Of Saints and Shadows (1994)

by Christopher Golden

  Only five Defiant Ones remained in St. Mark’s Square: Octavian, Hannibal, Cody October, Genghis, and the murderer of Vincent Montesi, whose name Mulkerrin did not know. One other, the stocky Asian, who had already once gone for help, had fled yet again. Mulkerrin wondered if it was for more reinforcements, or to protect those of his kind at the theater, whose numbers the trackers had estimated at more than three hundred. Also there were the two females guarding the book at the home of Hannibal, but even if night fell before they reached the house, two Defiant Ones would be nothing for his sorcery, even weakened, when he had his acolytes at his side.

  They had been having trouble at the theater, but Mulkerrin had sent one of Sister Mary’s own apprentices to summon demons to destroy the guardian there. According to radio reports, it was only one creature. Surely they could destroy one creature. They must, really. Dusk would not be long in coming now, less than an hour. But it would be done, he was confident. These five would be destroyed and the theater taken shortly, and then they could retrieve the book. So certain was Liam Mulkerrin of the inevitability of his success that he even took the time for a short rest. He sat and watched as several dozen shadows of all kinds and evils surrounded four of the remaining Defiant Ones, all but Vincent Montesi’s killer, whom Robert was even now confronting, sword waving. Sister Mary Magdalene and Thomas Montesi would have no problem now. As many demons as these final creatures slew, more could be called up at any time.

  In fact, he thought it best to go to the theater and ensure victory there so that the sleepers could be destroyed by nightfall. It would be disaster if this was not accomplished.

  As he slashed at the demons, not daring to transform for fear of dropping his best weapon, the silver sword, Peter saw Mulkerrin stand with purpose. It had infuriated him to sec the man just sitting there all this time. All they needed to do was hold out until dark, though he was beginning to wonder if they could do so. They’d made repeated attempts to kill the sorcerer and his acolytes, but the shadows were simply too numerous. Mulkerrin’s mist-wraiths darted about the heads of Peter and the others, and though they wouldn’t come too close as long as the immortals held their swords, the things still served as a terrible distraction. As Peter watched, Mulkerrin beckoned the wraiths to him.

  He’s leaving!

  “Genghis,” Peter shouted over the roar of the shadow beasts, thankful that the other banshee had been terminated an hour before. “Don’t let him go!”

  He motioned toward Mulkerrin, and Genghis, covered in burning demon gore, as were they all, saw the problem immediately. Neither of them was certain where the sorcerer was headed, but whether to the theater or to Hannibal’s house, they had to prevent his departure.

  Hannibal, Cody, and Peter all slashed in one direction, making a deadly gauntlet for Genghis to run. That moment was almost fatal, as a huge shadow grabbed Hannibal’s head from behind and began to squeeze, only to have its hand cut off at the wrist by Cody’s hacking blade.

  The light went on.

  They all knew that their luck would not have held out even for this long if Lazarus hadn’t told them precisely where to stab in order to destroy the creatures quickly.

  Peter had to wonder how he’d come by that information.

  “My name is Robert Montesi,” the young acolyte said. “For the murder of my father, I must kill you.”

  Lazarus only looked at him, unmoved and unmoving.

  “Boy,” he said. “Your father was a man filled with a fanaticism more evil than the darkest imaginings of his rabid mind. Prove yourself a better and smarter man. Go away.”

  He knew he could have chosen his words belter, even have attempted to convince the young man he’d been mistaken. He could have. He did not. Lazarus watched as the rage reddened Robert Montesi’s face, as the man’s eyes widened with shock and fury. He shook his head.

  “Take me then,” he said. “I will not stop you.”

  And he could have. The hatred in Montesi made him careless, and as he attacked, no magic save what little existed in the poison metal of his sword, he left himself completely open for counterattack. Even if Lazarus had been a human swordsman of moderate ability, he could have stopped Montes!, a dangerous man at any moment other than this, when he’d lost all control. The apple hadn’t fallen far, Lazarus thought.

  Then Lazarus was run through with a sword specifically chosen for that purpose. He bent over it, crying out and squinting at the poison magic of the silver, and Robert came in close to him, using both hands to ram the blade deeper, to the hilt in his belly. Lazarus threw his arms around Robert, and they clutched like lovers. Hands at the side of Montesi’s head, Lazarus drew him close and whispered to him.

  “Happy, boy? What a triumph for you.”

  “For my father, devil!” Robert shouted, his face red with effort as he dragged the blade up, widening the wound he’d made.

  He began to draw back, to survey his work, perhaps to behead the murdering beast, but found he could not. What had seemed a weakened, dying gesture now stood revealed as otherwise. Lazarus’s hands held tight to Robert’s head and pulled him closer still. He struggled, forgetting his sword, kicking and beginning a spell to call shadows to his rescue. There was no time.

  “Like you,” Lazarus whispered, “your father knew less than nothing.”

  Robert felt cold lips on his neck, and icy teeth tore into his flesh.

  Mulkerrin was preparing to leave, borne aloft by the wraiths so they might spirit him the few short blocks to the theater, when he saw Genghis running toward him. He thought little of it. The Defiant One would be too timid to transform, he thought, to shift his shape to that of a bat to fly in pursuit.

  But, like his namesake, Genghis had been a warrior in life, and though he feared the daylight, had seen many of his kind killed by it since the battle began, still he would conquer it. And he did. Dropping his sword so as not to absorb the silver into his new shape, he became a huge, terrible winged predator, a black death. Of all the forms his kind traditionally took, he had always favored the bat.

  Mulkerrin was surprised, but only momentarily. Swiftly he was brought back to earth, and the mist-wraiths turned on Genghis. Without his sword, and concentrating on his metamorphosis, he was easy prey. The creatures filled him, bloated him, destroyed him in a violent spray of innards. From the other side of the square a shout told Mulkerrin that Octavian and his monstrous allies were surprised. They ought not to have been, he thought, for they would be next.

  He turned to his enslaved mist-creatures, preparing to leave once again, when he remembered Robert. He glanced over just in time to see Lazarus pull his bloody mouth from Robert’s throat, dropping the young man’s corpse, and lift his head. Mulkerrin was stunned. After his father, Robert had been Liam’s best and final hope. None of his other acolytes or apprentices had the vigor, the courage, and the dedication of Robert Montesi. He might have wished all of them dead to bring Robert back to life.

  And it could not be. Robert had driven the silver sword right through the creature. Yet now, as Mulkerrin watched, the monster drew the sword from its belly and lifted it high, a silent challenge to the rest of them. Even without the mental constraints the church had put on them, no Defiant One was completely immune to the poisons of silver! And this was the creature who had known just where to strike the demons.

  He couldn’t leave now, not until this one was dead. It was too dangerous. He would kill this nameless one and then move to assist his soldiers at the theater.

  Thomas, he snapped in his mind as he saw the elder, the final Montesi running toward the thing that had slain his brother, you must not attack that one. I will kill it myself. You and the Magdalene must continue your attack on the others, keep them in control. We can still win this!

  A real voice, that of Sister Mary Magdalene, safely surrounded by the surviving troops, burst into the air, a message, a warning to them all.

  “LOOK!”

  Even some of the demons followed her order, glancin
g skyward.

  Mulkerrin began to smile. Two forms flapped toward them through the snow, already gliding lower to land by their fellows. But only two! If this was the best the Defiant Ones could muster, then they still might have a chance to win.

  His smile stopped as Liam saw what Sister Mary had been shouting about. One of the creatures who now landed by the trapped vampires was not a bat at all, but the largest falcon he had ever seen.

  “My God!” Traccy whispered. “Sandro, they’re not going to make it, are they?”

  It wasn’t right what was happening. The world couldn’t discover these wondrous and terrible beings and then have them destroyed before their eyes. She wanted to help, but she knew that she’d be killed in an instant. The irony was not lost on her as she hoped that Cody and Peter would be all right.

  She and Sandro had settled into one spot, in the shadows of the arcade. The snow and the darkening skies made it difficult to get a clear picture of the action, but it was certainly clear enough to see the violations of nature that were taking place, the monstrous things of nightmare that slaughtered fighters from both sides. When this tape was broadcast from Rome, it would be like the creation of a new world.

  From time to time, when the snow let up for a few moments, it was clear enough to see the transformations some of the Defiant Ones underwent, transformations that look Tracey’s breath away.

  “Tracey,” Sandro said quickly, “how ’bout some reporting here?”

  She stepped in front of the camera, Sandro making adjustments to keep both her and the action behind her in the shot.

  “The battle rages on,” she began. “It’s difficult for anyone to understand the reasoning behind it, or to choose sides. Both forces have blood on their hands, though it would appear the more righteous of the groups is, surprisingly, not what you might expect. Still, no matter the outcome, it seems that the one benefit of this unnatural conflict is going to be something we’ve long been denied—the truth.

  “Okay,” Tracey said, no longer the reporter, “let’s move up.”

  “Shit,” Sandro said, but he moved up anyway.

  Staying along the wall of the Archaeological Museum, he slid forward with his camera to his right eye, Tracey right behind him. The shoulder pad was ripped, and dug into his flesh, but he ignored it. They ducked into doorways to avoid being seen, and though the action was still far from them, Sandro knew that they’d be spotted, given time.

  “That’s far enough,” Tracey said, but Sandro kept moving, and she kept following. His attitude had changed.

  Tracey had talked about a story, and what a story this was. His career was already made, but if he lived through this, he’d be a hero.

  They had almost reached the corner of the building, where a right would take them into the piazzetta and to the canal, and a quick, straight run would take them to the front of the Doge’s Palace, where one of the acolytes had been slain just moments ago. But the way was clear now. From there they could make their way to Basilica San Marco, a perfectly ironic place from which to tape.

  Sandro thought they might be safer there.

  Running across the piazzetta with Tracey in tow, Sandro knew he had miscalculated. One of the demons menacing Cody and his friends had looked away from the bat and the huge bird that had landed and were changing shape into . . . something. It looked directly at him.

  “Tracey,” Sandro barked, “get the hell out of here.”

  She didn’t argue. Sandro stayed put, and for a moment he was relieved when the thing kept its eyes on him and did not veer off to follow Tracey. Then the terror hit him. There was nowhere to run as the beast thundered toward him, its jaws split in what seemed like a hellish, slavering leer.

  He’d fucked up, but he hoped at least Tracey would survive. She’d get the tapes they’d already made to Rome, and maybe the camera wouldn’t be too badly damaged and she could get this last one as well. . . .

  Sandro lifted his camera like a weapon, pointing it at the thing bearing down on him, and through the camera’s eye he watched his salvation. Cody appeared out of nowhere, having leaped from the ground, and landed on the running thing’s shoulders. Before the creature had a chance to try to buck him off, Cody had stabbed down through its skull, dropping the thing out from under him and tumbling himself into a roll that ended at Sandro’s feel. Sandro had never felt so relieved.

  Cody stood up, dusted himself off, and smiled at Sandro. “What a shot that must have been,” he said loudly. “I made a film myself once, you know.”

  He flashed that smile again, posing in profile for the camera, then turned and ran back into the midst of the melee, almost slipping on the gore that covered him.

  “Thanks,” Sandro said weakly, then moved quickly to join Tracey in the deepening shadows at the front of the Doge’s Palace. She threw her arms around him, then they both knelt down and stayed there. The camera was still rolling.

  No way in hell was he moving again.

  Lazarus had joined his brothers as they fought off the creatures that surrounded them. He only smiled as the rest of them looked upon the strange pair, the bat and falcon, with wide eyes and slack jaws. Peter and Hannibal kept stealing glances as they fought, and the two new arrivals transformed in their midst. The bat changed quickly, and when Peter glanced that way, he could see black flesh and knew it was Alexandra Nueva. The falcon, though, changed in a flash, and he had barely blinked away the lessening snow before he recognized her.

  “Meaghan?”

  “Peter!” she shouted back, but in warning rather than greeting. He turned just in time to fend off a strike by a tiny, vicious-looking shadow whose spidery limbs were like deadly spikes.

  In a moment the thing had one less of those spikes.

  And then Meaghan was fighting beside him..

  “How did you do that?” he asked her.

  “What?” she answered, picking up a stray sword.

  “You were a hawk!”

  “Falcon, actually.”

  “How?”

  “Come on, Peter. The man I love is smarter than that! I told you I thought I knew more than the rest of you, and I do—not to brag or anything.”

  She broke off as she leaped above the spider shadow’s reach and landed atop it, driving her sword down through its many-eyed center. It dissolved under her almost immediately.

  “This is dirty work,” she called to him.

  “This is ail part of it then?” he asked, a concept forming in his head.

  “Yes!” she answered happily. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

  Hannibal had overheard them, but didn’t understand. “What the hell are you talking about?” he yelled at them. “Just kill these things.”

  “What she’s talking about,” Alex said, smiling as she defended Meaghan’s back, “is that as much as Peter had figured out, he didn’t go the next logical step. If we have the kind of control Peter has proved that we do have—”

  “My blood!” Hannibal said at the implications, then turned to defend against a stinking, rotting attacker.

  “We can be anything,” Peter said, and Meaghan smiled.

  Cody had run off to save the cameraman, and when he came back, he stopped several yards from the melee. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Meaghan had changed again.

  Into a tiger.

  Mulkerrin watched in horror. . . .

  Sandro swung his camera to follow the yellow-and-black streak. . . .

  Hundreds of millions of humans would later deny the reality of what the camera showed. . . .

  Peter laughed as Meaghan responded to his single request: “Kill the magicians.” She sped toward the two remaining acolytes, Thomas Montesi and Sister Mary Magdalene, dodging the demons protecting them with incredible speed, tearing through the silver-wielding soldiers without a thought, settling upon Thomas Montesi before the man could utter a word or bring his weapon to bear.

  Huge gleaming jaws of iron sinew and devastating hunger tore off the top of his head. Watchin
g it, Peter felt elation, and was only brought back to his present, to his surroundings, by a nudge from Lazarus. He turned to the elder, grateful to be reminded of their immediate danger, and shapeshifted into mist, dropping his weapon, to avoid being thrashed by two deadly shadows.

  Lazarus did not move. Rather, he stayed where he was and shifted into another form—that of a giant black bear, as big as many of the shadow demons attacking them. With its huge paws, the bear grabbed first one, then the other of the demons, ramming its claws through their middles and tearing out withered gray sacks of stinking flesh that must have been the creatures’ hearts.

  Then they were both in man-form again, and Peter looked at Lazarus in doubt, suspicions and questions forming in his mind, not as to the elder’s loyalty, but his nature.

  “You’re a quick learner,” Peter said as Hannibal and Cody protected them for a moment.

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  Then Lazarus leaned in and spoke softly to him. “I’m done here, my friend,” he said. “I’ll see you again, sometime.”

  “Wait,” Peter said, shouting as the snow blew up again, as he heard the wail of a new banshee begin. Mulkerrin was getting desperate now.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Peter asked. “One of the four survivors, the ones who were never under the church’s control?”

  Lazarus looked at him kindly. “You’re getting warm, Peter. Let me know when you figure it out.”