Vanquished

by Nancy Holder

  * * *

  “Look,” Autumn said, returning to Skye’s side.

  Bishop Diego, Lune, and Soleil headed their way along with other witches and Catholics. All around them vampires were choking, falling, and turning to dust.

  “The virus,” Skye whispered. “It’s coming. It’s here.”

  Skye reached forward and kissed Antonio on the cheek, folding her arms around him as if she could protect him from death. “I’m sorry, Antonio.”

  He didn’t answer. He was staring down at Jenn, who lay still in his arms, gazing up at him with love, and so many hopes and regrets.

  “I love you,” Jenn whispered.

  “Te amo,” Antonio answered. “Forever.”

  “No, look,” Autumn insisted, pointing at Skye’s crown.

  * * *

  Barely able to move her eyes, Jenn followed the little witch’s insistent finger. She found herself staring at her own reflection in the shards of mirror.

  Then she caught her breath, and let out a laugh of pure amazement.

  Because she saw Antonio’s reflection there too.

  Jenn laughed again. Looking confused, Skye took off the crown and studied it. Her eyes widened. She looked from it to Antonio, and back again.

  “Oh, my God,” Antonio murmured. “My God.”

  “It’s a miracle!” Skye cried.

  And everyone in the little group began to cheer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As Dr. Sherman promised, the virus was carried on the air, and it infected the entire planet. Within twenty-four hours all the vampires were dead.

  Antonio and I survived, because we are not vampires. I have to say it again: We are not vampires.

  As far as we can tell, we’re ordinary people. And we are the new Hunters of Salamanca—a pair. It’s a name we’re proud to carry. With all the vampires gone, we have to decide what to do, exactly, how to go about healing the world. But we have some ideas about that.

  And so we’ll be writing a new Hunters’ Manual, together. This is the last page of my diary, recovered from the battlefield, from the ruins of the SUV that I was riding in at the beginning of the assault. I had packed it along with all my weapons. Habit, I guess. I’ve become so accustomed to having it with me.

  That will change, though. It’s time to start a new book.

  And a new life, with Antonio.

  —from the diary of Jenn Leitner,

  retrieved from the ruins

  THE MONASTERY OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF ST. ANDREW

  THE ALLIES

  Jamie watched as witches and soldiers, street fighters and Catholics crowded into the monastery. Some camped outside. No one wanted to leave. All of them were happy to be alive, and more than a little surprised.

  The effects of the elixir wore off.

  The Salamancans took over the little chapel of the monastery for three funerals: Noah’s, Father Juan’s, and Heather’s. Two coffins, one urn, a hella lot of priests, and a rabbi, for Noah. Seemed you had to have a Jew bury you if you were a Jew, or you were considered an “abandoned corpse.”

  Jamie wore a black sweater, jeans, and kicker boots. He dearly wished for a smoke, but he’d given it up, in honor of Noah.

  Skye and the coven wore street clothes and crowns of roses. Nobody had time for special outfits, except for His Eminence Diego Cardinal Gutiérrez, once a bishop and now promoted on the battlefield, who had flown in from Spain just before the battle with a heavenly host of old friends of Father Juan’s; and Father Wadim, who was officiating; and his monks. They’d given Antonio a brown monk’s robe to wear; he was serving in the capacity of a layman—a faithful member of the Catholic Church, but not a priest or someone hoping to be one. Jamie figured that had something to do with Jenn. He was working his way toward being happy about Antonio being alive.

  But Jamie had more important things to do at the moment than nurse habitual vendettas. He had matters of the soul to ponder, and of saying farewell to those who had given their lives for the cause. Jamie knew the funeral Mass: knew the words, knew when to stand, kneel, and pray. Gramma Esther had shared the story of the elixir, and no one, least of all Jamie, knew what to think about Father Juan. Questions of all sorts swirled in his mind. Had Father Juan really been a living saint—the patron saint of Salamanca, St. John of the Cross? Had he, Jamie O’Leary, taken communion with one of God’s own chosen? The thought made him tremble more than the Cursed Ones ever had.

  Jamie looked at Holgar, whose face was somber. Everyone was pretty bloody glad to be alive, and there had been moments of heroism among them. But Holgar and Viorica had saved the world.

  And that’s why I didn’t shoot him, Jamie thought.

  Jamie had had two excellent chances to do so: The first was when Holgar and the werewolf queen had come bounding away from the fray—deserting the losing side, or so Jamie had thought at first. Then Noah had shown up, all Mossad defending them, and then Holgar and Viorica had begun pouring one cylinder of liquid into another, and the closest vamps had collapsed and burst into dust. That’s when Jamie had realized what was happening. The virus, that was what. So he’d kept the gun with the silver bullets down at his side. Then, after Noah had died in his arms, so out of his head that he’d thought Jamie was his dead wife, and with the virus doing the killing for them, Jamie had had another clear shot at Holgar. But he hadn’t taken it. When all was said and done, he knew that he would never take it.

  Jamie had dropped the bullet marked with an H in Father Juan’s coffin.

  Now, during the Mass, Jamie thought of Skye in a werewolf’s arms, and he was repulsed down to his boots. But maybe Holgar would go for the new wolf, Viorica.

  You’re the right bastard, O’Leary, he thought, crossing himself after His Eminence the cardinal, Father Wadim, and Antonio all crossed themselves first. Wolfie saved the world, and Skye loves him. Leave it lie. Let it go. Be happy for them.

  Kate caught Jamie’s eyes and smiled faintly. She’d made it through, and so had Skye’s little Autumn, who kept tugging on Skye’s hand, asking what was happening. The child had never been to a Christian funeral. All kinds of firsts she had in store, and a whole new life. Skye had adopted her. Kate was heading back to Dublin after the funerals.

  He could finally go where he wanted. For years he’d dreamed of returning to Ireland to kill the werewolves who’d massacred his family and the vampires who’d let it happen. The priest who’d forced Jamie to stand on the sidelines (and by so doing had probably saved his life) had been gunned down, but Jamie had never felt any need to blame the Church entire for the destruction of his family.

  Curious, that, he thought.

  In the monastery the faithful were called to take communion, and Jamie found himself standing in front of Antonio, who held out a wafer to him. Jamie stubbornly set his jaw, and Antonio gazed at him steadily, the wafer extended.

  It was the good father himself turned him into a real boy, he thought.

  After communion Father Wadim and the cardinal sprinkled holy water on, and wafted incense around, the coffins of Heather and Father Juan. At the rabbi’s nod conveying permission, they did the same to Noah’s casket.

  “Go in peace. The Mass is ended,” Cardinal Gutiérrez, Father Juan’s dearest friend, said with a melancholy tone.

  Then, as had been planned, Jamie, Antonio, Holgar, Skye, Jenn, and Esther served as Noah’s pallbearers. They carried his simple wooden coffin outside to the monastery graveyard, where other soldiers had dug a hole for it. As the Salamancans looked on, Noah’s coffin was lowered, and the rabbi showed them how to rend their clothes. Only seven types of relative were expected to tear their clothes to show their grief: sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and spouses.

  The Salamancans told the rabbi they were all brothers and sisters of the fallen warrior, and so they rent their garments by slicing a vertical cut in their clothing over the right side of their chests. For parents and children it was directly over the heart. But that was where Jamie
’s real cuts lay—in his heart. In the end he had found a kindred soul in Noah, and the bonds of battle had made them true brothers. Losing him felt like losing his little sister all over again.

  Together they recited the Twenty-third Psalm: The Lord is my shepherd . . .

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  But not dust like the Cursed Ones. They were gone. Reports were coming in from all over the world. The vampires were dead, but those who had profited from helping them were putting up a fight as governments tried to seize back the power they’d lost. Through it all, Kent Wallace, the Voice of the Resistance, kept broadcasting, but he had fallen silent the night before, and the Salamancans were worried about him.

  “Amen,” said a very familiar voice.

  Jamie looked across the grave at a dark-skinned man who walked slowly up to the edge. He had a limp, and when he came to a stop, he stood slightly crooked.

  “Kent Wallace,” Jamie murmured. And after the rabbi completed the service, everyone gathered around Kent, slapping him on the back, hugging him, thanking him. Word swept through the campgrounds that the Voice of the Resistance was among them, and an impromptu celebration began to take shape. The monks brought out brandy and provisions. The werewolves brought game. Local Transylvanians arrived in droves, bringing more food and drink and inviting the overflow of fighters to stay with them in their villages.

  “You kept the resistance alive,” Jenn said to Kent over buoyant Gypsy music. Many were dancing in crazy circles, toasting and laughing. “Then you coordinated all our efforts.”

  “But I didn’t know about the virus,” Kent said. “That was pure black crosses.”

  “And Salamanca and friends,” Jamie said. His smile took in Viorica, who was performing a belly dance for an appreciative audience of soldiers and werewolves in their human form. Eriko’s brother, Kenji, was trying unsuccessfully to imitate her movements, to the delight of the spectators.

  “What do you think will happen now?” Skye asked Kent, as she settled down beside him on a wooden bench brought outside for the festivities.

  Kent stretched out his leg and rapped on it. It sounded like plastic. “I lost my leg to a werewolf bite,” he said, then smiled at Holgar as he came up behind Skye and put his arms around her. “Not that I’m faulting all werewolves. My point is, only vampires died from the virus. Just because the good guys won, doesn’t mean there are no bad guys left . . . some werewolves, some human. Vampires weren’t alone in subjugating the human race.”

  “That’s true,” Jenn said, as Antonio brought her something to drink. Antonio, in the sunlight. Jamie was floored. He’d never dreamed he’d see such a thing. He couldn’t help his lopsided grin. It was hard to stay sour when there was so much happiness in the air.

  “We have an organization now,” Kent continued. “Worldwide. We can do a lot of good.”

  “We’ll help,” Antonio said, and Jenn nodded.

  After a time Jamie went back down to the graves. Noah was buried. Heather’s ashes, or at least someone’s ashes, had been given to her parents. In two days, after more had arrived to pay their respects, Father Juan would be buried in the monastery tomb, where the monks went to their rest.

  Jamie stood gazing down at Noah’s grave, and thought of Eriko. Her grave was a mound of rocks at Salamanca. He’d go back and bury her proper.

  Then he went into the monastery, down to the room where Sade was keeping to herself. The poor girl was so ashamed of acting the spy, even though she’d been mesmerized with no way to fight it, that she didn’t want to show her face.

  “Hey,” Jamie said, knocking on her door. “I’ve come to visit.”

  He pushed the door open to find Jenn’s parents sitting with Sade. The outcasts.

  He cocked his head. “You know Jenn’s forgiven you,” he said to Paul Leitner.

  “How can I ever forgive myself?” the stricken man asked.

  “You don’t need to. God handles them kind of things,” Jamie replied. Then he walked over to Sade and crouched down beside her. “They don’t blame you,” he said. “Hell, Antonio’s got more to answer for than you, and he’s up there dancing a jig.”

  Then Jamie had an idea. “You know Kent, the Voice of the Resistance? He’s here.”

  “Really?” Sade cried, sounding like an excited young girl for the first time.

  “And truly,” he replied. “Go on up.” When she hesitated, he jerked his head toward the door. “He’s cute,” he added.

  “Come with me?” she asked Jamie.

  So with a nod at the Leitners, Jamie escorted Sade upstairs. Then he wandered back into the chapel, and sat in a pew. He was exhausted. And he wanted a cigarette.

  “My son,” said the cardinal from the back of the chapel. He had asked them to call him Father Diego, which Jamie was having a little trouble with.

  His Eminence sat beside Jamie.

  “Buenos días, Father,” Jamie replied.

  “You’re not celebrating,” the priest observed.

  “I’m thinking it’s too important a thing to throw a party over,” Jamie replied. Then he flushed, because that sounded priggish. “But sure and I’ll be drinking a pint later. Better yet a gallon.”

  Father Diego chuckled. He gazed at Father Juan’s closed casket, candlelight flickering on the polished wood.

  “Father Juan was my dearest and oldest friend.”

  Jamie slid the cardinal a glance. “And was he what . . . who . . . Esther says he was?”

  Father Diego raised a brow. “Do you think a saint walked among you?”

  “Bloody hell, Your Eminence, pardon my language, but I know a miracle when I see one.” He waved a hand. “And this is all a miracle.”

  Father Diego nodded as if to himself. “Do you know that Father Juan was very worried about you? He was afraid all the hate you carried in your heart would harm your chances of survival. And . . . of becoming what you were meant to be.”

  Jamie frowned quizzically. “And what is that?”

  “One of us,” Father Diego replied. “A churchman.”

  “A priest?” Jamie cried. “Are you daft?” Then he backpedaled. “Meaning no disrespect, Your Eminence. Father.”

  “Still, it’s how he saw you,” Father Diego said. “And it’s how I see you.”

  “I’m not exactly what they look for in a priest.” The idea was ridiculous, and it almost made him smile. Part of him, though, wondered what life would have been like without the Cursers and the werewolves that killed his family.

  “No, but you’re exactly what we need. You’re a man of principles who is fiercely loyal but questions everything. You push back when others ask you to do things that don’t make sense. There are tough days ahead, and we’ll need priests like you.”

  Jamie was at a loss for words.

  “I’ve been praying for all of you,” Father Diego said. “I think you have a vocation. But listen to your heart, Jamie. It’ll tell you where you belong.”

  Father Diego rose and left the chapel, leaving a gobsmacked Jamie in his wake.

  * * *

  The night of revelry continued. Tiffany, Heather’s friend, told sweet stories about her that helped Jenn and her parents deal with their loss. Kenji led everyone in a medley of Eriko’s songs, back when she and her two friends had sung together as the Vampire Three. The brothers of St. Andrew broke out more brandy.

  The next day some of the fighters left to return home. Others couldn’t bear to leave the site of humanity’s victory. Gradually, thoughts turned to other matters.

  Wonderful matters.

  * * *

  Father Diego beamed at the gathered assembly. Skye was radiant in one of the white robes with golden spangles that the witches had brought with them. Jenn had spent two hours trying to braid Skye’s hair just right and lace it with flowers. It should have been simple, but it had been years since her fingers had practiced anything that wasn’t related to killing, and what would have been simple for her twelve-year-old self proved maddening
ly difficult. The end result was worth it, though.

  Jenn stood beside Skye. Both of them held bouquets of wildflowers. It seemed so odd to be doing something so normal. Jenn was Skye’s bridesmaid—the maid of honor, actually. Was this what real people did? Average, normal people? Was this her life now?

  It seemed impossible to comprehend. There were so many things left to be done, pieces to be picked up, nations and cities to be rebuilt. Universities, too. Father Diego had confided in her that morning that the University of Salamanca was to be reconstructed. Even if the vampires were truly gone, that didn’t mean there wasn’t other evil to fight. Who knew when hunters would be needed again? He had offered Antonio and Jenn teaching positions there. They were the new Hunters of Salamanca, and where else should they be? Jenn, for one, couldn’t think of a good reason to turn down his offer.

  She’d always harbored secret fantasies about returning home, but the California Bay Area was barely recognizable anymore, so vast was the destruction left by the Cursed Ones. The same could be said of her family. She looked at her parents, who sat a bit apart, her father still horribly ashamed by what he’d done.

  She felt eyes on her and turned her head so that she could see Antonio, standing between Holgar and Jamie. She was still secretly shocked that Jamie had agreed to be a groomsman. But whatever ill will Jamie had always seemed to hold for Holgar, it had somehow vanished during the battle. Maybe he was mellowing—although she seriously doubted that. Father Diego was going to have his hands full with the likes of Jamie as a priest. Jamie had announced that he was going to enter the seminary—just as Antonio had done nearly seventy years before.

  The three men looked striking in tuxedos, although where they had found them she didn’t want to know. Apparently, acquiring the tuxedos had been the highlight of Holgar’s bachelor party. Antonio had muttered something about “liberating them,” and that was more than she’d wanted to hear. But her heart melted as she stared at him in it. His dark hair was longer, a bit rakish, and his ruby cross earring brought out the rosy glow of his once-pallid cheeks.

  Next to her, Soleil and Lune also stood up as bridesmaids for Skye. They were also wearing spangled white robes. Autumn was a flower girl.