Crusade

by Nancy Holder; Debbie Viguié

  The United States declared war against the Cursed Ones and demanded that its allies around the world do the same. Many did. Some didn’t. Governments didn’t trust each other. Some took advantage of the chaos and declared war on their human enemies.

  The U.S. president was assassinated.

  Worldwide war broke out, horrible war. The Cursed Ones were impossibly fast and strong. Armies fell, both to Cursers and to other nations; special-ops forces were obliterated. Dozens of smaller cities and towns around the world were destroyed in the fighting. And when it had become obvious that humanity was going to lose, the new president of the United States—young, sexy, and ambitious—declared a truce with the vampires. Several other nations followed suit, with Spain being one of the holdouts.

  But it was a truce without honor. And while many people chose to believe that it had all been a tragic mistake, others knew that the real war—the cold war—had only just begun.

  In the back of the van Skye and Eriko had fallen silent. Holgar had finally stopped licking his wounds, and they bounced along the road in the darkness. Jenn fought the urge to ask Antonio how much farther until they were home at the university. It was like a family car trip from hell.

  Her throat tightened at the thought. She couldn’t help but wonder how her family was, back in Berkeley, California. There was still so much wrong between her parents and her. She remembered the sick feeling that had clenched her stomach, the sheer anger, when her father had come home from his new job, all excited, spouting pro-vampire propaganda as if he really believed it.

  “Three vampires just joined our division,” he told the family at the dinner table. “And they’re really great guys. They’re practically just like us.”

  “You can’t believe that,” she’d said. “They’re not like us at all. They can’t even work during the day.”

  “We have people working all kinds of hours,” he’d replied defensively.

  “They’re not people,” Jenn had countered.

  And there’d been a fight—the first of many. Her mother would go pale. Her sister, Heather, would cry. And Jenn would push away from the dinner table and slam the door to her room—if her father didn’t send her there first.

  Then one night there’d been a crack in his façade. He’d blurted, “You’re going to get us in trouble,” and she knew then that he knew he was working with monsters. He was just pretending, so they could get by.

  Jenn stormed off to her room so ashamed of him, and so afraid. She’d wept into her pillow and fantasized about running away. But where could she go?

  Later, he’d knocked softly on her door, opening it before she could tell him to go away. He had looked small as he stood on the threshold. Helpless. Gazing at her, he had reached out a hand. She started to get up, thinking that they were going to be honest with each other. Finally.

  “You have to behave,” her father said, and his words were sharp. “You can’t be like this. You’re part of this family.”

  Then he’d shut the door. She’d stared after him, unable to believe that her father could say something like that to her. He had been raised by parents who fought for what they believed in, literally. Her grandparents, who had fought the oppressors of the people before, distrusted the Cursed Ones, and Jenn didn’t know how her father could just dismiss the evidence, pretend that everything was okay when it wasn’t.

  Word slowly spread about the covert vampire-hunter academies. A lot of the information was wrong. But Jenn listened hard, and figured out what was right. There was one school in the United States, in Portland, Oregon, and it was full. All the other countries with anti-vampire schools only accepted students who were native-born—except for the school in Spain. It was housed on the grounds of the University of Salamanca, one of the oldest universities of Europe. For centuries academic students had flocked to Salamanca for an education superior to all else in Europe.

  Until the war against the Cursed Ones, only the Catholic Church had known of the existence of the Academia Sagrado Corazón Contra los Malditos. During the war the University of Salamanca itself had closed its doors, and they’d never opened again. But inside the vast complex of buildings both ancient and modern, the Sacred Heart Academy beckoned a new kind of student, and everyone who wanted to fight vampires was welcome—everyone who qualified, that is.

  Jenn still wasn’t sure how she had managed to get in—and less sure how she had pulled off graduating. Of the ninety students who had composed her cohort, only thirty had made it to graduation. The others had flunked out or been killed. Their final exam was held on New Year’s Eve; their test, to wipe out a vampire nest made up of nine Cursed Ones. Of the thirty students, fifteen died that night.

  That left fifteen waiting to find out who would be declared the Hunter of Salamanca. There had been a Hunter for centuries, who guarded the area around Salamanca, defending the city, the university, and nearby villages from attacks from los Malditos—the Cursed Ones. Through the centuries, Salamanca’s Hunters had not had much to do. The near-constant religious purges of heretics and foreigners made it difficult for Cursed Ones to avoid scrutiny, so they left the area alone. Other parts of the world were not so lucky.

  But now that the Cursed Ones were waging war on humanity, something had to change. Father Juan was able to distill only enough magickal essence to create one dose of the sacred elixir, said to make a human nearly as strong as a Maldito, and nearly as fast. This he gave to Eriko, whom he decreed was his chosen Hunter.

  Then he broke with tradition and gave the Hunter a team of warriors to support her campaign against the ancient enemy—a team of five, who would be called “hunters” with a lowercase h. The world at large was only beginning to find out about these venerable fighters and didn’t understand the difference between the Hunter and a hunter.

  But for the five chosen to back Eriko, there was a huge difference. The other nine would remain at the school if they wished, helping to train the new class of ninety.

  When Jamie realized he hadn’t been selected as the Hunter, he had exploded with fury. Skye had paled, frightened, as well she might be—she was being ordered to fight vampires without benefit of the elixir. Holgar had appeared to take the news in stride, declaring that with or without the elixir, he was glad for the chance to “rip some fangboys apart.”

  As a vampire, Antonio had not expected to be chosen as the Hunter, and Father Juan had already told him that he was assembling a team. Later, Antonio had told Jenn that he had asked to be her fighting partner so that he could watch her back.

  As for Jenn herself, when Eriko had been picked, she had realized that she herself hadn’t expected to be chosen—not really, not deep down. It was a blow. She had, in essence, lied to herself. She believed in the cause, but not in herself.

  “There is a reason that you’re here,” Father Juan had told her. “Each of you has a path. Each of you is a light in these new Dark Ages. Some shine brighter now. For some, there must be a cooler wind first, and then . . .”

  He had trailed off, and blessed her and the others, even though only two of them believed in Catholic blessings.

  Then Father Juan had outfitted them and armed them, and their new lives had started. They were hunters.

  She wished her father could have understood. What would he say if he could see her now, see the fighter she had become? Tears stung her eyes.

  Not now, she thought, clenching her fists. She made herself think about the strong men in her life—her grandfather, whom she called Papa Che after his idol, the freedom fighter Che Guevara. Antonio.

  Antonio, who was not a man.

  “Jenn?” Antonio asked. She slid her glance at him, embarrassed because he could read her so easily. He could always tell when she was wrestling with some private problem.

  She shrugged. “I’m fine,” she said, which pretty much was code that she didn’t want to share with everyone else.

  “Bien,” he said, indicating that he understood. But he kept glancing at her, his fac
e illuminated by the dashboard lights. Sometimes she wondered if he was reading her mind, or her heart. Maybe vampires could do that. There was a lot about vampires people didn’t know.

  A lot about Antonio that Jenn didn’t know. Except that, when he whispered her name, she believed he really loved her.

  After a time her exhaustion and the warmth of the car heater lulled her to sleep. She dreamed about her family’s trip to Big Sur, before the vampire war; about taking her sister’s hand and strolling beside the rolling waves without going in the water.

  There are sharks, her dream self told Heather.

  “Jenn, we’re home,” Antonio murmured.

  She jerked up her head as the van rolled through the wrought-iron gates of the university entrance. Statues of saints posed on high, arched walls. Crosses, mounted six years ago to keep out vampires, glittered in the moonlight. Behind the gingerbread plaster the new class was sleeping, or maybe cramming for exams in Beginning Leadership, Spanish, or Cold Reading, taught by Señor Sousi, who was the weirdest man Jenn had ever met. Jenn was supposed to help out with sparring in Beginning Krav Maga tomorrow, training the young students who could very well replace any or all of the members of her team . . . if the students themselves lived long enough.

  Antonio parked in the space beside the chapel, and the others piled out. Father Juan, dressed in a priest’s clerical suit and collar, walked down the steps toward them. The priest was trim with silvery strands woven through his blue-black hair.

  “Hey, Father, I got a bone to pick with you,” Jamie half shouted at Father Juan, but the priest walked past him. “They knew . . . hey!” Jamie yelled.

  Holgar got out, leaving the door open for her. Jenn unfolded herself, frowning as Father Juan neared the van. Usually he would have met them inside the chapel, to bless them after their battle and lead them in prayer to give thanks for their safety. Instead he approached the open passenger door, face grim.

  “¿Padre?” Antonio said, leaning in Jenn’s direction.

  “Jenn, I need to talk with you privately,” Father Juan said somberly.

  Jenn glanced at Antonio, who looked as puzzled as she did.

  “What?” she asked nervously as she climbed out and followed Father Juan. Her mind raced. Had Eriko told him that Jenn had choked during their mission? Maybe he was going to tell her she was off the team because they couldn’t depend on her. Or that Antonio was a traitor.

  No. Never. That can’t be it.

  Near a large stone statue of St. John of the Cross, Father Juan stopped, turned, and put a hand on her shoulder. Jenn looked up into his dark brown eyes, and fear rippled through her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry.

  Antonio stared at Jenn and Father Juan, tuning out Jamie’s angry tirade and Skye’s attempts to placate him, and focused on their conversation. He wasn’t concerned with the niceties of things like privacy. He wouldn’t allow what was rude and what wasn’t to get in the way of doing his job.

  Which was to destroy as many vampires as he could.

  And to keep Jenn from getting hurt.

  Though some nights he thought the biggest danger to her wasn’t from the vampires she hunted but from him, the one she didn’t. He had wanted her so badly when they’d been kissing back in Cuevas. The desire had flooded through him, filling him with an intense need to really taste her, feed off her, to drain her dry.

  Just remembering made the thirst worse, and he felt the sharpness of his fangs pressing against his lower lip.

  “I’m so sorry,” Father Juan was saying to Jenn. “It’s your grandfather. It was his heart, very sudden. Your grandmother is asking for you. Your family wants you home for the funeral.”

  Ah, no, Jenn, Antonio thought, crossing himself. He knew she adored her Papa Che. It was because of him that she had entered the Academia.

  He saw Jenn’s knees start to buckle, and he shot into motion. Father Juan reached out to support her, but Antonio beat him to it. She fell into his arms, and he gathered her up, easily.

  “Mi amor,” he whispered. My love. “Ay, mi amor.”

  She sobbed against him, and his heart ached for her.

  And his fangs lengthened.

  “Jenn should stay in California,” Antonio said, as he and Father Juan sat at a wood table in a small tapas bar a few blocks from Madrid International Airport, having just put her on a plane. The floor was tiled in squares of black and white, like a chessboard. The vampire and the priest had passed many hours together playing chess and other games—war games, mind games.

  Jazzy flamenco-flavored pop music bounced along Antonio’s nerves. Two armed Spanish soldiers sat at a nearby table, glancing over at Antonio and Father Juan and muttering in low voices. They hadn’t noticed that Antonio cast no reflection in the window framing Antonio and Father Juan’s table, but when his vampiric hearing alerted him of their interest, he changed seats with the priest. It had been careless of him not to pay attention in the first place. He knew he was distracted with his worries about Jenn.

  The soldiers recognized from the embroidered patch on his jacket sleeve he was one of the Salamanca hunters. Teams of hunters were new, but the symbol of the Salamanca Hunter was ancient. Many in the military approved of the independent bands of vampire hunters scattered throughout the world. But others, like these two, feared the hunters’ independence and wanted them to serve as a branch of the armed forces or be branded as renegades.

  There were few other patrons at the bar; since the war and the “truce,” people no longer ventured out at night if there was no pressing need. Spain had never signed the treaty; people’s loyalties were questioned—to vampires, to mankind. As she always had, Spain harbored many secrets about faith and belief, complicity and honor. She stood as a beacon . . . or a bonfire.

  The world is drowning in fear, Antonio thought. So was his world. For two years he had rarely let Jenn Leitner out of his sight. Until he had confessed how he felt, she hadn’t known it, would never have guessed that he spent endless nights outside her window, keeping vigil, studying the shadows. Why Jenn? Why the California girl who doubted herself at every turn, insisted that she was nothing special? He didn’t know how she had beamed light into the shadows of his soul. She was special. He knew it as fully as he knew that without her—as without blood—he would wither into dust.

  And now she was flying back to the States. Thousands of kilometers would part them for who knew how long. All while there was a traitor in their midst. What if Jenn was their target? What if she was doing exactly what they wanted, leaving the safety of Salamanca, and the safety of him?

  What if she is the traitor? She has sympathy for one vampire, why not others?

  Angry at himself for such doubt, Antonio shook his head as though the action alone could clear it of the unwelcome thoughts. Jenn cared for him despite what he was, not because of it. That was the truth he clung to every time he lost himself in her eyes. Still, there was a part of him that doubted. Continually.

  “She should stay away,” he insisted, more forcefully than he had meant to. Because he also knew that they weren’t safe together. Not any longer. The more time they spent with each other, the more difficult he found it to control himself.

  Father Juan raised an eyebrow, and Antonio dropped his gaze. Two small glasses of sol y sombra sat at Antonio’s and Father Juan’s elbows. Half brandy, half licorice-flavored anisette; Antonio sipped his out of companionship for the man across from him. Father Francisco, Juan’s predecessor as master of the university chapel, had granted Antonio sanctuary half a century ago. Father Francisco had kept Antonio hidden, praying with him for release from the vampirism. When Father Juan had taken his place, he had brought Antonio back into the light of community. Father Juan had encouraged him to continue his theological studies. Another war, years earlier, had interrupted those studies—World War II. Antonio had been “converted,” as it was called, in a forest in 1941. He’d run with his sire for less than a year, until sham
e and horror sent him fleeing from the vampire’s nest located in Madrid, and back into the arms of the Church.

  It had almost seemed like a second chance, and the studies had helped him feel almost human. All that changed, though, when the university became a busy training ground for vampire Hunters. There had been five graduating classes at the academy, and each time Antonio had masqueraded as a student. When Father Juan and other masters around the world had decided to break with tradition and train groups of hunters to work together, Antonio had had his doubts. But when the hunter band was formed—Jenn’s band—he had joined it, at Father Juan’s request.

  “She’ll be back,” Father Juan said. “She’s one of us.” He lifted his glass and turned to the soldiers at the other table. “A la gente,” he called to them. To the people.

  The soldiers hoisted their glasses. “A la gente.” The two looked tired, as well they should. It was exhausting to be on the losing side.

  “I wish to God that she’d stay home,” Antonio muttered.

  Father Juan smiled sadly at him. “You’re such a puzzle to me, my son. You’re older than my grandfather, and yet parts of you are still very much nineteen.”

  “She’s nearly eighteen,” Antonio said. “Too young for this.”

  “You’ve fought alongside eighteen-year-olds before,” Father Juan countered. “In that other war.”

  “And they died,” Antonio said in a tight, hushed voice. “By the thousands.”

  “Then protect her,” Father Juan said. “With all your soul.”

  Antonio huffed. “We still don’t know if I have a soul.”

  “I know you do.” It was an old conversation, one Antonio figured they would have until he died the Final Death—if that day ever came. Likely, it would. There was a price on his head. Among his own kind he was a traitor. To his sire he was a Judas.