Shadows of the Midnight Sun

by Graham Brown

  Henrick glared at him, quickly calculating the significance of the statement. As he realized what Simon was suggesting, Henrick’s eyes contorted with rage and he reared back and smashed Simon’s face once again, this time with all the force he could muster.

  CHAPTER 47

  NIGHT HAD fallen over New Orleans. Unlike other nights in the past week, this one was as black as ink. The moon would not rise until nearly 4:00 a.m., and the Midnight Sun, which had faded in magnitude with each passing day, was gone. Without a telescope to view it, the supernova was little more than a grayish wisp in the sky.

  The once-in-a-thousand-years event was now just a memory. The end of Christian’s long wait had come, and he was glad of it. Glad he’d fought the calling and sought refuge in the old church. Glad he’d met a man who could see past the long history of war and into Christian’s heart. Glad he would soon be in possession of a power that would overcome Drake and end this madness.

  He stopped a half block from the front of the church. A single light was on in the upper room, just as Simon had promised. All other lights were out.

  Christian stepped forward and began walking. The familiar pain began to wash over him, but he welcomed it now. It felt like penance or even proof of the humanity that still lived somewhere deep inside him. He wondered if that’s what Hecht had been after when he held the flame to his hand. To feel anything was a gift; to feel nothing was the cruelest part of the curse. Dead but alive. Entombed in one’s own body.

  He ran up the old stone steps to the church’s entrance, his body stoked by the fires of purpose and destiny. He pulled on the handle and opened the heavy wooden door. His head was buzzing, his senses failing. He stood gazing inside.

  The church was dimly lit. It appeared empty, just as it had before.

  Almost.

  Down the long aisle, at the altar, in front of the crucifix, Simon Lathatch knelt. His dark robe draped the floor, his clasped hands resting on the communion rail in front of him. His head bowed, he seemed to be trembling.

  Christian glanced around the church and moved inside. He walked forward, conscious of his own footsteps at first and then losing even them to the clamoring in his head. It was like tunnel vision affecting all senses at the same time.

  “Simon,” he whispered, continuing forward.

  The closer he got to the altar, the brighter the pain was and the weaker he felt. He legs trembled and shook, threatening to give out on him. He fought forward, reaching his newfound ally and placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “Simon.”

  Simon turned his head. He looked like a fighter who’d just gone fifteen rounds and lost. His face was bloody and bruised, his nose broken, one eye swelling shut. His hands were tied to one another and tied to the rail of the altar. His mouth was taped over, and his feet and knees were bound to keep him in a kneeling position. Tears flowed down his weathered face.

  A spike of adrenaline surged through Christian. He reached for the tape and pulled it free.

  “Run!” Simon managed, his voice cracking. “Run!”

  The sound of the main doors banging open turned Christian around. Two men stood there now—hunters in all their deadly glory.

  From the side and back doors came four others. And then from the nave, where the choir might sing, came a sixth man. In his hand, he carried a gleaming sword. Christian felt a new wave of pain.

  “Is this what you’re looking for, demon?”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon whispered to Christian. He seemed to gather his strength for one last plea. “Henrick, please. You’re making a mistake.”

  Henrick ignored Simon, addressing Christian instead. “You may have corrupted his mind, but your actions will not bring you victory. You have come here to find only your destruction.”

  Christian stood up slowly, his whole body shaking. His greatest fears were realized. With his head ringing and his strength drained, he had no chance. He was dead and he knew it.

  “Not so dangerous in here, are you?” Henrick said. “Perhaps I should thank our disgraced former leader for luring you to this spot.”

  Christian fought to clear his mind. Despite a desire to protect Simon, he stepped back. Distance from the altar would help, if only slightly. “I want what you want,” he said. “Drakos is our enemy.”

  Henrick stepped forward, unafraid. “The wicked will say what they can to avoid the fires of hell. But lies are still lies.”

  Christian continued to back up, but other hunters were coming at him from behind and the side, closing in on him from all fronts, closing the net.

  Christian stumbled, but caught himself by grabbing the backrest of one of the pews. His eyes darted around, going from Henrick to the men on either side. A quick glance behind told him the hunters at his back were only three rows away.

  He pulled his sword from its sheath beneath his long coat.

  One of the hunters stepped forward with a palladium whip and cracked it, snatching the sword from Christian’s hands. It was child’s play. A second whip snapped forth, wrapping his arm and pulling it taught.

  Christian turned, startled, unable to think or react, or even see clearly.

  “Drakos will destroy you,” Christian said in a desperate effort to influence this Henrick. “His greatest desire is revenge on the Church.”

  “I will kill him myself,” Henrick said, “as I’m going to destroy you. All you have to do is tell me where to find him.”

  Christian didn’t speak.

  Henrick raised his hand, and the hunters watched for his signal. “You have one chance to make it easy on yourself.”

  Christian said nothing and steeled himself for the inevitable.

  The hand fell. And the hunters charged.

  Three from the rear of the church moved forward quickly. The two in the aisle charged as well, one swinging a whip that lashed around Christian’s leg, the other swinging a barbed staff.

  To avoid the blow of the staff, Christian ducked and bent his body to the side. It saved his head, as the barbed staff obliterated the back of a pew, but the whip was yanked backward and his leg pulled out from under him.

  Christian fell, crashing into one of the pews and knocking it over.

  The hunter who’d snared him tried to drag him out into the aisle, but Christian managed to pull loose. He kicked free of the lash and rolled over. He tried to scramble away, only to have another of the hunters leap over the pew and land a blow with a heavy club to his ribs.

  Christian heard and felt his ribs cracking. He slammed the palm of his hand into the man’s chest, sending him flying. Before he could get up, another whip lashed around his arm. And then a blow from another weapon to the back of Christian’s leg dropped him down. A third hunter lunged for him with a palladium chain in his hands.

  Christian spun and heaved himself backward and managed to throw off the men but could do little more.

  Desperate to reach the exit, he tried climbing over the back of a pew. It tipped over and fell, and he dropped into the space between it and the next bench.

  He heard laughter from the altar of the church.

  “Look at your champion,” Henrick bellowed to Simon. “A child could take him.”

  Simon was sweating and crying. “Please, Henrick,” he begged. “Have mercy. You don’t understand.”

  In some corner of his battered mind, Christian recognized the significance of Simon’s act. He could not have imagined a member of the Church pleading on his behalf for any reason, but this broken man was begging his usurper to show pity.

  Christian’s will to live rose up. He had to escape, had to live, if just to prove Simon was right about him, if just because the dogma of two thousand years was cracking and the truth was meeting the light of day.

  He climbed the next wooden pew and then the next. The hunters followed, two on either side of the row, as if waiting for him to decide which way to turn, to choose which group would be his destroyers. He fell off the last pew and sprawled out, facedown, on the old s
tone floor.

  A thud hit him in the back, and then another on his leg, and then a third near his head. They would beat him into submission and then chain him in palladium and force him to divulge all he knew. Their final act would be the Rite of Ignatorium, where they would destroy him like a rabid dog.

  As blow after blow rained down upon him, Christian found he could no longer fight, he could no longer reason. He tried to stand and was knocked back down. He began to lose consciousness under the blows. He covered up and felt something jab him in the ribs, something inside his coat.

  An image flashed into his mind—the Glock pistol he’d taken from the FBI woman in the Ninth Ward. It was in his coat pocket. He’d forgotten he had it.

  He slid his hand into the pocket and wrapped his fingers around the carbon grip. Another blow struck his back, another beside his head. He took a breath and rolled over, drew out the gun, and began firing blindly in all directions.

  The booming sound of the weapon shook the church. Shocked faces were replaced with agony as Christian began blasting holes in the men who were clubbing him. Three quick shots dropped the closest group. In seconds, the others were running, scurrying like rats in every direction.

  Christian fired away at them, gunning down two more.

  Henrick reacted with great speed. He sprinted for an open door at the back of the church.

  Christian stood and aimed through the glare of light that blinded him. He fired twice, but Henrick disappeared with the sword in his hand.

  Turning from quadrant to quadrant, Christian looked for enemies through the haze. He saw none. He lumbered forward to where Simon’s battered figure remained tied to the altar. Christian tore the ropes free, releasing Simon’s hands and legs.

  The old parish priest fell back as if he were a rag doll.

  Christian caught him and draped him gently to the ground.

  “They’ve broken my back,” Simon whispered. “I can’t move.”

  Sorrow, an emotion the Nosferatu did not normally possess, flowed through Christian. But this man had tried to bridge the gap. And his presence in this holy place seemed to bring back some of Christian’s humanity.

  “I can keep you from dying,” Christian said. “The wounds will heal.”

  “No,” Simon told him. “I will not take it. I’m not afraid of dying, just of failing at the gate.”

  Christian nodded. He understood now. Those with fear and doubt more easily accepted the offer of the Nosferatu. But this man, like Elsa, was not afraid.

  “You must leave quickly,” Simon told him, coughing up blood as he spoke. “The hunters will return with reinforcements. You must not be detained. You must destroy Drake, or none of this will matter.”

  “But how?” Christian asked. “I don’t have the sword. Send the hunters, the ones who are loyal. I’ll tell them how to find him.”

  “None of them will trust me now,” Simon explained. “I cast my lot with you. Besides, they will look for you now, not for Drake. You are their greatest enemy. The invader of churches. The would-be thief of their most precious relic. They will hunt you like no other as long as you live. You must go and go quickly. You must do so before it’s too late.”

  “I have no weapon,” Christian said. “What can I fight him with?”

  Simon’s chest heaved and fell. Each breath was agony. “The Staff of Constantine,” he whispered. He was barely breathing now. “In the tower… with the journals. They’re all…I have left…to offer you.”

  Christian stood but hesitated.

  Simon looked into his eyes. “You must know…”

  “Must know what?”

  Simon could not speak. He was coughing and spitting blood. Christian tried to view his mind, but he couldn’t, not in the church, not through the pain.

  “I must know what?” he asked desperately.

  “Who…you…are,” Simon managed. His eyelids slid down until they were no more than slits. His head lolled to the side. His mouth opened as if to speak, but Christian could barely make out the whispers. “And that… you’re…not…alone.”

  Simon’s mouth opened again, but no sound came forth. His eyes closed, and his shallow breathing ceased.

  Some kind of alarm went off, and Christian knew he had to hurry. He marched raggedly up to the tower and found the staff. When he touched it, a new spike of pain shot through his arm. He held it anyway.

  A few feet away, he spotted Simon’s journals—four old books, leather bound and held together with elastic twine around them.

  He grabbed the journals and then made his way down the stairs. Quickly, he moved toward the front of the church. His strength grew as he neared the exit. And by the time he pushed out into the cool night air, he could feel his heart pounding and his mind racing.

  He knew what lay ahead. He’d baited Drake and boasted to him, teasing out his anger. He’d done so believing he would be carrying a weapon of incomparable power. Now he had to fight with less, much less, and his foe was riled to the top of his rage, primed and waiting with everything he had.

  Doubt flooded Christian once again, as if a dam had burst. In his heart, he knew he could not defeat Drake, not with the weapon he now carried. But even so, he could not turn back.

  Simon Lathatch had died trying to help him, and even if it meant his own death, Christian would try to complete his end of the bargain.

  He sprinted down St. Bernard Avenue to another stolen car he’d grabbed. He needed to reach the swamp and break up Drake’s calling before the angel found it. There was little time left to lose.

  CHAPTER 48

  AT THE FBI’s New Orleans field office, Kate, Billy Ray, and Section Chief Gallagher had been watching computer screens all night searching for any sign of the radioactive dye marker.

  The operation wasn’t easy. The signal from the invisible radioactive dye was too weak for the satellite to pick up on a wide-angle scan. It was designed to be used in tracking a marked package, not searching for a needle among six hundred thousand others. So they had to pan and scan.

  They’d scanned the streets of New Orleans for hours, back and forth, several blocks at a time. Never knowing if they were missing the target in one section of town while studying another. It was tedious, mind-numbing work, and after five hours of it, Kate began to think the suspect had left town.

  Then the computer reported a hit.

  By the time they zoomed in on the area, the target had vanished. Playback showed the subject entering a church. They kept the satellite’s cameras focused on the street, hoping it wasn’t a mirage or a glitch.

  “We have movement!” Billy Ray shouted several minutes later. “On the side of the building.”

  Kate saw a man running out through a side door. “Is that him?”

  “Negative,” a technician said. “No paint. It shows up in neon green. Not a lot, but enough to tell him from the others.”

  Two more men ran out the back door, and a third stumbled after them.

  “What the hell is going on?” Billy Ray asked.

  “Let’s get NOPD down there,” Kate said. “Let’s not wait.”

  The section chief was tied in to NOPD on a direct line. He covered the phone. “They’re already rolling. They’ve had three nine-one-one calls. Shots fired. People running in all directions.”

  “We’d better get down there,” Kate said.

  “Look,” Billy Ray said, pointing.

  On screen, a figure shaded in effervescent green came running out through the front door of the church. He disappeared each time he raced beneath a tree and then reappeared on the other side.

  “That’s our suspect,” Kate said.

  They watched as he jumped into a car and sped off without turning on the lights.

  “Track him!” Kate said.

  On screen, the satellite feed widened and pulled back a bit. The SAT team knew what they were doing. They were able to track the car as it raced off to the south and then turned hard to the northwest.

  “Where’s h
e going?” Billy Ray wondered.

  “Nothing that way except Lake Maurepas,” the chief said.

  Kate wasn’t waiting any longer. “Get the chopper up,” she said, grabbing her new pistol from a desk drawer and slipping it into her shoulder holster. “Let’s bag him before he disappears.”

  Out on the old plantation, the drums continued pounding. Smoke and ash and sparks drifted through the air. Still sitting inside the old juke hall, Drake’s patience had begun to wear thin. The scent of life was testing even his control.

  Suddenly, Terrance raised his head.

  “What is it?” Drake asked.

  “Don’t you feel it?”

  The old blind man looked at Drake, his white eyes floating as if adrift on the sea.

  “Feel what?”

  “Something different out there,” Terrance said. “Something passing through the markers.”

  A sense of concern filled Drake. He thought he’d feel the presence of the angel as it approached, the way magnets sense their opposite. “I feel nothing,” he said. “Are you sure?”

  Terrance spoke slowly. “The images of two I see.”

  “Two?” Anticipation surged through Drake, but the Santeria priest liked to talk in riddles. Something that filled Drake with fury. “Speak plainly, or people you love will suffer.”

  “The images are the same, but reversed, like a reflection. It comes across the water, but where I saw two, there is only one now.”

  Drake’s arm shot forward. His fingers curled around Terrance’s neck.

  “Get off him!” Bella shouted, stepping forward wielding a machete.

  Drake spun, never letting go of Terrance. His free hand caught her wrist and yanked the machete away. It flew across the room and clattered to the floor. He pulled her close and then backhanded her across the face, sending her into the wall.

  She crumpled to the floor, concussed and woozy. Drake yanked Terrance out of his chair and slammed him down onto the rotting floorboards. He tightened his grip, squeezing harder and harder.