “The sun is our advantage—it’ll keep us from being attacked by some of our friends who hold a grudge, at least until we can talk to them about what’s going on.”
“Fine,” Meaghan said. “Now, where do we start?”
“I think I know just the place,” Peter said.
It was just past eleven in the morning when Giancarlo Garbarino arrived for his appointment with His Holiness the Pope. As usual, the pontiff was late, and Garbarino sat in his parlor awaiting his return from Mass. A papal attendant brought him herbal tea, though what he would really have liked was some of that Viennese chocolate coffee. Unfortunately, with the pope’s poor health, such things were too rich for him.
When finally he did show up, the pope seemed perturbed, barely acknowledging the clumsy bow and perfunctory kiss of the ring he received from Garbarino, disrespectful attempts at tradition that would have insulted a more prideful, less pious pontiff. He stepped into his internal chambers with Garbarino on his heels, then turned and stepped into the small library that served as his private office. This space was reserved f
or those around whom he felt comfortable. Garbarino knew the Holy Father didn’t like him, but he also knew that the man respected him and his academic efforts.
The attendant who had served Giancarlo his tea—Paulo, he thought the man’s name was—appeared immediately just as the pope was about to summon him.
“Tea, Your Holiness?” Paulo asked.
“No, thank you,” the pope replied.
“Cardinal?”
“Yes, please, Paulo. And from the looks of it, though he said no, His Holiness will probably change his mind about the tea, so bring him a cup as well.” He smiled at the young man.
The pope looked at Garbarino, ready to argue about the tea, but then changed his mind and settled back in his comfortable burgundy leather chair. “Paulo,” he said, “please bring the tea and then do not disturb us. I am in ill humor today, and the cardinal better be here to cheer me up.”
He smiled at Garbarino, then, but it had no effect.
Your humor is not what ails you, the cardinal thought.
“And why so cranky today?” Garbarino asked, as usual abandoning all pretense of propriety in addressing the pontiff.
“My back is acting up,” the pope replied, “but more than that, attendance at this morning’s Mass was frightfully low, and you know how that bothers me.”
“Ah, well, don’t fret. I know a lot of my people were going out today on the newest research venture, and that flu that’s going around . . .”
“Yes, I’m coming down with it myself, I fear.”
Paulo reentered then, setting his platter down silently in front of Garbarino, who shushed him away when he reached for the pot. He left the room, shutting the door behind him, letting Garbarino pour the water for tea.
As he placed tea bags in the cups a small capsule dropped from his palm into the pope’s tea, its membrane dissolving immediately and releasing a clear, tasteless liquid that would mix with the tea within minutes. He had done away with John Paul I in the very same fashion.
Of Saints and Shadows (1994) Page 24
