Misguided Angel

by Melissa de la Cruz

  NINE

  Ambush

  By the time Schuyler heard the sound of footsteps it was almost midday. The group coming upon her and Jack thought they could take them by surprise, but in that they were wrong. She kept her eyes closed and her head on Jack’s chest. She had heard them from several hundred feet away, the crunching of twigs underfoot, their stealthy step across the forest floor, their hushed conversations.

  Don’t move, Jack sent. Let’s see what they want.

  Schuyler was not afraid, yet she was worried. The group coming upon them were not Venators, but she could smell their desperation and fear, and knew that they did not mean them well. What were she and Jack thinking, anyway, taking a languid morning for themselves? Thank goodness they had put their clothes back on.

  She could feel Jack breathing underneath her, could hear his steady heartbeat.

  “Get up,” a gruff voice ordered.

  Schuyler yawned and stretched and pretended to blink her eyes. She rose and looked around. Jack followed her lead. With their tousled hair and red cheeks, they looked like two young people who had been roused from a nap.

  They were surrounded by a group of men carrying rifles and handguns. From their bearing and their speech, Schuyler guessed they were peasants from a neighboring town, probably from Santo Stefano, which was the nearest. The countryside was filled with folk who had never left the villages, who carried on the traditions and trades taught and handed down for generations. The modern world had brought them cell phones and Internet cafés, yet they lived in several-hundred-year-old farmhouses with no heating, and continued to make their bread and sausages by hand.

  The men pointed their guns and stared. These were not evil men, Schuyler realized. They were frightened and spooked, but they were not evil. She exhaled a little.

  Jack raised his arms. “We do not mean you any harm,” he said in perfect Italian.

  “It is illegal to camp in the mountains. Who are you and where do you come from?” demanded a lean man with narrowed eyes.

  “We are Americans. We are from New York . . . on a backpacking trip,” Schuyler answered, appealing to their sense of hospitality. The Italians loved American tourists. More dollars to buy their overpriced gelato.

  Another man wearing a Fiat T-shirt and cocking an old-fashioned Beretta pistol nodded. “We do not like strangers here.”

  “We are just passing through; we did not realize it was wrong to camp here,” Schuyler explained. “Please . . . just let us go and we will be on our way.”

  Jack made to stand, but found a gun pointed at his head.

  “Stay where you are.”

  “Please be reasonable,” Jack said mildly, but there was an edge to his tone.

  “Shut up.”

  Schuyler glanced at Jack. If he wanted to, in an instant he could obliterate all of them from the landscape.

  Don’t, she told him.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated. She could hear their thoughts in the glom.

  They’re just kids, we should let them go, what is Gino thinking. They can’t have gone too far with MariElena, we are wasting time. They might know something. What will we do with them now? This is stupid. We should go. Leave them alone. Hold them until they talk. Strange times. Strangers. Strange. No we cannot trust.

  They need our help, Schuyler realized. They were frightened and confused, and in the middle of their fear was a girl. No. They feared for the girl. She could see the girl clearly in their subconscious—a young girl, just a year or two younger than she was. Schuyler made a decision. “Please. Tell us what has happened,” she said. “We might be able to help you. You are looking for someone, yes? Someone who is dear to all of you. We are friends of Father Baldessarre.”

  At the mention of the priest’s name, the group relaxed. Schuyler had guessed as much. The Petruvian Order meant something around these parts. Father Baldessarre was a holy man, a respected man, a man whose name carried a lot of weight. A lot of credibility. She was reminded, achingly, of her grandfather.

  “Let us help you,” Schuyler said. “We are . . . trained to do so. Please, tell us what’s happened.”

  The men glanced at each other, then finally the oldest one spoke. “They took my daughter, MariElena,” the big man said, then could not go on any longer, for he had put his hands to his face and begun to sob.

  Luca, the youngest of the group, explained. His father and brothers and uncles were looking for MariElena, his sister, who had been abducted last night by smugglers from the flesh trade—a danger not unknown in this part of the world. He handed Schuyler a photograph of a pretty, dark-haired girl, with thick eyebrows and a shy smile. Fifteen years old. “Mostly they take girls from the small villages in Eastern Europe, but now they are more daring. They have come to our part of the world. Life is not difficult here, as you can see,” he said, motioning to the verdant Italian countryside. “But it is boring, it is the same, it lacks excitement.

  “Mari met him at the Internet café. He was Russian, but he told her he was going to school in America. She called him her boyfriend. They ‘eloped’ last night, but we don’t think they are getting married.” He showed them his cell phone. “I got this a few hours ago.” There was a text message from MariElena. It read Aiuto—Italian for help.

  “We are very sorry to hear about your sister. But why not go to the police?” Jack wanted to know.

  “Because they are paid off by the smugglers—as usual,” Luca explained. “But we think they are not far, for they would not have taken the roads—so they must still be here in the mountains. Most likely they are headed to Levanto, where the freighters dock.”

  “What will happen to her if you don’t find her?” Schuyler asked, although she knew the answer.

  Luca frowned. “The same thing that happens to all these girls. She’ll be sold and taken away. Then we’ll never see her again.”

  TEN

  Hidden

  Schuyler led the group back to their campsite, where they found Ghedi waiting for them with their bags packed. When he heard about the girl’s abduction he grew agitated. He took Schuyler aside while Jack organized the men into search parties.

  “This kidnapping—I need to talk to you about it. MariElena is only the latest to be taken,” he said as he contrived to hide their bags in the bushes.

  “Yes, they told us that. That girls from this region have gone missing,” she said as she helped pile rocks on their folded tents. They would return for them later.

  “No, it is more than that.” Ghedi looked frustrated. “It is not safe for me to speak of it here. I wanted to wait until we were well protected. But I need to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  Ghedi looked at his watch. “She was taken last night. That is too long. It is too late already. They should have come to the monastery the minute she was missing. The others might have been able to find her before . . .” He shook his head. “Instead they set off themselves. In doing so they sealed her fate.”

  “I don’t understand,” Schuyler said. “Whatever happens to her, we have to try and find her. We have to try and save her.”

  The young priest shook his head and would not say any more, promising to explain when they reached the monastery and leaving Schuyler to puzzle over his words.

  Jack had split the company into two groups. One half would head farther up the mountains while the other half made for the port. Ghedi accompanied the second group; he was familiar with the workings of shipyards and would be able to sniff out those who traded in illegal human cargo. Schuyler and Jack would take their own path and keep in contact with the rest with a walkie-talkie loaned from Luca.

  When the team disbanded, Schuyler told Jack what Ghedi had said. Jack agreed there was no way they were going to abandon the girl, no matter what Ghedi was worried about. As a sworn Venator, Jack was charged with not only serving the Coven but protecting the innocent—whether vampire or human. He suggested they waste no time on a footrace. The fastest way to find the gir
l was to locate her spirit in the glom.

  “It is better if you do it—she might not hide from you,” he said, explaining that a gentle female presence would be more successful at coaxing a young girl from her hiding place.

  Schuyler closed her eyes and reached out into the darkness. She concentrated on the image from the photograph.

  MariElena, where are you?

  When Schuyler opened her eyes, she was standing in the twilight world of the glom. She could sense Jack’s presence as well as the spirits of the company searching for the girl. The glom world was silvery and dim, veiled as if by a dense gray fog.

  MariElena, I am a friend. Show yourself. You are safe with me. Tell me where you are. Your family is looking for you.

  There was no answer.

  Schuyler waited, but it was as if she were calling down into a bottomless well. She could sense her consciousness expanding beyond the universe, but there was nothing to push back against it—the sign that she had located the right spirit. She opened her eyes.

  “Nothing?” Jack asked.

  “Not a thing.” Schuyler frowned. “It’s like she’s not here . . . not even in the glom. Not like she’s hiding. More like . . . she never existed.” She swallowed her frustration. Ghedi’s warning had unsettled her. What was the gatekeeper so afraid of?

  More than anything, Schuyler wanted to bring MariElena safely home. She felt a kinship with the young girl. Wasn’t she herself just fifteen when her life changed? She understood how MariElena might fall in love with a stranger, how one might be tempted by curiosity and adventure, how terrible to have that curiosity of the world shattered so horribly.

  I am here! Help me! Help me!

  “Oh God,” Schuyler said. “I just heard her.”

  Help me. Help. Kill. Help. Die. Help. Fire. Help. Hell. Help. The girl’s thoughts were an incoherent, frightened plea, a monologue of confused desperation.

  Schuyler reached out to Jack, who steadied her. You are safe, you are safe, you are safe now. Show me where you are. We will find you and bring you to safety, she sent, projecting a soothing calmness to the shattered soul.

  Help me. Help me. Help me. Kill. Die. Help. Fire. Help. Hell. Help.

  Schuyler jerked awake. She opened her eyes.

  “You found her?” Jack asked. He was still holding her tightly.

  “Yes. I know where she is.” Schuyler picked up the walkie-talkie and described what she saw to the rest of the searchers. A dark cavern by a dry riverbed, a gaping hole in the ground, overhung with moss.

  There was a startled cry from Ghedi on the receiving end.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Where is she?”

  “The cavern by the dry river. It’s called Hellsmouth,” he said, his voice rising in panic. “A few miles outside of Florence. I’ll meet you there.”

  Schuyler understood Ghedi’s reaction immediately. Maybe this was why the priest had been so pessimistic about MariElena’s chances.

  “They’ve taken her to the gate,” she told Jack. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

  ELEVEN

  Hellsmouth

  Ghedi gave them precise directions, and Jack and Schuyler set off immediately, their Velox speed taking them to their destination in a flash of butterfly wings.

  If they were taking her to the gate, then they weren’t smugglers, Schuyler thought. And if they weren’t smugglers, then what were they? What did they want with the girl? Was this what the priest was worried about? What Ghedi had not wanted to tell them until they were “safe”?

  They found the dried riverbed, a scarlet, sandy ribbon of patched, scorched earth that led to a dark underground cavern. Just as Schuyler had described, the cavern was covered in moss and half sunken into the earth.

  Jack kicked away at the shrubbery blocking the entrance and led the way down. He picked up a stick and lit it with the blue flame.

  “Show yourselves!” he called, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

  The cave was dark and smelled of mold. Was this the entrance to the Gate of Promise? Schuyler could feel a foul, putrid menace in the air as they inched their way down, taking careful steps into the murky blackness.

  “Hellsmouth. Interesting name, isn’t it? The Red Bloods seem to have a knack for naming things without knowing their true significance. But obviously they sensed something here,” she said.

  “No one is immune to the feeling of power,” he replied, his torch sending long rays of light down a seemingly endless tunnel.

  Schuyler slipped a little on the wet moss, grabbing on to Jack’s arm for balance. She looked around the dark enclosure. Down there, she was surprised to find that the heavy feeling of doom had abated somewhat, replaced by a lonesome melancholy. She walked forward in the darkness, and the feeling grew stronger.

  They stopped and looked around the shadowy space, Jack’s torch illuminating a rather standard-looking cavern, with moss green rocks and a sandy floor. The cave was littered with the usual teenage detritus: crushed cigarette butts and empty beer bottles.

  Something isn’t right, Jack sent.

  You feel it too? Schuyler asked. What is it?

  Then she knew. It’s not here, is it? This isn’t the Gate of Promise.

  No, this is a mere vapor, a distraction. A cunning illusion.

  Hellsmouth was nothing but a haunted house, something to scare away the local populace, a distraction from the real menace.

  “What do we know about Blue Bloods?” Jack mused.

  “That they don’t like to make anything easy?” Schuyler said. “That they keep their secrets. They brought peace and art and light to the world. They are a highly civilized people. They built temples and monuments, cities of gold that rise to the heavens,” she said, thinking of Paris and how beautiful it was.

  “Exactly. Think of the gates we’ve already found—the Gate of Vengeance under a statue—a sculpture, an icon. The second underneath one of the most beautiful Gothic cathedrals in North America. A vampire would not build a gate in a hole in the ground, a crude cavern in the sand.” Jack shook his head.

  “No. You’re absolutely right. Whoever put this here did so to conceal the gate’s true location.” Schuyler said. “But if this isn’t the gate—then why are the Petruvians guarding it?”

  TWELVE

  The Symbol

  Schuyler paced the rocky floor. How much did they know about the Petruvian Order after all? That first night, Ghedi had asked them to trust him—he had named Lawrence Van Alen as a friend, yet he had never met the man. How much of his story was true? After their month of imprisonment as guests of the Countess, Schuyler chided herself for not being more careful.

  “Do you think we might’ve been wrong about Ghedi?” she asked Jack.

  He shook his head. “It is better to trust and face betrayal than to remain skeptical of everything and everybody. Your open heart is a gift. It led you to me, for instance.

  “But in this case I don’t believe Ghedi played us. The Croatan have no use for Red Bloods. I doubt he has ever set foot in here. If, as I’m guessing, the Petruvian Order was founded by the original gatekeeper, Halcyon would have followed a certain standard for dealing with humans. It’s common practice, the Conspiracy has done it for hundreds of years. They tell the Red Bloods only as much as they need to know.”

  They took one more sweep around the dark cavern, and Schuyler noticed something they hadn’t seen before, a symbol etched on one of the walls. It was a triglyph, a symbol in three parts. The first consisted of two interlocking circles, the Blue Bloods’ symbol for union; the second was of an animal they couldn’t identify. The third symbol was one Schuyler had never seen before: a sword piercing a star.

  “It’s the archangel’s sigil,” Jack explained. “The star connotes the angel who bore it. Lucifer. The Morningstar.” The Fallen Angel.

  Schuyler traced the outline of the triglyph with her fingertips. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  “I feel like I have . . . som
ewhere . . . in the past. I can’t remember,” he said, studying it as he kept his torch focused on the symbol. “It may be a ward, to keep the spell of doom around this place.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that’s it.” Schuyler couldn’t take her eyes off the triglyph. The symbol had a hypnotic, lulling effect, which was only broken by the sound of footsteps. “That’s Ghedi. Let’s not tell him about this until we find out what he knows.”

  Jack nodded and pointed his torch toward the cave entrance to help guide the way. The priest was breathing heavily when he reached them. “Did you find her?” he asked, looking around nervously.

  “No. We should go. If she’s not here, we have to let her family know,” Jack replied.

  Ghedi looked relieved, and they began their upward climb.

  “Wait.” Schuyler stopped. She’d heard something familiar—a small silent whimpering in the distance, the sound of muted anguish from one who is suffering. “There.” She ran into the deepest recess of the cave, toward a small crouched figure, bound and shackled in the dark.

  “MariElena,” Schuyler whispered. She crouched down and put a hand on the girl’s brow. Hot. Burning. Hopefully it was a fever from exposure, and nothing else.

  The girl stirred and whimpered again.

  The priest crossed himself and knelt down next to her.

  “Do you know where you are?” Schuyler asked in Italian.

  “In the cavern,” MariElena replied without opening her eyes. “Near the dried-up creek.”

  Jack took off his jacket and put it around the young girl’s shoulders. “Do you know why you are here?” he asked.

  “They brought me here,” she answered dully.

  “Who were they?” Schuyler asked. “What did they do to you?”

  In answer, MariElena shuddered involuntarily as if having a seizure.

  Schuyler held the girl in her arms and continued to soothe her. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” she whispered. “You’re going to be okay. You’re safe now.”