by Graham Brown
Suddenly, with great speed, he moved. His right hand snapped toward her. It found her gun, grabbing the barrel. She pulled the trigger out of instinct and fired two shots right into his chest before he snatched it away.
She saw the fibers of his coat burst and fray where the bullets had hit. She saw the flap open with the recoil. But in the next instant, she was up against the lamppost. He held her throat with one hand and her weapon in the other.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She wouldn’t do it. Something told her not to.
Look at me.
This time the words were in her head, just like the moment in the conference room in Boston. It made her feel sick and dizzy, yet she still refused.
“I’m not what you think I am,” the blond man said.
“You’re a murderer,” she said.
“He’s the killer,” the man said, pointing to the dead body.
“I heard you talking. You knew him.”
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “But trust me when I tell you, there are darker things in this world than you know. Let this go. You’ve got your man. There he is.”
She was starting to get her wits back. She realized he was holding her neck tight, but not crushing it. She couldn’t understand why he was still standing; he should have been writhing on ground or lying dead, flat out. His coat was thin. He couldn’t have been wearing a vest underneath. Even if he had been, the shots would have knocked him down.
Her mind went back to the incident in New York and all the gunfire that added up to nothing but dead men who might as well have been shooting at a ghost.
She heard the sound of cars approaching fast. She hoped it was Billy Ray.
The blond man heard it too. He glanced down the alley as the headlights swung onto the street. In that instant, she grabbed the small spray can from her belt and aimed it at his face.
He dropped her and spun away. She triggered the can as she fell, blasting a stream out into the air. It coated the back of his jacket and the back of his hair, but just like before, he was gone in a flash, vanishing into the dark by the time she hit the ground.
Headlights swung onto the street, and two cars raced up to her. One slid to a stop; the other sped up in an attempt to follow the suspect.
Billy Ray jumped out and ran to her. “Are you all right?”
She nodded.
He looked at the dead man. “What the hell happened? Did you shoot this guy?”
She struggled to get the words out. “The blond suspect,” she said, “he killed this one.”
“What?”
“He killed this guy before I could stop him.”
Billy Ray helped her get up. “Where’s your gun?”
“He got it away from me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how,” she said defensively. “It happened so fast…I just… ”Her mind cleared and she realized the advantage they’d gained. “I got him, Billy. I doused that son of a bitch with the tracking paint. All we need is access to the satellite, and we can follow him wherever he goes.”
CHAPTER 40
CHRISTIAN HAD put the FBI and NOPD far behind him. They would find the Escalade and trace it to a couple who’d parked it at the airport before boarding a plane to Cancun. The airport security video would be remarkably blurry when it came to his face, though the FBI agent would probably give a better description. It didn’t matter. He’d be hidden in minutes, and he’d remain that way until it was time to meet with Simon at the old church.
Still, he was wary.
Back in the French Quarter, walking briskly along a side street, he felt a presence stalking him. He glanced behind him and across the street.
The feeling vanished.
He moved more cautiously now, sensing something odd was afoot.
Half a block down, he felt it again, as if someone were opening a window for him to see through and then closing it before he could focus on anything inside, but this was a window into someone’s soul. He stopped in his tracks and waited. A woman stepped from the shadows in front of him. She was beautiful and pale and blonde. She was a vampire, like him.
Christian knew of Anya. He’d heard word of her as the most recent of Drake’s chosen Brethren. But he’d never seen her, having been gone long before Drake turned her. Only directly in her presence did he sense what she was.
“I know who you are,” Christian said. “But I have no quarrel with you yet.”
“And none you shall have,” she replied, moving toward him, unafraid.
Christian tried to read her mind, but he found nothing but mist. “What is it you want?”
“I want many things, but they remain for another day’s discussions. Tonight I come only to deliver a message.”
She stopped in her tracks five feet away. He tried again to pry into her mind. But she held fast.
She held up a small wooden box, presenting it as if it were a gift. “From Drake.”
When he didn’t reach for it, she put the box carefully on the ground.
Christian recognized the ancient Chinese puzzle box. Only those who knew its secrets could open it without destroying it. This box had been handmade for Drake. Christian remembered him receiving it a thousand years before, when they were learning the ancient art of sword making and practicing it with members of the Song Dynasty.
He advanced toward the box, feeling Anya’s gaze upon him. He looked up, catching a glimpse of her eyes. He felt as if she were in pain and in need of help. The instant the thought flowed through his mind, Anya took off running. He knew better than to follow her.
He picked up the box and ran his hand across the smooth finish. It had held up well. He unlocked it and opened it. A dagger lay inside.
This Roman dagger was an elegant weapon—long, thin, and sturdy, with serrated edges made to tear and rip as one pulled it out of his enemy. The handle of this type was usually made from steel, but this one was made of ivory. Christian knew this dagger and knew it well. It had cut his throat seventeen centuries ago.
When he joined up with Drake, it had been given to him as a token of peace—and then taken from him when the two had clashed over Elsa.
A note lay beneath it, written in Drake’s hand.
There is much that must be discussed. I suggest a momentary truce with the possibility of reunification. By now, you know what is upon us. We shall meet in the daylight at high noon so there will be no conflict, from either side. There is an old abandoned oil platform sixty miles off the coast, south-southeast of New Orleans. I’m sure you can get there. Tomorrow at noon. I offer the dagger I could have punctured your heart with all those years ago as proof of my veracity.
Drakos of the Legion.
CHAPTER 41
SIMON LATHATCH and Henrick Vanderwall waited at the Lakefront corporate air terminal, the original commercial airport in New Orleans. Time had mostly passed it by, as the airlines and the freight companies had migrated to Louis Armstrong International when it was built.
Still, the small airport had charm, Simon thought. It was a quieter, more secluded place, one where the arrival of a jet with the papal seal on its flank would more than likely go unnoticed.
On the far side of the runway, the waters of Lake Pontchartrain shimmered with the afternoon sun. This day, like others before it, had been filled with rest for Henrick’s crews of hunters, but with the coming of night, they’d go forth and scour the city once again.
“The men are growing impatient,” Henrick told Simon.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Your orders are restraining them,” Henrick said. “They are trained to do one thing—hunt the Nosferatu. They have sworn their life’s blood to the task, and yet, here at this crucial moment, you’ve taken the sword from their hands. We should be looking for Drakos, not shadowing these bottom-feeders.”
At Simon’s direction, the men were to identify any Nosferatu they found and then track them. None were to be destroyed unless cau
ght in the act of attacking a human. And none were to be captured and forced to endure the Cruciatus in an attempt to learn the whereabouts of Drakos.
“Are you suggesting the men know better than I?”
Henrick did not answer immediately. If Simon guessed rightly, he would not challenge the order outright, only try to subvert it.
“Of course not,” Henrick said. “But they chafe at the harness.”
Simon clenched his jaw. He was tired of going through this. “Drakos undoubtedly knows we’re here,” he said. “He hides and bides his time. You will find no path to him through these scavengers. But their lives are exactly the ones this angel is sent to transform. Do you understand?”
Henrick’s eyes suggested he didn’t understand or care.
“I know it’s difficult,” Simon added. “But the only way to find the angel is to witness the transformation it brings. It will not appear with wings of gold and the glory of heaven in its eyes. The prophecy tells us it begins as a childlike soul, unsure of its power or purpose as of yet. Only as it begins its task will it begin to understand. For that reason, the effect of its touch is the proof we seek. A member of the Nosferatu transformed, walking in daylight, crying endless tears. That is the only way to confirm the angel’s presence. By its fruits, we shall know it.”
Henrick was silenced for a moment. But his displeasure was still evident. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes were set forward. He gazed out onto the tarmac where the Vatican’s aircraft, a white-painted Dassault 2000, was turning off the runway and taxiing toward them.
Simon pressed the issue to its logical conclusion. “Why don’t you just speak plainly, Henrick?”
Henrick bristled and finally allowed his anger to break through. “Messini was wrong to extend your term,” he said. “If I were in your position, this would not be occurring. It’s almost as if…”
Henrick checked his anger and held his tongue. Simon could only guess what else he was about to be accused of.
“But you’re not in charge,” Simon pointed out. “And if these are the last days of the curse, you will never be in charge of this office, for it will no longer be needed. I wonder if that’s what angers you.”
The jet was taxiing closer, and by now, the engine noise was too sharp and piercing for any more speech to be heard. At any rate, Henrick didn’t reply; he only stared coldly at Simon.
The jet stopped. A member of the ground crew threw chocks in front of the wheels. The engines shut down, and the wailing noise they produced faded rapidly.
When the door to the jet opened, two guards in black suits came out and positioned themselves on either side of the ramp. Bishop Messini appeared next, taking the stairs cautiously. He reached the bottom and paused.
Henrick turned and walked toward a waiting Land Rover as Simon went forward to meet the bishop. The two embraced.
“Any signs?” Messini asked.
“Nosferatu everywhere, but nothing of the angel.”
“It is said they will be thick like flies at the end,” Messini replied. “So perhaps you are right. Perhaps the final days of the curse are upon us.”
“There is darkness here, but soon there will be light,” Simon told him. “I’m sure of it.”
“I wish I were sure,” Messini said, “but I will trust your judgment. I grant your wish. The Sword of God shall be yours to wield.”
Another pair of guards came out of the aircraft. They carried a narrow protective case, which was four feet long and made of polished stainless steel.
Henrick pulled the Land Rover up, and the guards placed the sword reverently inside.
“Protect it, Simon. This is one of our greatest treasures.”
“No,” Simon replied. “Peace and the Word are our greatest treasures. This is only a valuable tool.”
Messini nodded, but there was no joy in his face.
“We approach a moment of God’s glory,” Simon reminded him. “But you seem so dark.”
“Men in your position have fought with Drakos for seventeen centuries. Four have found him, and they did so with large numbers of hunters alongside them. Mathias even wounded him a thousand years ago, but all of them were killed, and Balthazar was turned and had to be hunted and destroyed himself.”
“You fear for me.”
“I’ve dreamed of your death,” Messini said. “You are not the man you used to be any more than I am. Perhaps Henrick’s zeal and strength would be better suited to this challenge. Perhaps, filled with rage, he can stand up to Drakos. He has a fire in him that burns hot, while ours cools.”
Simon glanced toward the Land Rover. Despite his clashes with Henrick, he had considered this. But strength of body and anger would not prevail against the King of the Fallen any better than a gaggle of hunters had been able to five hundred years ago. He could not inform Messini of his decision—the Bishop would never understand or allow it—but Simon believed he’d found a better champion.
“Henrick covets the sword as he covets power,” Simon explained. “I fear for him in the presence of Drakos.”
“But how can you hope to defeat Drakos alone?”
“None of us can do anything alone, Bishop. I will do what I can and trust in the Father. I believe he has shown me the way.”
Messini embraced Simon and kissed him on both cheeks. “I will return to the Vatican and await your news. May the peace of God be with you.”
“And also with you.”
Messini turned and began climbing the stairs back into the aircraft. Simon watched him go, hoping he would live to see his friend once again.
CHAPTER 42
KATE PFEIFFER stared down at the Y-pattern incision on the dead man’s chest. The cut had been stitched with black sutures, creating a clear contrast against the man’s white skin.
Kate had seen so many bodies in her day that this one shouldn’t have affected her, especially considering that he had been in the process of murdering a young woman shortly before he met his demise. But everything seemed different this morning. As if her world had changed. As if, somehow, the boundaries of reality were no longer as firm as they’d once been.
The bullet hole from the first gunshot had been drilled dead center into his chest and the second right between his eyes. It left a small hole in the front of his skull, and the coroner had sewn on what they’d found of the back half of his skull. His face had scars, with his nose half-missing.
She reached down and opened the man’s eyelids. Last night, they’d stared at the barrel of a gun as the man did nothing to prevent his own execution. Why? Why would anyone, even a killer like this man had obviously been, not fight for his or her life?
“What the hell are you doing?” a voice snapped from behind her.
She turned to see a man in a lab coat—John Black, the coroner. He was short, about five foot two; he wore glasses as thick as bottle caps, and his hair was gray and thinning. From what she knew, he was also a Southern Baptist preacher and had been the county coroner for twenty-seven years.
Kate turned, pulling out her badge. “My name is Kate Pfeiffer, and I’m with the FBI.”
“I know who you are,” he said, walking over to the table. “That don’t mean you can go touching the guests.”
Kate felt as if she was being scolded by a teacher in grade school, but she was more angry at herself. She knew better. “I’m sorry.”
The coroner studied her face and then turned to the body in front of her. “You look spooked,” he said. “Can’t say that I blame you. This is some of the most bizarre stuff I’ve ever seen. And we get it all down here.”
“Did you find anything wrong with this guy?”
He cocked his head to the side. “They don’t come to me in perfect health, Agent Pfeiffer.”
“I’m not talking about the obvious,” she said. “I think this guy was our killer, but I watched him sit on the ground and let another guy shoot him in the face. What I’m wondering is whether he was drugged. Was he paralyzed somehow? Was his back brok
en?”
“No, no, and no. None of the above,” John Black said. “The only thing in his stomach was blood—the woman’s blood. So if she dies, you’re right, this guy was the murderer.”
“Blood?”
“Yes, blood,” the coroner said.
“He drank her blood?”
“So it would seem.”
Kate felt sick. The whole thing was becoming more demented every moment. It made her think of the other bloodless victims. It made her think of the blond man’s words.
“There are darker things in this world than you know,” she muttered, repeating them.
“Sadly, you’re right,” the coroner replied.
“Not my words,” she said. “The blond guy. The one who shot him.”
“Oh yeah,” he replied. “Your mystery vigilante.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Except, they knew each other. I know they did. This doesn’t make any sense.”
The coroner laughed. “You want to hear about some things that don’t make sense? Come over here, young lady.”
She moved around the other side of the body.
He pointed to a scar on the man’s side. “Big knife wound,” he said. “Right between the ribs. As far as I can tell, it lacerated his lungs, liver, and left kidney. Can’t think of a reason why he wasn’t already dead from such a wound, especially as it seems no one ever cleaned or stitched it.”
While Kate took that in, the coroner pulled back the sheet, exposing the man’s leg and pointing to another small incision he’d made. “When I moved his calf, I felt something inside the muscle tissue, about six inches below this point. I had an X-ray taken, and then I cut out what we found.”
He held up a glass vial. A little round ball rolled around inside.
“What is it? A marble?”
“A musket ball. Solid lead. Fifty caliber.”
“Who gets shot with a musket ball?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I searched every inch of his leg, and there’s no sign of an entry wound—no scar, no damaged tissue, no calcium deposit on the bones.”
