Angel Souls and Devil Hearts

by Christopher Golden

  They were victims, scapegoats, imperfect creatures, so much more than human, and yet so similar; deadly exaggerations of human nature, human interaction, all too easy for people to understand when presented correctly. And Allison was sure to present them correctly. The Venice Jihad changed the world, for humans and shadows both. And it changed Allison’s world, bringing her international fame.

  And fortune, of course, let’s not forget that. Between her CNN salary and the royalties coming from her book, Jihad, she had plenty of disposable income these days.

  After serving as anchorwoman for CNN for sixteen months, she returned to the field, reporting from six continents on legal, political and social issues affecting the shadows. The travel was a huge perk, and Will met her whenever and wherever he could. She had always been gravely serious, but now she had matured enough to lighten up, to have a good time.

  On the other hand, she was pretty certain that Will had regressed. Allison imagined that the Will Cody she saw now was the exuberant, childish and magnanimous Will of his heyday, more than a century before, when he was known as “Buffalo Bill.” He rarely got tired, and when he did he still hardly ever slept. Which was fortunate, because Will had dedicated himself to three jobs simultaneously. For Alexandra Nueva and Meaghan Gallagher, his blood-sister and her lover, he was searching for the vampire named Lazarus, and an answer to the mystery of their origin. For the shadows he was an international media spokesman, and for himself, finally, there was the show!

  As a master showman in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Will had acted in plays and written books. He had created the “Wild West Show,” a world-traveling exhibition of riding, shooting and dramatization which, though exaggerated to near mythic proportions, still informed the world’s perception of the American West. He had been a pioneer in the development of the motion picture, bankrolling and appearing in one of the first feature films.

  Well, the Wild West Show was back—Allison had covered it for CNN—and now Will had made her book, Jihad, into a film, producing and directing it himself. They had spent a month-and-a-half shooting it, and then another six weeks in London editing the monster, and now they were, for real, on vacation. Time to just enjoy each other.

  Allison truly loved Will, a good and decent man by any estimation, although most of the world would not admit he even was a man. No matter, though, they were happy. She had become a sort of financial advisor to him, because though he never had trouble making money, he had a terrible time hanging on to it. They talked about getting married someday, but there were no laws as yet to govern such a union, and with Will’s involvement in the SJS, the Shadow Justice System . . . they’d decided to wait. And if that time never came, well, Allison was happy.

  Now, hand in hand, they walked through the beautiful Mirabell Gardens, deep breaths drawing in the scent of the flowers and the unseasonably nippy air. They marveled at the design of the garden and its colors, the architecture of the palace, Schloss Mirabell, home to the city’s mayor. They chuckled over the statuary, especially the gnomelike creatures carved from stone, and sat by the fountain. They talked and laughed, kissed and held each other close.

  And yet their eyes, like the eyes of every other visitor to Salzburg, were always drawn back to the Festung Hohen-salzburg, the huge fortress overlooking the city from its southern edge, across the river.

  “You’re right, darlin’,” Cody said finally, giving her a little squeeze. “The place is creepy. Still, it has a power and a . . . a majesty that is quite attractive.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, giving in. “Tomorrow morning, first thing, we’ll go.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. God, what a baby!”

  “Why, madam,” Cody said, lapsing into the cadence of the American West, “I do believe that was an insult.”

  “Believe whatever you want, Buffalo—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  But she was off and running, with Cody in pursuit. As much as he was still trading off the nickname of his human life, with his books and the Wild West Show, that was for fun. In real life, he hated the name, and she knew it.

  “You’re in trouble now!” Will shouted after Allison as she headed for the gate and the road, Rainerstrasse, beyond.

  Salzburg, Austria, European Union.

  Monday, June 5, 2000, 7:26 P.M.:

  Humanity had been surprised to find out how few shadows there actually were. When CNN had initially broken the news of their existence, most had an unrealistic reaction, honed from decades of first cold war, then terrorist paranoia—“Thry're among us, everywhere.” In truth, Cody guessed that the shadows numbered in the mid-five figures somewhere. Not a lot of vampires to go around.

  Still, most major cities had a few, and so it was not surprising that he and Allison ran into a shadow on the street outside their hotel that evening.

  “Will Cody, right?” the shadow asked.

  “That I am, sir. And you are?”

  “John Courage, Mr. Cody, and pleased to meet you.”

  “John Courage?” Allison smiled. “As in, ‘give me a pint of Courage’?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s right,” Courage said, returning the smile with his own, self-deprecating version, then turning his attention back to Cody. “But that particular brew was named after me, not the other way around. And aren’t I modest?”

  They laughed politely, good-naturedly.

  “I live here in Salzburg, now,” Courage told them. “I’m a musician. Twice a week I play sax at the Urbanikeller, the jazz club.”

  Even though he shouldn’t have been, Cody was surprised. They were really doing it, he thought. Shadows were actually merging with human society. Will smiled at the boy, who might well have been hundreds of years older than he was.

  “What time’s your show tonight?”

  “Ten P.M.”

  “We’ll be there,” Allison said, reading Cody’s intentions.

  “I’m flattered, Ms. Vigeant,” John Courage said sincerely.

  “You know me?” she asked.

  “Shouldn’t I?” Courage replied, and raised an eyebrow. “Say, if you two are headed to dinner, I have a wonderful tip. Try the Peterskeller, off Kapitelplatz by St. Peter’s Cemetery.”

  “It’s that good?” Allison asked, knowing any meal was really for her rather than for Cody, and thinking how courteous it was for this shadow even to mention dining, since his kind needed such sustenance not at all.

  “It’s incredible!” Courage said. “I’m told the food is wonderful, but the atmosphere is . . . It’s the oldest restaurant in the country, about twelve centuries old, and local legend says it’s where Mephistopheles met up with Faust.”

  “Sounds great,” Allison said, and meant it.

  “Say, John,” Cody began, “why don’t you come to dinner with us?”

  Courage looked surprised and pleased by the offer.

  “Really I’d love to, but I’ve got a lot to do before tonight’s set. Please do come by the club, though. It would be an honor, really.”

  Will looked at Allison, who nodded.

  “We’ll be there,” he confirmed.

  Courage continued on his way, and Allison and Will left their hotel, the Goldener Hirsch, behind. They walked along Getreidergasse, window-shopping the whole way, chattering about the wonders of the Old City, as that part of Salzburg was called. They had arrived late the night before, and that day had explored the right bank of the Salzach River, the Makartplatz, Mirabell Gardens and the shops along the winding cobblestones of Linzer Gasse. Tonight, though, they wanted to stroll, not explore. On their map, they found the location of Peterskeller, the restaurant John Courage had suggested, and now they turned their feet in that direction.

  In Residenzplatz, they passed the archbishop’s palace and the Salzburg Cathedral with little more than an appreciative glance. Music played somewhere in the background, Mozart, to be sure—the city was, after all, the composer’s birthplace. The carillon b
ells of the Glockenspiel sounded out the harmony of 8 P.M. just as they reached Peterskeller but all of that was for tomorrow, for the day. Now that Cody could experience both, he set the daylight hours aside for the trivia of life. Nighttime was for actual living.

  The restaurant was as wonderful as Courage had described it. Will and Allison had a chuckle over the shadow’s name, and she threatened to call him “Bud Weiser” next time they met. Arm in arm, the couple passed through a courtyard with vaults cut right out of the mountainside, then ate in a brick cellar with extraordinary chandeliers. Allison was delighted with the flavor of the dumplings she had ordered, and she even convinced Will to try some of her cheese soup.

  Later, as they made their way to the Urbanikeller to catch John Courage’s ten o’clock set, Allison’s eyes returned to the fortress, which towered still above their heads, above the city. She had been constantly aware of the huge castle, which could be seen from nearly any point in the city, ever present, ever vigilant.

  “Even at night,” she said to Will as they reached the club. “Even at night it watches.”

  “Maybe it’s standing guard,” Will suggested, grabbing her hand and squeezing as he opened the door to the place.

  “Maybe,” she answered.

  But that’s not how it feels.

  Salzburg, Austria, European Union.

  Tuesday, June 6, 2000, 11:42 A.M.:

  Will and Allison sat down for a late breakfast in the hotel restaurant, though it was a lot closer to lunch. John Courage had played two sets the night before, and he was good enough that they stayed through the second. Between sets, Courage joined them for a drink, and they both found him refreshingly offbeat, even for a shadow. His self-deprecating humor was equally balanced by an often caustic wit, and he seemed to know everything there was to know about his adopted city. They returned quite late, and Allison slept in the next morning. Cody had found himself a bit tired as well.

  After brunch, the couple wasted no time making their way to the base of the festung, the fortress of Hohen-salzburg. There was a small tram that carried visitors to the top, but after one too many pancakes, Allison insisted they walk. Halfway up, she regretted it, but there was no going back. Through the trees, as they made their way up the incredible incline, they could see the sides of the fortress. The sheer wall of the structure met almost precisely with the edge of the cliff; taken together, they formed a several-hundred-foot drop.

  It was times like this when Allison felt her humanity most. Though she worked out regularly, she had to rest a couple of times on the walk up, and Will stood patiently by, understanding but not sharing her discomfort. As they finally approached the massive gates, they got their first real idea of the size of the place. Inside the fortress, yet still walking up an incline, they found alleys and paths that were almost streets, an open courtyard and a warren of hallways and rooms which must have housed the many soldiers stationed there over the centuries. Medieval art and arms were on display in several rooms, but Will and Allison found they had a common interest in the structure itself.

  Battlements and watchtowers loomed above the city, offering clear views of the Alps. Cannon bastions peppered the walls, and the wind, even on a warm summer day, whickered through them with cold, grasping breath. The foundation of the fortress was begun in 1077, and the different areas of the castle completed over five centuries. It was this feat, this achievement, existing in the structure itself, that impressed them. Allison’s creepy feelings about the fortress were gone, replaced with an emotion somewhat akin to awe. Even Will, who had been around much longer than she, was astonished by the immensity, the strength of the place.

  “How much of this are we not getting to see?” Allison said, pulling on an iron grate which blocked their progress down a particular hall.

  Will looked down at his feet, wondering whether there were rooms beneath them. Certainly the locked iron door kept them from exploring certain sections, maybe huge areas of the castle. It could be unsafe beyond that gate he thought. Then again, the people who arranged these things weren’t used to shadow tourists.

  “Let’s find out,” he said, and reached for the lock.

  Salzburg, Austria, European Union.

  Tuesday, June 6, 2000, 2:07 P.M.:

  Matt and Tammy Monahan had left their baby son home for the first time. Even though he was with Tammy’s mom, they were still worried. Nevertheless, they were determined to enjoy themselves. Along for the ride were Tammy’s brother, George Esper, and Jack Rice, a family friend. The group split up soon after entering the fortress, Matt and Tammy wandering off to see the art on display and Jack and George finding their way up to a windswept watchtower.

  “Watchtower,” George said. “Like Dylan.”

  He started to hum the song and strum air guitar, but George wasn’t your usual air guitarist. He actually played.

  “The Hendrix version is better,” Jack said with certainty. “Dylan sucks.”

  “Bullshit” was George’s only reply. He’d grown used to such statements from Jack, but he’d never been able to figure out if the guy was serious, or just busting his balls.

  The two of them glanced furtively around and saw that they were alone, save for a decidedly non-American couple several feet away. George pulled out a joint and lit it, taking a long puff before passing it to Jack.

  “It would really suck if we got bagged up here,” Jack said. “I mean, what’s the local law?”

  “Don’t know,” George said. “Just be cool. Don’t attract attention.”

  They didn’t.

  “Hey, you know what I almost forgot?” Jack said. “Norm’s got this rock collection thing going, pieces of stuff. The Berlin Wall, the Pyramids. He wanted me to get a piece of something, and this thing is fuckin’ old.”

  George helped him look around, noticing that the stone walls and battlements, especially near the edge, were supplemented here and there with modern concrete. Chunks of the cement had fallen to the ground, and it was a simple task to find a big one.

  “How ’bout this?” he asked.

  “No, man,” Jack said, as he continued his search. “It’s gotta be somethin’ from the oldest part, none of this cement shit.”

  Their search took them to an open doorway off to the left, and the floor within. Its surface was rough stone and dolomite chunks, and Jack knew they’d found what they were looking for. Now they just had to work a piece loose. He took a drag off the joint and handed it back to George, then kicked at several large pieces of rock that jutted slightly from the floor. After a few tries, he found a chunk a couple of inches wide that moved.

  With his heel, Jack kicked the thing again and again, and it moved more and more. But it didn’t come out. Apparently it was bigger than it looked. He had to stop for a couple of minutes as the couple on the watchtower came closer to them and then finally left. George tried kicking a bit, and then Jack took over again, going farther into the hall to lean against the wall and kick.

  It happened on the fourth swing of his foot. One minute Jack’s back was firmly against the wall, and the next, as George watched, he disappeared through it.

  “Jack! What the hell . . .?” George moved toward the wall, but not too close. One of Jack’s hands came back through, and George noticed for the first time that the wall had changed. Its color was almost silver, and its surface too flat, rippling like a pool of water where the hand broke through. George didn’t want to have anything to do with this weird shit, but he and Jack went way back. George grabbed Jack’s hand, scrabbling for a hold on the rough, stone floor. Bracing his feet, and holding that hand with both of his own, George pulled.

  Jack moved forward, just barely, then stopped. To George it seemed as though the silver pool in the wall, whatever it was, and I don’t want to fucking think about that right now, were jelly, or quicksand. Some kind of suction held Jack—wherever he was. And then, beyond that reflective surface, in which George could see his own face, beyond the quicksilver sand that held Jack in
place, something tugged.

  George was jerked roughly forward. He almost let go of his friend’s hand as his boots slid over the stone, but instead his grip tightened. No way was he letting go. George slid farther, closer to the opening, and then noticed something that saved him from being pulled in right behind Jack. The opening in the wall was only so big, and on either side of it, the wall was still solid stone. Or at least it looked solid.

  In an instant, George’s feet were up, gripping Jack’s hand and being pulled along, his ass cut and scraped by stone as he lifted his legs and planted his boots on either side of the opening. The muscles in his neck and back, in his arms and shoulders, strained for a few seconds, and then the opposing force, the one pulling Jack in, let up. It still wasn’t easy, pulling him out of there, and George wasn’t about to let go in case his tug-of-war opponent was giving him a false rest, but with a grunting effort, he did it. Slowly, once his head and upper torso had emerged, Jack crawled out of the wall, over the struggling form of his friend, and lay still on the stone by his side. They both rose, slowly, panting, moving away from the wall. George looked up.

  “My God, Jack, what the hell—” And then George stopped. Because the man he’d pulled out of the wall wasn’t Jack at all.

  Sure, he looked like Jack. Same killer baby blues, dirty blond hair and beard. Same clothes, same smile. But this was an older Jack, a haggard, hard-looking man with something lurking in the shadows of his face that Jack had never had.

  “What’s wrong with you?” George asked him.

  “Not a blessed thing,” not-Jack said in a voice that George had never heard before, a voice that scared him.

  “In fact,” he said as he moved around to put George between himself and the wall, “I’ve never felt better in my life. I feel perfect.”

  Matt and Tammy came around the corner.

  “What are you guys doing . . .,” Matt began, but he shut up when Jack turned to look at them.