“Well, she’s still dead, if that’s what you mean. But I’m sure she’ll come around soon enough.”
Peter continued pacing, but Alex glared at Tracey and Sandro with open hostility.
“Who knows you’re here?” she asked them sharply.
“Alexandra,” Cody said quietly. “Now, I know you mean well for us, but it’s time now, don’t you see? I mean, I’ll go with Peter’s decision on this, but as far as these people are concerned, I won’t allow them to be harmed.”
“If you think you—” Alex began, but Peter stopped her.
“Alex, what were we saying outside. Isn’t it clear that they’ve wanted us secret as long as we’ve wanted to remain that way? I don’t know if what Cody’s doing is the right move, but I’ve never been entirely comfortable with the status quo. And if we fail, well, I’d like to be certain that the whole world knows who the ones who destroy us are and how terribly they’ve been manipulating all of us, human and immortal, over the years.”
“Peter, what are you saying?” Alex asked, afraid she already knew.
“Well, you’re going to stay here until Meaghan comes around, and then both of you are going to guard that book. Cody and I are going to take the guns back to the theater and distribute them to anyone who’s willing to dare the daylight—every edge helps and those bastards will never expect us to have guns. Of course, all that can wait fifteen or twenty minutes, don’t you think?”
She stared at him.
“Shove down,” Peter said to Cody, then sat in the center of the couch and patted the empty space at his left. “Come on, Alex, sit down. We’re going to be on the news.”
27
CARNIVAL!
Costumes bright and clownish, or dark and elegant. Venetians and those tourists who came specifically tor this event spared no expense on cloaks and hats, feathers and veils, and masks of every description, from the most pleasant to the most unpleasantly sinister. Literally thousands of people crammed the tight alleyways and filled the many squares of the city. Dark and evil costumes and those rich with plumage, all created with elaborate care, and worn with a pride and sincerity that might have been disturbing at a less festive event. Costumed revelers on stilts wore sun masks and while cloaks and leggings over their “legs”, appearing more alien than anything else. Music blared from all over the city, carrying out over the waters.
For many tourists carnival was a new experience. They did not don costumes themselves. Rather, they wandered around Venice, enjoying the sights, the excitement, the romance. It was not always cold at carnival time, but this year there was no escaping it. Snow was a rarity, but it fell lightly on the crowd, the largest portion of which shouldered past each other in St. Mark’s Square, the center of everything that was Venice. This year, as in past years, it was a claustrophobic nightmare, but the partygoers did not seem to mind.
Had they only known what walked among them, shoulder to shoulder. Vatican assassins, sorcerers, vampires, and human sacrifices—volunteers—perhaps they would not have felt so festive. Of the original group of volunteers, those who still lived had been quite disturbed by the cancellation of the previous evening’s carnival festivities. They shared the day’s sense of mystery and mischief with little enthusiasm, wondering what the night would bring. Though some still held out the hope that they would be chosen by a Defiant One, many of them had lost their nerve, and left Venice in a hurry.
Not that a volunteer had never backed out before. It was something that happened regularly, but far more so this year. Word had been passed down and had spread through the group that something terrible was on the horizon, that their faith and loyalty would be sorely tested today. Even those who stayed were afraid. The Defiant Ones were their gods, to whom they were more than willing to offer themselves. What could have them on edge?
By quarter to noon, all five units were in place. Unit One consisted of one hundred and twenty-eight men and women, total, while the other four units claimed one hundred each. Once within the district to which they had been assigned, each unit’s tracker went to work locating the many dens of the Defiant Ones, in homes and hotels, in the basements of shops and restaurants. Then the individual unit was broken down into as many teams as necessary to cover all of the pinpointed locations.
The leaders each held a two-way with which he or she could communicate with any member of their unit. These radios allowed them to travel in small groups, thus remaining relatively inconspicuous; in the midst of carnival, getting lost among the costumed revelers was not terribly difficult.
Though they did not wear costumes, in most cases their uniforms were flowing and baggy to hide daggers and other weapons, and the scabbarded swords at their sides were sure to be seen as decorative. Many of them wore large packs that were actually flamethrowers. Only the crackling of their radios might draw attention to them, and these were used sparingly.
Mulkerrin’s four acolytes didn’t rely on such technology with their own superior. They had initiated a psychic rapport with Mulkerrin before the troops departed, and it was through that connection that the master sorcerer received a curious and disturbing piece of news. Unit Two’s tracker had sensed only four areas where Déliant Ones were sleeping in all of Castello. Dorsoduro had only two. Cannaregio had none at all. Even San Polo had fewer than expected, eight total.
“Just what in the Lord’s name is going on?” Mulkerrin said aloud, to which his guide responded with nothing more than a frightened glance.
Where are they all? he thought. Can it be that when warned, they were so frightened that they simply left?
But Mulkerrin could not credit such a thought. The Defiant Ones would never do such a thing, and even with the knowledge that could be drawn from the book, Octavian could never gather them all, convince them of its truth, and free them of their mental bonds in the time that had elapsed.
No, he decided, it must be that they have all gathered in one place for protection. Strength in numbers they believe.
“Tracker,” he called, and Unit One’s magical locator ran to him. The man looked very troubled, and Mulkerrin had already guessed why.
“They’re here, aren’t they?” he asked. “All of them. Most of them, anyway, here in San Marco?”
The tracker seemed surprised at his knowledge, but nodded. “Yes, Father.”
Unit Five, he began, sending his mental message to Sister Mary and the Montesis in the instant his decision was made, abort Cannaregio strike and move directly to assist with San Polo. All units proceed with caution, the hellspawn are certain now to be aware of our coming. Once targets are eliminated in your district, move immediately to San Marco and await instructions. Remember, none must escape, and we must retrieve the hook at all costs.
“Where?” he asked the tracker.
“All around us, Father. There are hundreds of them, but mostly they’re in and around St. Mark’s Square, the Venice Theater, and in between. Only a couple of blocks.”
Mulkerrin smiled.
“They thought there was safety in numbers,” he said to nobody in particular. “But they’ve just made our job that much easier.”
Only then did he notice that the tracker was nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and brushing the hair away from his eyes. The young man was their best, able to establish relatively close numbers rather than just locations like the others, and yet his skittishness was annoying Liam.
“What is it, man? Calm yourself.”
“There’s more, Father,” he said, and bit his lip.
“What more?” Mulkerrin asked. “What is it? Come now, speak up!”
“Well, Father, it’s only that it’s daytime, and as I’m tracking . . . well, some of them are moving!”
“How many?” Mulkerrin asked, assuming it was only Octavian, whom he had already seen in the sunlight. Little good he would do them.
“There appear to be nearly twenty of them, sir!”
In Sandro Ricci’s hotel room, overlooking St. Mark’s S
quare, Tracey Sacco had finally reached Jim Thomas by phone. He had been unwilling even to listen to her when she started spouting bizarre stories of ancient warfare between the church and the forces of darkness.
“Listen, Allison,” Jim barked. “I don’t know exactly what you think you’re doing, or what you think I’m paying you for, but I sent you out to get a story on cults and human sacrifice, and you come back with real vampires! Now, I think we’d better—”
“Jim!” Tracey yelled into the phone, shutting him up. “I can prove it.”
He was quiet a moment. “How’s that?”
“I’m sitting here with Sandro Ricci from the Rome bureau. He’s here to get carnival footage. We’ve got it all on tape, everything from last night—the facts, the bodies, the house, even the transformations!”
She looked at Sandro while she listened to the sound of Jim thinking on the other end of the line. The cameraman still appeared to be somewhat in shock from the experiences of the past few hours.
“Look,” Tracey said, “I know it’s hard for you to believe. Don’t you think it was hard for us? But you don’t have to make up your mind right now. We’re going to film it all. If what Cody said was true—”
“Who’s Cody?” Jim asked.
“You don’t want to know, hon. If what he said was true, the Vatican will attack within the next couple of hours or so. We’ll get it all on tape and somehow get it to Rome, then we’ll get it to you on a closed channel and you can decide what to do with it. Believe me, Jim. I’ve been through too much, been too close to death to have you give up on me now.”
She was ready to hang up the phone when she heard his last words, a blessing. “Be careful,” he said.
“Come on, Sandro,” Tracey said as she put the phone down. “If this thing’s going to happen, it’s going to happen soon.”
With a single, unspoken word, Father Liam Mulkerrin set his life’s work in motion.
Go.
Mulkerrin had originally intended that all five units should move at once, but now he held back Unit One while the others attacked. In the first two minutes, he detected nothing amiss, and the reports his acolytes gave him were encouraging. They had met only the weakened, daytime resistance they had expected. Though they had but started, it appeared Units Two through Five would finish quickly and be joining up with his own group within the hour.
With renewed confidence, he turned to those men around him and gave the order. “Attack,” he said, and his immediate subordinate passed the word by radio. He smiled to himself. What was the expression? Like shooting fish in a barrel. Even if some of them were moving about in the sun, they should be unstable enough to be easy prey.
“Father,” his tracker said loudly, alarm ringing in his voice. “They’re closing in on us!”
Tracey Sacco was staring out the window as Sandro Ricci picked up his portable camera and headed for the door. She had wanted to put the camera in the window. Peter and Cody had guaranteed that when it happened, St. Mark’s Square would be the center of attention, and she figured they could safely catch the action from upstairs. But his fear notwithstanding, Sandro insisted they work on the street. If they were going to get this thing on tape, they were going to do it right. She was about to grab her jacket and follow him out the door when she noticed the group, all in black, suddenly converging in the square. With the thousands of people in colorful costumes and tourist clothing, the crowd of black-garbed visitors seemed to her a cancer growing on the happiness in the square. Perhaps it was only that she knew what was to come.
Sandro had opened the door when he heard her voice, low, respectful.
“It’s starting.”
“Where?” Mulkerrin shouted, angry.
“All around us,” the tracker said, nervous. “I’m getting confused with all these civilians around, but they’re here all right!”
“Converge to two groups,” he snapped. “One on the theater, and one on me! Move to the center of the square.”
Units Two through Five, he thought, finish your assignments as quickly as possible, and keep your eyes open. It appears they’re better prepared than we expected.
The members of Unit One nearest the theater joined the team there, which was about to attack. All others, who had been assigned those targets in and around St. Mark’s Square, now shoved their way through the crowd as best they could, amid cries of protest, and regrouped around Mulkerrin. He scanned the colorful crowd, attempting to find faces he could recognize as Defiant Ones. There were subtle differences he could easily detect, and yet the crowd was much too large for him to see any faces but those closest to him. And then, of course, there were the costumes.
“Of course,” Mulkerrin said, cursing himself, then turned to his soldiers, God’s soldiers. “Begin the attack; concentrate on those in costumes. Any who do not run are your enemies!”
They had gone north a block, then doubled back to come down Calle de Ascensione and into the arcade by the Correr Museum. Tracey had a large black bag slung over her left shoulder, in which she carried blank tapes and the one they had made earlier at Hannibal’s house. As they rounded the corner she pointed to the knot of people in black moving into the crowd and the man who stood at the center of it all.
“Sandro,” Tracey hissed, “roll tape. I’ll bet money that guy is Mulkerrin.”
They were ringing the damn doorbell. Alexandra couldn’t believe it. Here they were, church assassins coming by Hannibal’s house to kill whatever inhuman beings were hiding there, and they were ringing the doorbell like a bunch of Jehovah’s Witnesses.
It was just too weird.
But what the hell? Go with it, right? She slid the window up and stuck her head out, grimacing in the sunlight. She was still uncomfortable, though it was getting overcast. It looked like snow.
“Can I help you?” she asked from the upstairs bedroom where Meaghan was soon to live again.
All of the men, and the few women, looked completely stunned. She judged that there must be more than a dozen, and she knew the last thing they’d expected was for somebody to respond to their ringing. They’d been preparing to shatter the first-floor windows just as she got their attention.
For a full half minute nobody spoke.
“Can I help you?” she said again, cross. “I don’t have all day, people. What is it that you wanted?”
“Apologies, signorina,” one of them finally said. “Wrong house.”
Alex smiled and slid down the window, but stood back only a few feet and watched their confusion grow.
One of the men had pulled out a two-way radio and she could hear his voice clearly.
“Tracker,” the man barked. “We’re at the wrong house.”
Alex couldn’t hear the garbled radio reply, but then the man repeated himself.
“Wrong house!” he nearly yelled, then shook his head at the reply, motioning to the rest of them to draw back a respectable distance from Hannibal’s house and wait. It appeared they were going to be having company very soon, and if they did indeed have a tracker, then Alex would have to tight. Her charm and good looks wouldn’t be enough to keep them out of the house.
She turned and walked to the bed where Meaghan lay. Sitting on its edge, she touched the other woman’s cool cheek. Alexandra examined the wounds on the woman’s neck and the scratches on her arm, and wondered when she would come around. Peter had always had excellent taste in women, Alex thought, herself included, and the beautiful Miss Gallagher was no exception. Alex had never met a braver human.
As Alex pushed the hair away from Meaghan’s face, she heard glass shatter on the first floor and knew that their reinforcements, and their tracker, had arrived. Sighing, she bent to kiss the dead woman’s cool forehead.
Meaghan stirred.
Sister Veronica was leading the group of more than fifty that had converged on the theater, and she’d made it clear to those who had joined her that they would brook no interference by civilians. In fact, she’d made it clear that any
one who approached or questioned them during their attack, and anyone human found within the theater, was to be terminated immediately.
They might simply have set fire to the place, but like many buildings in Venice, the theater was made almost entirely of stone. After examining the entire structure and finding no reasonable access, they decided to burn the huge oak doors, and two men equipped with flamethrowers stepped forward at Sister Veronica’s instructions.
Before the men were able to come within twenty feet of the entrance, the double doors were thrown wide, and two men emerged from the shadows. Sister Veronica barely had time to recognize the death that gleamed dully in their hands, and then the shooting began.
Something was wrong, Alex knew. Everything is wrong, a voice inside her screamed.
Meaghan had come back to life, the life of the immortal, with a sleepy smile on her face, as if she had only just woken from her life’s most restful slumber. She looked up at Alex, then rested her hand on Alex’s thigh. She opened her mouth to speak . . .
And then she changed.
Alex heard the pounding on the steps as the Vatican men trooped through the house in search of them. She knew she had to go, to protect Meaghan in this vulnerable state, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
Meaghan’s body appeared to melt away, her eyes staying relatively the same, locked on Alex’s with a panic in them that was painful for the older woman to read. A bubbling began, as something happened beneath her skin, protrusions appearing all over and disappearing as quickly, the activity fast and furious.
Colors changed there, in Meaghan’s flesh. Hair and fur grew, were replaced by scales and claws and fangs, portions of her body disappeared in a splash of water or a puff of mist, and were replaced moments later by something equally alien. Tough leather hide and cat’s feet burst into flame and were snuffed out as quickly.
Only seconds after she’d woken, Meaghan had entered a state of flux, of constant metamorphosis, like nothing Alex had ever seen before. She didn’t know if the woman could survive it, but she knew with certainty that they had to get out of the house or destroy the intruders.
Of Saints and Shadows (1994) Page 31
