“Señora Dupree is about to hold her voodoo ceremony,” Father Juan said. “In my experience such rituals hold great power. I have a fear that her loa may expose you and Holgar.”
Antonio pondered that. “Father, you’ve told me many times that the truth of God is like a prism, refracted in these various faiths. And it is our belief—yours and mine—that the faith we follow offers the clearest view.”
“‘For now we see through a glass, darkly,’” Father Juan confirmed, quoting Corinthians. “That’s why I invite you to say Divine Office with me during the ceremony. As we pray together, perhaps your patron saint will shield you from scrutiny.”
“And Holgar?” Antonio asked.
He smiled mischievously. “Maybe Saint Jude will watch out for him.” St. Jude was the patron saint of lost causes.
“St. Jude is Jamie’s patron saint,” Antonio retorted.
“Let’s go a bit apart,” Father Juan suggested.
AD 1591, PEñUELA, SPAIN
ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS
John of the Cross was born Juan de Yepes Álvarez, and he was a converso: born as a son of the Jews, confessed as a child of the Church. His bed was hard, and the room was filled with light, and as he died, he made a final request:
Oh, my soul, take flight, live on, and do the work of my Heavenly Father. Live on, on the wings of the wind, in the beams of the sun. Bless and repair the world.
And as he sighed out all the troubles of the earthly world, he felt the goodness that he had been fly on the wings of angels, like God’s own magick.
AD 1941, SOUTHWEST FRANCE,
ON THE BORDER WITH SPAIN
ANTONIO DE LA CRUZ
The lowering clouds blanketed the rocky hills as Antonio and the survivors of his band fled the barrage of mortar and machine-gun fire down the steep slopes. One by one they disappeared into the scrubby maquis, underbrush, that had given them their name: the Maquis, freedom fighters. The Cross of Lorraine, the symbol of the Free French Forces, which he had joined as a volunteer, was stitched onto Antonio’s rough woolen sweater. Now he was a Maquis—a maverick. Spain lay in tatters, pretending to be neutral, but the Spanish dictator Franco’s loyalties lay with Adolf Hitler and his allies, Japan and Italy.
Antonio had fought against Franco at the very end of the civil war, which had ended two years before, in 1939. Now his targets were foreign invaders. In both instances he had disobeyed his spiritual advisor, Father Francisco, who had forbidden him to fight.
“God’s people need prayers, not bullets,” the old man had insisted as Antonio knelt before him in their little lady chapel. A statue of the Blessed Mother held out her arms, attired in a brown robe and a rope belt, like a friar. Father Francisco was tonsured, wearing a thin line of hair around his otherwise bald head, while Antonio retained the silky curls Beatriz had always complained were wasted on him.
“God’s people need victories,” Antonio had replied, sliding his hands into his robe as he bowed his head. He was nineteen—far too young to serve Mass for the ever-increasing numbers of Spanish widows and orphans, but the perfect age to take up a rifle on their behalf. His stomach was tight; he was trying to do the right thing. He hadn’t taken his final vows—he was years from that—but he was committed to becoming a priest. Some days he felt as if his fatherless family had died as a sacrifice to his vocation. If he left Salamanca and joined the Free French Forces, would their deaths become meaningless?
“I do not release you to go,” Father Francisco insisted.
Antonio considered. Fascinated that his last name—de la Cruz—was the same name that St. John of the Cross had adopted upon becoming a Catholic, Antonio had studied the life of the saint, and he knew that St. John had been imprisoned and tortured by other Catholic priests for his beliefs. St. John had not submitted. He had escaped. And so one night, when Antonio’s brothers in Christ were at vespers, Antonio left the seminary. He walked out the side door wearing a thin green shirt, dark brown canvas trousers, and boots. In the way of the Maquis he pulled his hair back in a ponytail and wore a black beret.
Before nightfall he also wore a carbine slung over his shoulder, and he had accepted a sweater pressed on him by a woman he met in a tavern called El Cocodrilo—the crocodile. The Free French Forces patch with its double cross was new and clean and had just been sewn on—for the woman’s husband, who would never need it, as he had been executed against a brick wall three days before.
Antonio took the gift as a sign from God—the symbol of the Free French Forces was a cross topped with a smaller crossbar, and was also the symbol of Joan of Arc. The distraught, drunken woman had kissed him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, and begged him to go to bed with her.
He thought of Lita and refused, as gently as he could.
Now he was here, in the dust and the dirt, fleeing the Germans, who steadily advanced like the unfeeling machines he believed them to be. All bloodless efficiency, routing the undesirables from their society—the very undesirables he, as a priest, wished to serve. Not only Jews, but the handicapped, the weak, and the defenseless. Soon Hitler would find all Spaniards and all Frenchmen undesirable. Of that Antonio had no doubt.
He ducked behind a juniper tree as bullets strafed his position. Ducking out, he shot back, rewarded with a cry.
Go to God, he told the soul of the fallen enemy.
And then there was a cry on his side—a shriek of agony. There were four other Maquis with him, fighting their way into the valley. They were all French, he the only Spaniard; two were brothers near his own age, the third a boy of twelve, and the last one, at seventy-four, was too old to fight. The old man’s name was Pierre Louquet, and Antonio feared that it had been he who had been hit.
“Alors! Vite, Père Espagne!” called one of the brothers, probably Gaston. Father Spain—that was Antonio’s nickname.
He pushed away from the juniper tree. Bullets whizzed past him; he could feel their heat. The brothers raced twenty feet ahead of him, each with a hand around the wrist of the boy, whom they called Frère Jacques—Brother John, as if they were family members.
He pushed off, practically flying right over Old Pierre, who was lying on his side, groaning. His wrinkled face and white hair were matted with dirt and blood.
Without a moment of hesitation Antonio bent down, gathered him up, and slung him over his shoulders. The old man groaned in protest and muttered in French.
The extra weight made Antonio’s descent unwieldy, and he could do nothing to protect himself or Old Pierre. If death came, then it came. He wasn’t fearless—he didn’t want to die—but if he died now, he felt that he would pass in a state of grace with the Lord of Heaven, saving the life of another.
But he hoped that he wouldn’t die that day—or at the least, that it wouldn’t hurt.
Perhaps in another world the French brothers and the boy would have berated him for weighing himself down with the dying old man. But this was the “good war,” where the lines had been clearly drawn—freedom and life pitted against tyranny and death camps. A world reeling beneath evil, reaching hands to heaven for rescue.
And so the brothers and Jacques, who were good men, helped carry Old Pierre into the valley, and as the sun went down and it began to get cold, they took off their jackets and covered him with them. He’d been shot in the side, and there was no way to extract the bullet without making him suffer more, and he was already panting with pain. He was bleeding so badly that he probably wouldn’t live the night. It was good that the dark was falling like a curtain; the Germans wouldn’t be able to see the blood all over the branches and the ground.
The Maquis couldn’t make a fire. The flames and smoke would give them away. As quietly as they could, they broke out their food—bread, hard cheese, hard salami wrapped in brown paper. The men were all Catholic, and Antonio said the blessing. It was so dark, and so cold, and little Brother Jacques was thin, tired, and hungry. Antonio thought of his lost family, his sisters and Emilio, and of Lita, who woul
d never have children, and a lump formed in his throat. So much innocence, destroyed. He gave Jacques his salami, telling the boy that he had eaten meat last Friday—an infraction of the rules, for good Catholics did not eat meat on Fridays—and so wished to do penance now. The brothers knew he was lying. Maybe Jacques did too, but he was too hungry to argue. He gobbled it down.
As was their custom, one man stood watch while the others tried to rest. All were aware of the enemy creeping through the forest. Antonio kept vigil beside Old Pierre. Scudding clouds freed the moon, and Antonio saw the man’s closed eyes, his deeply sunken cheeks, the grizzle on his chin. His breathing was labored. Did Antonio have dispensation to give the man extreme unction, last rites? He did not. He was only a seminarian.
Old Pierre opened his eyes. His lips moved. His heart thundering, Antonio bent low.
“Confession,” the man managed to say.
I’m not a priest. I can’t do this, Antonio thought. But he reached in his pocket and retrieved his rosary, which he kissed and wrapped around the gnarled fingers. Then he made the sign of the cross over the wispy white head and said, “Oui, mon fils.” Yes, my son.
“I killed . . . I . . .” The man began to cough. Gaston, who was keeping watch, looked at Antonio and wildly shook his head.
As gently as possible Antonio covered Old Pierre’s mouth. The man stopped coughing. Antonio took his hand away, leaning toward the chapped, thin lips.
“. . . a man . . . not in wartime . . .”
The creeping in the forest was louder. Whoosh, whoosh, like the mistral wind. Germans. Jacques sat up, his pinched face wide with terror. Gaston, their sentry, pointed with the barrel of his rifle toward the trees. The brothers and Antonio looked somberly at each other, and then, like three fathers, at Jacques.
Antonio murmured to them in French, “Allez-y.” Go. “Leave Old Pierre and me here.”
“Père Espagne, non,” whispered the little boy, his eyes huge as saucers.
The brothers wanted to argue. Everyone knew there was no time. Antonio would remain behind, with the dying old man. Silently, the other three rose, and Père Espagne blessed them, for what would be the last time. Then they melted into the junipers and beeches.
Antonio heard a bird trill, and gazed up at the moon. He crossed himself and wished desperately for some oil. He spied the brown paper wrapping for the salami and pressed his fingertips against it. Tentatively he tapped his thumb against his forefinger, hoping that some residue of fat had been transferred to his skin. Then he took a breath and found courage in the ancient rite of his faith, intoning the blessing for the dying in the language of popes and monks. Closing his eyes to find the light within, the light of his soul, he began:
“Per istam sanctam unctionem, et suam piissimam misericordiam indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti per visum, auditum, odoratum, gustum et locutionem, tactum et gressum.”
“Ah, ah,” Old Pierre groaned, and Antonio opened his eyes. The wounded man was staring past Antonio with a look of pure horror. Antonio knew there was someone behind him.
A German, he thought. And now I meet my Lord.
He was partially right.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We are strong of mind and heart
Mesmerism our deadly art
We can seduce even the most pure
From our control there is no cure
So resist us now if you can
Declare your loyalty only to man
But in the night you’ll beg and crawl
On your knees you soon will fall
AD 1941, SOUTHWESTERN FRANCE
ANTONIO AND SERGIO
The invader in the forest was not a German, and he didn’t wear the uniform of a soldier or a Maquis. Although Antonio didn’t know it then, the stranger was, however, dressed for battle. Clad in darkest black from his turtleneck sweater to his wool trousers, boots, and heavy wool coat, he sought to charm his victim. Raven-black hair like Antonio’s hung loose over his shoulders, and beneath heavy eyebrows fringed with thick black lashes his eyes burned with hellfire. When he smiled, his two long, white fangs extended over his upper lip.
“Buenas noches, little priest,” he said. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
Antonio couldn’t move. He stared in uncomprehending horror at the man, the demon.
. . . un vampiro.
Time stopped. For how long he couldn’t say. Then a breath shot into his lungs, shaking him from his reverie. He crossed himself and murmured, “Madre de Dios, Santa Maria, me protege.”
The vampire drew back slightly, then folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head, looking down at Old Pierre, who gasped and gargled.
“He’s suffering,” he said. “Your god must be very happy.”
“The angels are waiting for him,” Antonio said, and his voice cracked like a little boy’s. Nothing at the seminary, nothing on the earth or in the heavens, had prepared him for this moment. A vampire. A vampire.
A vampire.
“I can end his suffering,” el vampiro said. His voice was low, very soothing, as he glided toward Antonio. His red eyes shimmered in the night. “For a price.”
“His soul belongs to God,” Antonio replied, putting his arms around Old Pierre, covering the old man’s body with his.
“I wasn’t speaking of his soul. I was speaking of yours,” the vampire said in a deep, resonant voice. “That is my price.”
Not understanding, Antonio remained silent.
“Let me begin again.” He swept a bow. “I am Sergio Almodóvar, and I am the king of the vampires of Spain.”
Antonio didn’t reply. The vampire gestured to Old Pierre.
“I can turn him into one of my own. And sí, most assuredly, when I do that, his soul will be taken, and sent down to my lord, Orcus, whom I worship. He rules the underworld, where all our souls await us.”
“No,” Antonio said, protecting Old Pierre with his body. He pressed his lips against Old Pierre’s ear and whispered the last line of the prayer for the dying: “Benedicat te omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.” May almighty God bless you, Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit.
“Amen,” the vampire said, sounding amused. “Oh, my poor priest, no one is listening.”
“Someone is,” Antonio insisted.
“Very well. Believe your pretty little story.”
“It’s not just a story. It is the truth. Unlike your ugly nightmare,” Antonio said. “We both know who rules the underworld.”
“I do, because I serve him,” the vampire replied. “And I have met him.”
“Then you’re both mad and evil.”
“Scrappy. You’re in the full bloom of your youth, as I was, before I was blessed with eternal life. I was freed on my twentieth birthday.” He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Sharp profile, noble nose, firm jaw. “And so I’ll remain, while other men age, wither, and turn to dust.”
“And they will be reborn into the fullness of the Holy Spirit,” Antonio countered.
“It’s sad. You seem intelligent. But now, hear the rest of the bargain.”
The demon unfolded his arms, and the air around him seemed to harden with evil. “I will take that man while you watch, and turn him into a vampire. I will deliver his soul unto Orcus, and he will run with me. Or I will spare him and turn you into a vampire.”
Antonio blinked. He was suddenly very cold. Shivering, he tightened his arms around Old Pierre, then lowered him to the ground and grabbed the crucifix around the old man’s hand.
“No,” Antonio said, showing it to the vampire.
The vampire averted his gaze. There was something in his bearing that was very noble, ancient, and graceful. He was no ravening minion of the Devil. An aristocrat, with manners.
“Think a moment,” the vampire said, raising his hand to shield his view. “You became a priest to secure a place in heaven for your soul. Everything you do is a bargain with God, calculated to prove that you’ve behaved well eno
ugh to dwell with the saints and the angels forever.”
He lifted one of his dark brows. Despite the way he carried himself, he did look very young—even younger than Antonio, who was careworn from the fight.
“Don’t you find it the least bit mortifying, all this cajoling and keeping track? Three Hail Marys, one Our Father . . . don’t you wish to conduct yourself with more dignity?”
“No. I’ve heard the Word, and it’s my pleasure to obey,” Antonio said. Except I did not obey, he thought. I left the seminary. Was that truly God’s will, or my own?
“If I turn you into a vampire, you will never see your supposed God in heaven. Never. And all this effort—the poverty, the chastity, the obedience, endless prayers, Masses, fasting, everything—will have been for nothing, because you’ll go to hell anyway. This I don’t simply believe—
“I know it.”
Antonio couldn’t swallow. He could barely breathe.
“But hell is not as bad as you’ve been told.” He chuckled. “It’s actually exquisite. It is a place of light, and pleasure. And you will be free from all your religious strictures, so you can actually enjoy it. That is what I offer you, my Spanish brother.”
Antonio extended his arm, dangling the crucifix from his fist.
“No.”
“The cross in your hand is very small,” the vampire said. “It weighs as much as a handful of sand. Nevertheless, soon your arm will tire.”
This time the vampire looked Antonio full on. He took a deliberate step forward, toward Antonio. The hair on the back of Antonio’s neck stood on end. The hand holding the crucifix swayed.
“No,” he repeated.
“You misunderstand. There is no refusing. There is you, or him.”
Antonio lifted his chin in defiance, but tears of despair welled in his eyes. The vampire was right. Antonio had never realized until that moment that the threat of damnation had hung over his head like a sword fastened to the ceiling with a strand of human hair. Was it love or fear that had motivated his search for holiness?
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