Darkness Calls

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Father Cribari began trembling. “He was a chosen warrior. As we all are. He knew the sacrifices.”

  A strong hand caught at my waist and held tight. I looked over my shoulder and found Grant staring at the priest with terrible fury.

  “How could you?” he whispered. “How could you orchestrate this . . . violation . . . against Father Ross?”

  Violation. I gave Grant a sharp look, but his focus was entirely on the priest. Cribari stared back with the same intensity, and not a hint of remorse in his pale face. “He was an opportunity. I knew you would come for him.”

  Grant narrowed his eyes. “Why me? Because of what I can do? You had me, ten years ago. You could have had me in Seattle. None of this was necessary.”

  Cribari made no reply. His back curled tight against the wall. His eyes burned with feverish light, and his dry, cracked lips moved in silent prayer—which stopped when our gazes met.

  “He was told,” I said quietly, instinct guiding my words. “He believes he was given a decree from a higher power.”

  “Gabriel,” Cribari breathed. “The archangel who will blow the final trumpet on the Day of Judgment came to me, in flesh, as the spirit of truth, and passed to me his knowledge. He told me how to stop you both; you demons, you children of the Nephilim.”

  Comparing us to the half-breed offspring of humans and angels made an odd sort of sense, but I shook my head. “You knew about me before that. You knew.”

  Any fear that had been in his face faded into defiance. “We have always known. We have watched, and waited. Dark Mother. Dark Queen. From your blood will pour the armies of the Last Battle, and the night will descend in your eyes. Your heart will murder this world.”

  Your heart. I could not laugh it off. I could not pretend his words did not affect me. But the cruelty in his voice made me sick. I could see history in that moment, a glimpse of zealots and Inquisitors, men who struck fire to women, preaching brimstone to witches; suicide bombers and word twisters; ages upon ages of men wearing violence as religion, born again in his eyes. Then and now were all the same. The circle never ended.

  “Enough,” I said. “You’re done.”

  “No,” Cribari whispered. “You and I. We are not done, no matter what may come. You are an abomination.” His gaze flicked past me to Grant. “Both of you, against the natural order. Our Lord will take you. I will take you, as charged. You will be destroyed.”

  Anger uncoiled in Grant’s eyes. “You won’t touch her.” “I will not stop.” Cribari jerked forward, cheeks reddening, long pale fingers digging into the wall behind him like claws. “It ends here, before she breeds like the rest of those bitch queens and passes on the filth of her blood. All these centuries spent watching her lineage, leaving our marks so that our warnings would not be forgotten—”

  Cribari kept talking, but I no longer heard him. Grant was quivering, his face so stony, so furious—utterly white with rage—that a great wash of heat flowed over me, and it was fear: stinking, bowel-loosening fear. I looked back, and saw Zee and the others peering out from under the bed.

  Grant’s flute was in its case, but his hand grabbed mine, squeezing like a sunlit vise, and I heard a rising rumble in his chest, felt power rolling off his skin, and when he opened his mouth, it was like hearing the sob of a mountain in winter, low and gray and aching with age.

  Cribari’s mouth snapped shut, and he swayed against the wall, clutching at his collar. He raked his nails across his throat, opening and closing his mouth like a dying fish—squeezing shut his eyes as though in terrible pain. He tried to speak, but all I heard was a hiss, and he clapped his hands over his ears. Grant showed nothing—no mercy, no compassion—just cold detachment, determination. He never paused to take a breath. His voice shed its humanity, undulating like the back of a dragon, and the air rippled with it, moving against me as though a great wind was being born, or a mighty fist clenched.

  The priest screamed. Blood trickled from his ears. I felt, more than saw, Zee and the others creeping free from the shadows, staring, and I tugged hard on Grant’s hand, calling his name. He did not look at me. In his eyes—in his eyes—I imagined a faint glow.

  Lightbringer.

  “Grant!” I shouted, and punched him in the face.

  His voice finally broke, and the silence created a physical vacuum that made my ears pop and sucked all the air out of my lungs. He staggered, and fell to his knees. I went down with him, still holding his hand, trying to keep him from hitting the floor too hard. He was a big man, and I got dragged down.

  “Oh, God,” Grant breathed, chest heaving. He started to cough, then gag. He pressed his brow into the floor, hands balled into fists. A flush covered his skin, rising from his throat into his face. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder, holding him to me. Pressing my cheek to his. He coughed again, and blood spattered the floor.

  I stared, horrified. Grant grabbed my hand. “What have I done?”

  I tore my gaze from the blood to look at Cribari. The priest lay very still. I pressed my shaking hand to his throat and felt a pulse.

  “He’s alive,” I said, and Grant exhaled sharply, closing his eyes. Murmuring a breathless, fervent prayer.

  Zee and the others shimmered out from under the bed. My little wolves, hunched down, staring hungrily at the unconscious priest before moving on to Grant. Zee pushed close, placing one hand on the man’s knee, while Dek and Mal slithered free of my hair, their tails coiled around my neck. Aaz watched us all, red eyes large.

  I looked at Father Ross again. His chest rose and fell against the leather restraints, but that was his only sign of life. His face was slack, pale and waxen. Zee leaned over to smell the man, and his lips pulled back, revealing long shining teeth and a glistening black tongue. “Blood-runner. Blood soaked. Been meddled with, this one. Altered.”

  Bad, bad, bad. I could not imagine what had been altered inside the priest, though I thought of Franco and knew the possibilities were endless. Zee rattled off a stream of words to the others. Raw and Aaz went very still, while Dek and Mal growled, smoke puffing from their nostrils. All of them studied Father Ross.

  “What?” I asked, sharing a troubled glance with Grant.

  “Know that scent,” Zee said, as Aaz quietly snarled. “Skinner scent.”

  “Do you have the Avatar’s name?”

  “Too many names,” whispered the little demon, a trace of hate in his red gaze. “Too many skins he wears.”

  I heard footsteps pounding down the hall outside the room. Zee breathed, “Maxine. Trouble.”

  “How much trouble?” I asked him, as Raw and Aaz leaned against the door, digging their toes into the floor. Zee tilted his head, as though listening—and barked out one sharp word. The little demons fell away from the door, scrabbling for the shadows under the bed. Dek and Mal disappeared into my hair. Zee winked away last, shooting me an inexplicable look over his shoulder, just before he dove into the thin line of shadow beneath the door. Like watching a wolf get swallowed by a black thread. I blinked hard, trying to clear my eyes as Grant’s music pulsed unabated in my head.

  But the door swung open. And I had to blink again.

  Father Lawrence stood before me. His breathing was ragged, his brown cheeks flushed. He was holding a gun.

  “Hunter Kiss,” he said. “You have to run now.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I had no manners, not even with priests. I said, “What the fuck?”

  “The fuck is this,” replied Father Lawrence, rather mildly, as he pointed the gun at the ceiling. “You need to stand the hell up and get your pert little ass out of this building.”

  I stared. Grant staggered to his feet, using his cane and a chair to push himself up. He wiped blood from his mouth and gave the short, round priest a careful once-over that was distinctly wary. “Frank. It’s been ten years, but you didn’t used to have a potty mouth.”

  “And you’re a grown man who still uses the word potty. Now move it.”

  I did
not move. Father Lawrence was a great deal more off-putting than zombies and men with reptile eyes. The bumbling little priest was still soft-spoken, but that was the only similarity between that man—and the one who now stood before me. His transformation was utterly inexplicable. Even his posture was different. I looked at Grant, but he was staring at Father Ross. Still unconscious. Relaxed against his restraints.

  “I can help him,” said Grant, but there was a paleness to his face that was frightening, and when he suddenly coughed into his hand, he looked at his palm and closed it into a fist. Hiding it from me.

  “No.” Father Lawrence stepped over Cribari without giving him a glance. “You have to leave him. He’s changed now. He’s not the man you knew.”

  “Yes, he is. I can see it.” Grant settled his gaze on Father Lawrence. “What are you doing here? What is this?”

  “Insanity,” said the priest, tapping the gun against his own chest. “And a series of events that, honestly, I don’t understand your involvement in. She, on the other hand, makes perfect sense.”

  “That’s great,” I muttered, finally standing. “Lovely. Care to explain?”

  Father Lawrence gave me a long, steady look. “Right now there are ten men trapped on the first floor of this building, some of whom are attempting to access a broken elevator. The rest are no doubt trying to batter down the locked and barricaded stairwell door. Eventually, they will manage to open it. And when they do, it would be best if you were long gone. Unless you feel like murdering men who are simply following orders.”

  “Men who want to kill me.”

  “Men who are supposed to capture him.” Father Lawrence pointed at Grant. “And distract you. Throwing away their lives if they have to, which they will if they come near you with the weapons they’re carrying.”

  “You know too much about me,” I said.

  “I know enough to be terrified,” Father Lawrence replied. “Just as I know enough to feel certain that I shouldn’t be.”

  He looked at Grant. “You really won’t leave without trying to help him?”

  Determination flooded his face. “No.”

  “Shit,” said Father Lawrence. He pointed the gun at Father Ross’s chest and pulled the trigger.

  It was a small room. Big blast. Close range. Blood should have been everywhere, spraying from a chest cavity the size of my head.

  None of that happened. The bullet slammed into Father Ross’s chest with as much disruption as a finger slicing through water. No blood. No wound. But the priest’s eyes fluttered open, and he sucked a deep breath into his lungs, shoulders straining against the restraints. Pale as death.

  Dek trilled a warning in my ear. Grant lurched toward Father Ross and I stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Our movements caught the priest’s attention, though—and suddenly I felt like a mouse frozen in front of a snake. Desperate not to be seen.

  Too late. He turned his head to look at us, without emotion, or recognition for Grant. His eyes were human, a liquid green, pale as sea foam. And for one moment, just one, I thought it would be all right.

  But he changed. I saw it happen, a split-second strike that was human, and something more: primal, cold, as though a piece of the man’s soul had been hacked away and replaced with the heart of some pure animal hunger, thoughtless and without remorse.

  He lunged toward us, body rigid and straining. His jaw cracked open. The inside of his mouth was black as a cave. I saw rows and rows of teeth, impossible numbers of them, like a piranha—and I froze, staring, everything inside me shriveling into a hard, hot knot that made me sick at heart. The nameless thing inside the skin of the priest terrified me more than any demon, more even than the promise of the failing prison veil.

  Demons had codes of honor, ruthless though they might be. This creature had nothing but the kill. I could taste it.

  Resurrecting his creations, Jack had said. Setting them loose. Like this was some goddamn playground for murder. No telling how many humans the Avatar had modified—like Father Ross, or Franco, or that unseen thing in the woods that had stalked Jack and me.

  Well, fuck that.

  “You want to know why we didn’t have to worry about burial arrangements for the nuns?” Father Lawrence said quietly, as Father Ross fumed against his restraints. “Because there were no bodies left.”

  “I can reach him,” Grant said urgently, staring at his former friend. “I can bring him back. I can see—”

  “No,” Father Lawrence said, and shot the priest again, this time in the head.

  No clean wound this time. The bullet exploded through Father Ross’s brow, and took most of his brain with it. Blood dripped down the wall. Flashed me back to my mother, but that didn’t slow me down as I slammed into Grant, shielding his body. He fought to get past me—but not to the dead priest. He was staring at Father Lawrence, and there was rage in his eyes. Grief.

  Father Lawrence stood back, meeting that terrible gaze, and the only sign of his remorse, or fear, was his trembling hands. His left fingers encircled his right wrist, holding himself and the gun steady. He pointed the weapon at the floor. If he had pointed it anywhere else, I think I might have killed him.

  “Hate me,” he said quietly, staring at Grant. “But there’s more at stake than saving a murderer who volunteered to have . . . that . . . done to him.”

  “He wouldn’t have,” whispered Grant. “Not Luke.”

  Compassion moved through the priest’s gaze. “I don’t know why you were forced to leave the Church, but it’s been ten years. After you were gone, Father Cribari groomed Father Ross. Brought him into our fold—”

  “Your fold,” Grant interrupted hoarsely. “What—”

  “Later.” Father Lawrence backed away toward the door, kicking Cribari in the head as he stepped over him.

  The priest did not stir. Breathing, but still unconscious. Maybe in a coma. A girl could hope. I wondered why Father Lawrence did not shoot him, too, since he was so gun-happy—but I kept my mouth shut. Whether or not Cribari continued to function after what Grant had done to him was also a moot point. He was already a dead man. Zee had first dibs.

  I tugged on Grant’s arm. When he did not move, I kissed his shoulder and pressed my cheek against his chest. He made a choked sound, deep in his throat. I closed my eyes, aching for him. But not sorry to see Father Ross dead.

  “Come on,” I whispered.

  “I could have saved him,” he breathed, eyes red-rimmed with furious grief. “Maxine, I could see Luke in there, beneath those instincts. He was in so much pain.”

  I slid my gloved hand under his chin, and forced him to look at me. Said nothing. Just let him read my aura, my heart, my eyes. I thought, I love you, I am here, I am with you, and tried to send those feelings into whatever light surrounded me. Messages shining in a bottle.

  Somewhere distant, a crash. Father Lawrence swore quietly. “Now or never.”

  Grant closed his eyes. His large warm hand slid up my jaw, his thumb caressing the corner of my mouth. He bent close and pressed his mouth to my cheek, kissing me softly. He was trembling, and smelled like sweat and sickness. It frightened me to feel that weakness in him. As though something vital had drained away.

  “Hunter Kiss,” said Father Lawrence urgently, standing in the hall.

  Grant took my hand and white-knuckled his cane with the other. He led me silently from Father Ross’s corpse, and over Cribari’s unconscious body. We joined Father Lawrence, and neither of us looked back.

  He led us down the hall. Earlier, in the cathedral, I would have said the priest walked like a muffin, his gait rolling and easy, soft. His walk was still the same, but I was looking at him with different eyes, and what had rolled was now graceful, and what was soft I could not call careful.

  We entered the stairwell. I heard crashing sounds beneath us. Metal screeching. Father Lawrence began climbing stairs. Grant did the same, but there was a sluggishness to his movements that was unlike him, even with his dependence on a
cane. He coughed again, but I grabbed his wrist before he could hide his hand. Blood spotted his palm. Not as much, but enough.

  Neither of us said a word. Grant twisted his hand out of mine but squeezed my fingers before pulling away.

  Father Lawrence tapped the railing impatiently. Grant started climbing again, faster now, pushing himself harder. I trailed behind, watching Zee pace me in the shadows, while Raw and Aaz scrabbled in perfect silence over our heads, clinging to walls and the underside of the stairs. The priest never noticed, but Grant glanced in their direction: jaw tight, gaze hollow.

  Think of Father Ross like Old Yeller, I told myself, trying to feel some compassion for the dead man. Best friend to a sweet kid. Put down because of rabies. Tragic, a real tearjerker.

  Cry me a river. I felt stone cold when I thought about the man. Unable to overcome my terror of someone else like him, set loose. In a schoolyard, maybe, or a hospital, or any city, in any part of the world.

  So you go to the source. You kill the maker of the disease.

  “What do you know about this . . . Gabriel . . . that Cribari has been taking his orders from?” I asked Father Lawrence, seeking out his small round frame in the darkened stairwell.

  “Never met him,” replied the priest sharply, though there was a moment of hesitation. “Don’t want to. Seems to me that anyone who encounters that . . . thing . . . comes back changed. Whether they wanted to be or not.”

  “Does Cribari have a way of contacting him?”

  “No.” Father Lawrence paused on the landing, waiting for us to catch up. Sweat glimmered on his brow, and he was slightly out of breath, as was Grant. “It’s not as though we’re living on top of each other. People come and go. Cribari comes and goes. It’s been like that for years, but three months ago everything changed. He changed. Up here.” The priest tapped his head with a short, fat finger. “He started saying an angel had come to him. That it was time to . . . to change the mission of our order.”

  “Your order,” Grant said heavily, leaning hard on his cane. “The kind of order that condones the murder of sick priests in cold blood?”