Angel Souls and Devil Hearts

by Christopher Golden

  “A strange choice of words,” the serious shadow said, “but as you can see, I yet survive to continue this battle.”

  Cody introduced Stefan to John Courage, and the two exchanged greetings. Behind them, the portal continued to allow the original vampires to escape Hell, to walk the earth again. Most of the soldiers left in the plaza had been drained or thrown into the gorge. Just above the portal, they could see where Charlemagne and his winged warriors continued to batter Mulkerrin’s protective field, and the rest of Charlemagne’s troops were crossing the gorge, engaging the black, Hellish creatures of death, the leeches that poured forth.

  Their swords looked like silver. Cody started to ask Courage if that was the answer, if the weapons were indeed forged of the poisonous metal and the creatures more susceptible to it than their own kind.

  And then a second portal appeared, midway across the plaza, almost at its center. This doorway was smaller, and its shimmering surface a reddish color. For a moment, nothing happened, and then, at the edges of the portal, hands appeared. Two pair. It was clear that whatever was on the other side was struggling to pull itself into the world. Cody didn’t want that to happen.

  “Come,” Courage said, and he was already running at full speed across the plaza when Cody and Stefan began to move. Obviously, he and Cody had had the same thought.

  But even before they got there, one pair of hands had become a head of long blond hair, an upper torso and finally legs, all of which were familiar to Cody.

  “Meaghan!” he shouted as he rushed to help her up. She was running both hands through her hair, and her eyes were wide as she puffed out a breath. She smiled as she got to her feet and gave Cody a quick hug before turning to check on the progress of her companion.

  “This is Meaghan Gallagher?” Courage asked, and Cody nodded.

  “And that,” Meaghan pointed to a crown of brown hair that had emerged from the portal, “is Peter Octavian. Who might you be?”

  Cody introduced Meaghan to John and Stefan, then, bewildered, he asked her where she had been.

  “Hell,” Meaghan said soberly, and nothing more.

  Meaghan took a moment to take in her surroundings: the black vampire things and the battle being fought against Mulkerrin in the sky. Cody knew that Charlemagne’s people would keep Mulkerrin busy for a while, but not forever. He was glad Meaghan and Peter had arrived; they could use all the help they could get.

  And Peter was alive! That was the best news of all. Other than Rolf, Peter Octavian was the only vampire Will Cody had ever been willing to call brother. As a human being, he had seen the passing of many brothers, both in blood and in philosophy. He was pleased not to have lost another.

  “Maybe we should help him,” Stefan suggested, and Cody felt foolish for not having suggested it already. Meaghan smiled despite all she must have been through, and the battle she had returned to.

  Cody and Stefan each reached for one of Octavian’s hands.

  “Where’s Alexandra?” Cody asked.

  “Dead,” Meaghan answered, and Cody did not want to dwell on the pain in her eyes, or in his own heart, for in regaining a brother, he’d lost a sister. Instead, they pulled even harder, and Peter screamed aloud as he slipped through the portal, like the wail of a baby being born. He lay on the ground and shuddered for a moment before Cody helped him up.

  “And Lazarus?” John Courage asked. “What of him?”

  At that, they all looked up. Cody had only been dimly aware that Courage and Lazarus were connected. Meaghan’s face was a big question mark, for she didn’t know Courage at all. And Peter was frowning, almost angrily.

  “You’re the Stranger,” Octavian said, and now Meaghan looked even more confused. Cody didn’t get it, didn’t understand the reference, but it seemed that she did. She looked at John Courage, the Stranger, with new respect.

  “I’ve been called that,” Courage answered, one brow raised in surprise at Octavian’s words.

  “Well,” Peter said, his face relaxing, his tone consoling. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Lazarus didn’t make it. He is now a prisoner of Hell, as I was. And The Gospel of Shadows with him.”

  “He’ll never get out now,” Meaghan said sadly. “Without the book, nobody can go back for him.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Courage said, and Cody wasn’t certain, but he thought he caught a bit of hostility in Courage’s tone, for the first time.

  “Well, Peter,” Cody said, breaking the moment, “what do you say we take another shot at Father Liam Mulkerrin? Put him down for good?”

  “My pleasure,” Octavian said, and smiled.

  But Will Cody wasn’t at all certain he liked that smile.

  19

  Washington, D.C., United States of America.

  Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 4:47 A.M.:

  In the minutes since George Marcopoulos had called in on his safe line, Rafael Nieto had received the latest intelligence report, and he was shaking. The safe line had an auto-trace, so that he always knew if not who was contacting him, at least where he was being contacted from.

  UN Intelligence agents had arrived at the gas station in Virginia five minutes ago. Nieto held in his hand the fax that had just been transmitted on a closed line from Agent Perkins’s car. The report was clear. A police officer had been attacked and bitten by an unidentified vampire. That vampire had a traveling companion whose description matched that of George Marcopoulos.

  Only recently had the UN resorted to an Intelligence Division, as a part of the general expansion of the organization’s worldwide role. The problem was that nearly every UN staffer had other loyalties as well, Intelligence agents included. So Nieto could be fairly confident that if the new President of the United States, William Galin, didn’t have a copy of the report yet, he would have it soon.

  And amid the furor surrounding the events in Salzburg and Washington, with the specter of the deaths of so many of his soldiers hanging over his head, it was that one fact that caused Rafael Nieto to shiver now. Bill Galin disturbed him, even frightened him. And though he had not needed George Marcopoulos’s hastily whispered advice, it had certainly not helped to calm him. Nieto had always suspected Galin was unstable, and he was inclined to believe Marcopoulos’s story, that Galin had tried to kill him.

  And Galin didn’t want to stop there. Oh, no. The man had a hard-on for nuclear destruction, and he wanted the vampires dead. Nieto didn’t love vampires, and he had a hard time trusting them with anything. But he’d known several shadows whom he’d trusted, even admired. Galin, though, wanted to use a nuclear rag to wipe the slate clean, and he had the UN running scared. Rafael had long since ordered the evacuation, just in case, but damn it, he had soldiers in there—soldiers who had fought hard, been through hell and were lucky enough to have survived so far.

  And that lunatic Galin wanted to use them as bait!

  He’d been calling Bill Galin every five minutes for the past hour, interrupted only by Marcopoulos’s call. Now the phone rang, and as he picked up, Rafael Nieto privately wished George godspeed to whatever safe haven he now sought. He only hoped the old man was smart enough not to get caught.

  “Yes?” he said sharply as the video image came into focus.

  “You’ve been looking for me, I’m told.” Bill Galin seemed bored, lethargic, as if Rafael were at the bottom of his list of people to call back.

  “You know damn well I have!” he snarled at the former vice president.

  “Well?” Galin’s face and voice were smug, taunting. “What can I do for you?”

  “Don’t even think about using nukes,” Nieto said. “The consequences for you would be very ugly.”

  “Why you . . .,” Galin sputtered. “Don’t you dare presume to threaten me. You don’t want to mess with me. Rafael. I’m the goddamn President of the United States!”

  “That means less every year,” Nieto spat, “and the President’s dead; you’re nothing but an understudy brought in until they find a new st
ar!”

  For a moment Galin was speechless, and Nieto thought the veins in the man’s forehead would burst—all in all probably the least troublesome solution to their current dilemma—but no such luck. Finally, the new President hissed, venom in every word.

  “We’ll have this conversation again next year,” Galin said, “and then we’ll see how much my job title means. Until then, muchacho del barrio, don’t presume to tell the U.S.A. what to do. From now on, that means me.”

  The man is insane, Nieto thought. Galin wanted to nuke Salzburg, and Rafael Nieto could almost see his point. In fact, he might be inclined to go along with the plan, as long as proper evacuation could be guaranteed, but the crazy fucker wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to get the missiles flying that moment, no later. And he didn’t care whether it meant ejection from the UN, sanctions, even military repercussions.

  “I’ve got to go now,” Galin was saying, “I have a package to deliver.”

  “Wait!” Rafael barked.

  “Oh,” Galin said and smiled, “I’m through waiting, and I see I’m getting through to you. The U.S. Congress has already voted in an emergency session to go ahead with this action regardless of UN approval.”

  “Give me two hours,” Nieto said finally. “I’ve got to try to get my people out of there. I—”

  “Fraid not, Rafe,” Galin said and chuckled obnoxiously. “See, if your boys run away, what’s going to hold our target in place until the missiles get there? Besides, you’re in no position to ask for favors.”

  Galin leaned forward, putting his face close up to the screen, getting intimate with the secretary general on the other end, a friend telling secrets.

  “This was a courtesy call, Rafe,” Galin sneered. “If Congress hadn’t made it a condition, I wouldn’t have bothered returning your messages.”

  Nieto was stunned. It wasn’t just anger, or insult, or disbelief at the outrageous lunacy of the new President—it was all of that, but more. It was the voice of defeat that had suddenly begun to speak in his mind, to issue from his mouth.

  “But,” he said, scrambling for words, “you’ve seen the media reports. The vampires are all over Mulkerrin now, our people would be gone before—”

  Galin was shaking his head.

  “I don’t think so,” he began and then looked up, almost seductively. “Of course, I could be persuaded.”

  “Persuaded how?” Nieto jumped at the opening, as he knew he was meant to. He couldn’t help it. If Galin wanted him as a puppet, that was fine, as long as he had the time.

  “Well, for starters, there’s the obvious,” Galin said, and Nieto nodded.

  “UN approval of the nuclear strike.”

  “Correct,” Galin nodded. “Secondly, I want the UN to revoke all the privileges of shadows, to announce that the creatures are no better than animals, and I want the United Nations to declare open warfare on all shadows.”

  “Impossible!” Nieto stood and turned his back to the videophone, so that Galin could not see his horrified face. He had no love for shadows, but this . . . “No.” He turned back to glare at Galin. “Henry Russo and Julie Graham’s assassinations must be treated like any other terrorist act. Other than Hannibal, we can’t know whether any other known shadow is involved. Their entire race should not suffer for them. We are not Nazis!”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see the comparison,” Galin said whimsically.

  “No,” Nieto said sadly, and sat down again, “you wouldn’t.”

  “In any case,” the American went on, “shadows are not a ‘race,’ as you put it. They are creatures, not people. They’re vampires, for God’s sake! And their ambassador, George Marcopoulos, a friend of yours, I believe, tried to kill me before escaping with the help of some of his cohorts. He was obviously involved. No, these animals must be destroyed, and the UN will declare war.”

  Rafael Nieto knew he was defeated, and he tried to hide.

  “The powers of my position have greatly increased over the years,” he said, “but even I can’t do that alone. The Security Council would have to—”

  “And with you and I recommending such a move, the rest of the council will most assuredly do so at the emergency meeting you will call for this afternoon,” Galin sneered. “Unless, of course, you are also involved in this conspiracy with your friend George Marcopoulos? Oh, there would be media feeding frenzy if such information were to come to light.”

  Galin’s tone was insinuating, a promise in itself, and though Rafael thought of saying something like You wouldn’t dare, he didn’t. He knew better.

  “Two hours?” he said finally, more a plea than anything else.

  “Yes, yes.” Galin waved him off now. “You can have your two hours, and if Mulkerrin still lives, no matter who is there, the city of Salzburg will be vaporized.”

  U.S. Interstate 81, Salem, Virginia, United States of America.

  Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 4:54 A.M.:

  “Slow down!” George snapped, and Joe Boudreau looked nervously, angrily around at him . . . and then the look turned sheepish and the speedometer slid down from seventy-five to a more comfortable sixty or so. That was good, George thought—not too slow or they’d look too suspicious. They’d been gaining speed gradually for the past twenty-five minutes, and his heart was still pounding from their run-in with the law back at the gas station in Buchanan.

  “You okay?” Joe asked, and George nodded, taking a breath and trying forcibly to calm himself down.

  “Yes,” he answered, suddenly feeling his age more than ever. “It just seems like this trip is going to take forever.”

  “I know what you mean,” Joe said and nodded, without taking his eyes off the road. “Time isn’t the same for me, and it feels that way already. Maybe because we both know that even when we arrive in New Orleans, the trip is far from over. Nothing’s ever going to be the same again.”

  George took that in, realizing then that innocent and simple as he might seem, Joe Boudreau was neither. And how could George have expected any less; the man was a vampire after all. The changes that caused in a being were not merely physical. Suddenly George was very happy he’d never accepted his friends’ offers of immortality, of vampirism. For just a moment, he was glad that he was old, that he would surely not survive the battle ahead. And then he wondered whether or not that made him a coward. He hoped not, for he had too much pride for that.

  “It was strange back there,” Joe said, and George knew he meant the gas station. “But I guess that’s life from here on in, huh? Even if they don’t nuke Austria, the worst has happened, right? I mean, my people will be hiding in the shadows, hunted down. With technology, we’ll be wiped out in no time.”

  George looked at him and shook his head, perturbed.

  “Don’t be such a damned pessimist, Joseph,” he said. “It’s not as if twenty-first century vampire hunters will be out there after sixteenth-century vampires. Your people are probably the single richest segment of society, even with all of the drifters. The technology is yours as well, and there will be people who aren’t after you, who will, in fact, help you to use it, to defend yourselves. Yes, things have come full circle, and your people have been lured out of the safety of myth, out of their secret lives, by the promise of peace and a taste of what passes for normalcy. And now that has backfired, and once again humans fear the unknown, and kill what they fear.

  “But at least there’s a unity now, and new strength and all the world to hide in. And don’t forget that there are groups of humans who are obsessed with vampires to the point of worship, all over the world, who will gladly donate their blood to keep you safe, your existence a secret.”

  “But the new order . . .,” Joe began.

  “. . . will barely be remembered,” George cut him off. “When history is written, it will say that vampires were ‘discovered,’ and only dealt with after the President of the United States was assassinated.”

  “That sucks!” Joe said.

  “Yes, it su
rely does,” George replied, with no trace of a smile.

  “We’ve got to stop that from happening, make people see the truth.”

  “If you have any ideas,” George said, somewhat cynically, “I’d be happy to hear them.”

  But Joe was quiet.

  There were more cars on the road now, and George couldn’t believe that some people were already on their way to work. He imagined they must have long commutes or odd hours, and no interest in or awareness of the world’s status quo collapsing around them—not as long as their own livelihood was unaffected. Still, cars and all, it was very easy going, Joe’s foot barely touching the brake.

  “Do you think anyone’s after us, really?” Joe asked after a while.

  “Not really, no,” George answered. “Like I said, the gypsies among you are going to be the hardest hit, and they’ll be the first to answer Hannibal’s call to violence. I’m sure right now they’re wreaking havoc, and the authorities will be much more interested in them. Still, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to stop in a couple of hours and pick up a razor, some scissors and maybe a hat and sunglasses. I don’t want to invite trouble.”

  They were quiet a while longer, and then Joe cleared his throat and reached for the dash-screen TV controls.

  “Do you want CNN back on?” he asked.

  “God, no,” George Marcopoulos said with a shiver. “Anything but that. I think we deserve a rest, an hour in the dark, so to speak. We may never have the luxury again.”

  Pongau Basin, Austria, European Union.

  Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 10:42 A.M.:

  “Hey, big guy,” Erika began, barely able to control the sarcasm that usually tainted her words, “what’s up with Junior Boy Scout over here? Seems to me we’re just getting ourselves lost.”

  Rolf smiled at the girl’s attitude, then tried to shake the word “girl” from his head. Erika was a vampire, just like him, and though she looked like a teenager, she’d been dead for several years. Annelise, a tall, attractive shadow of French descent, and Carlos, a Central American whose true age and heritage were something of a mystery, nodded their agreement with Erika’s words, with her doubt. Only Sebastiano, a vampire who’d been born in Sicily and who, as a matter of weird vanity, allowed his appearance to reflect the sixty-two years old he’d been when he died, seemed perturbed by what Erika said. Strangely, the object of her complaint, the vampire known as Jared, did not seem upset at all.