Of Masques and Martyrs (9 page)

A pair of enormous lilac bushes grew wild just across the path from the bench. The wind shifted suddenly, and the breeze blew the smell of lilacs in a wave across him. Peter inhaled deeply. It was a beautiful smell, but after a moment the breeze subsided, and it was gone.

Peter was restless. He knew that, despite all else that had happened, including Tsumi’s coming to New Orleans, there was one major reason for his anxiety. Rolf.

Despite the fact that Cody was on his way to New York—might, in fact, have arrived there already—to investigate Rolf’s disappearance, Peter’s heart was heavy, filled with a terrible foreboding that he could not shake. If it weren’t for Tsumi’s sudden arrival in New Orleans with more of Hannibal’s followers in tow, he would have gone off to New York himself.

For a moment he watched the last light as it drained from the sky, the tint of dusk long since disappeared. Then, in the same idle fashion in which he’d scratched his head and run his fingers across the stubbly texture of his beard, Peter began to do magick. The garden itself seemed to take notice, its rustling subsiding as the wind began to pass around the bench where Peter sat. Nature did not appreciate the intrusion of sorcery, which was, by definition, unnatural.

In his right hand, where it lay palm up on his thigh, a green flame began to burn. It flickered up, blazing higher. Peter turned his hand, cupping it, lifting his index finger and swirling the arcane light. It grew and spread, and soon a torrent, a seeming whirlpool of magick shimmered above his hand as if it were some sort of verdant halo. Idle no longer, Peter focused his mind on Tsumi, on their time together, and their brief but visceral struggle the night before.

And he saw her. As if in a mirror, he watched Tsumi’s reflection in the scrying pool he’d created out of air and light. She lay atop a stone slab, inside a crypt of some sort. As Peter watched, she began to stir. He tried to concentrate, to pull from the image, from her mind, her precise location.

The image of Tsumi in the scrying pool changed suddenly. The green glow shimmered, and Tsumi tensed. In a rage, she spun and glared into the shadows of her chamber. Somehow she had sensed him, but assumed that the threat to her was close at hand.

Then he lost her. The scrying pool darkened and began to fade. Peter sighed. He’d try again, and keep trying until Tsumi was found. If they were to defend themselves against Hannibal’s inevitable attack on their New Orleans stronghold, Peter would have to know more about the vampire lord’s current activities, and the number of undead in his clan.

In his open palm, the scrying pool shattered like a mirror, shards turned to flame, and green fire blazed once more, even more vibrant now that night had truly come. Then it was gone, with only the scent of sulphur left to mark its passing.

“Quite a show,” a voice spoke from the garden path.

Peter glanced around to find Joe Boudreau standing several yards away. For a long time, especially after Salzburg, Joe didn’t smile at all. Now he nearly always wore a grin on his face. Why not? He was in love, after all.

“How’s Kevin?” Peter asked.

“He’s great,” Joe replied. “Thanks. But I didn’t come to discuss my love life.”

Peter nodded and beckoned Joe to come nearer. Even those who had once been close to him tended to keep their distance now. He had changed. He was aware of it, of course, but there was little he could do about it. It was impossible to unlearn magick.

It also seemed to him that, despite his happiness, Joe was reluctant to discuss his relationship with Kevin. Like many shadows, after the death of his human self Joe had found less of a gender distinction when choosing a mate. When one had forever to live, such things seemed almost childish. Nonetheless, Joe still had enough of the prejudices of his first life to make him uncomfortable with the idea that others might disapprove.

Peter didn’t push. Besides, they did have more important things to discuss.

“No sign of her?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Joe confirmed. “Kevin and I took half a dozen shadows out into the city, mainly hitting clubs and bars. If she’s still here, she’s keeping a low profile.”

“She’s still here,” Peter said.

Joe looked at him expectantly, and Peter brought his right hand up to massage his temple. He’d begun to get a headache, and couldn’t recall the last time he’d had one.

“Do you ever wish Charlemagne had stayed?” Peter asked him.

“All the time,” Joe answered. “But not because I think he would have made a better leader. Peter, I’ve known you since before Venice, when you had given up on the shadow race completely. You made the hard decisions before the rest even had to think about them. You went through Hell, quite literally, and came out the other side with wisdom and power . . . and, yeah, maybe a little bit of craziness.

“Before I met you, I’d been a quitter my whole life. But you taught me to fight. You taught me that there’s always something worth fighting for. Sure, Charlemagne could lead, but he’s still not completely whole after more than a year. And Cody would do a fine job as well. Maybe even Rolf. But none of them has seen what you’ve seen. Or knows what you know.

“So just stop worrying and accept it, buddy. You’re all we’ve got,” Joe said, the passion in his voice dwindling into amusement.

Peter shook his head, smiling. “Thanks,” he said. “I think.”

“So what now?” Joe asked as he brushed his brown hair away from his eyes. Eyes which had once needed glasses, but no more.

“Now we do what I’ve wanted to avoid,” Peter replied. “First, we go on patrol. The last thing I wanted was to have to police this city, but if we want to keep it safe for ourselves, we don’t have much choice. Second . . .”

Peter rubbed his temple again.

“Second,” he continued, “we begin active recruitment of all volunteers and human members of the coven. Explain the threat, and specifically ask them to accept the Gift.”

Joe stared at him, eyes narrowed.

“It goes against everything we’ve ever discussed,” Joe said quietly.

“Yes,” Peter agreed. “Yes, it does. But don’t think it makes us like Hannibal, because it doesn’t. We offer a choice. In this case, we’re in trouble, and we’re asking for help. That’s all.”

Joe nodded but said nothing further. He stood, looking at Peter a moment longer, then turned to walk back up the path. It was then that both shadows noticed that a third person had entered the garden. It was George.

“I’ll give you your answer before you ask,” the old doctor said. “My answer is still no, thank you.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you again,” Peter explained. “You’ve made your feelings clear to me many times.”

“I’m glad,” George replied. “The older I get, the greater the temptation. But, no.”

Peter nodded. He watched as Joe left, quietly greeting George on the way out of the garden. The old man, his closest surviving friend, approached slowly. His age had begun to wear on him far more in the past few months than ever before. When he reached the bench, George sat without preamble.

“I don’t like being old, Peter,” he grumbled.

“Then why—”

“There are so many things that the young do not understand,” George continued. “The older I get, the clearer things become to me. Pain is a lesson. Age is an entire study in loss. I understand life a bit more with each day that passes.”

Peter looked away a moment. The subject of his friend’s inevitable death, however tangentially they might touch upon it, never failed to disturb him.

“And what if you don’t live long enough to understand it completely?” Peter asked.

“Well of course I won’t,” George said. his surprise genuine. “I won’t really understand it until I’m gone. But I suspect that you . . . I’m sorry, but I’m not sure your kind could ever possibly understand it. That’s why it frightens me so.”

Peter laughed. “Did you come out here to cheer me up?” he asked incredulously.

“Apparently not,” George said, allowing a smile to creep across his wrinkled features.

“Actually, I came out to tell you that Nikki is up and around, and I think you ought to see her. She has a lot of questions, and unless we’re to turn her out of the convent—which might be very dangerous for her—I think you’d better be the one to answer those questions,” he explained.

Peter nodded slowly, then winced and reached up to his temple yet again.

“Peter?” George asked. “What is it?”

“Nothing, really,” Peter replied. “Probably just stress. That’s the answer for everything these days, isn’t it? I’m just not feeling very well.”

“Not feeling—How long have you felt ill?” George asked, his concern obvious.

Peter understood. Shadows, vampires, whatever you wanted to call them, didn’t get sick. Well, silver poisoning might make a shadow slightly ill, but not really sick. Other than that, their control over their cellular structure prevented illness.

But something was wrong with him, and Peter had no idea what it might be. All he knew was that his entire body felt strange, and achy, as if there were changes taking place without his knowledge. Which was impossible, of course. That control was what made them what they were.

“It’s passing now,” Peter lied. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

George frowned and watched him closely, but Peter ignored his friend’s scrutiny. If the feeling intensified, then Peter would work with George to investigate its origins. But right now, the threat of internecine war amongst the shadows was imminent. And Rolf’s disappearance made that threat seem all the closer.

“Let me know if it returns,” George said grumpily.

Peter agreed. George didn’t believe him, that much was obvious. But they’d been friends for many years, and George didn’t push.

In a shared, silent moment, they sat back and looked at the sky, at the gardens, and the high stone walls of the Ursuline convent’s interior courtyard. It was the oldest building in the entire Mississippi Valley, though beautifully restored. There hadn’t been nuns there for one hundred and seventy-seven years, but it had served many other purposes over the years. When the American Catholic bishops had abandoned what remained of the Roman church six years earlier, the building had been seized by the state as a historical monument. It had cost Peter more than fifty million dollars to purchase it, but between Charlemagne and Kuromaku, he had raised the money without difficulty.

He made them an offer they couldn’t refuse, and his shell corporation had even promised to keep the convent’s appearance up, as befit a historic building. In a way, it was a deal for the Louisiana legislature. They no longer had to finance the care of the structure, but tourists could still gawk as they walked by. Few cared much for its religious value after the way the church had fallen apart.

Peter inhaled the scent of lilacs again.

“Have you considered the irony of this place as our chosen headquarters?” he asked George.

“It occurred to me the first day,” George admitted. “But I was reluctant to point it out because it’s only a perceived irony. Actually, I find it quite appropriate in a way.”

Peter looked sidelong at him.

“You’re an extraordinary man, Dr. Marcopoulos.”

“I might say the same of you, Mr. Octavian,” George said.

“You might?” Peter asked archly.

“I might,” George teased, smiling wickedly.

Peter’s thoughts went back to the woman, Nikki. He stood, ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, and offered George his hand to help the old man stand.

“I think I’ll sit for a while. It’s very peaceful out here.”

“All right. I’m going to see if I can’t find our Miss Wydra,” Peter announced.

“It’s about time you noticed another woman,” George noted.

“She sings beautifully,” Peter observed.

“So you’ve said. Quite a few times.”

“Well. she does.”

The secrets of eternity
—
We’ve found the lock and turned the key.

—DON HENLEY, “Building the Perfect Beast”

 

 

 

 

AS THE PLANE CIRCLED ABOVE JFK INTERNATIONAL Airport, Will Cody scratched his beard and stared down at the lights of New York and felt a terrible dread begin to overwhelm him. Unless Rolf checked in, there was just no way they were going to find him in a city the size of New York without telepathic contact. If he was even still in New York.

If he was even still alive.

Will had his doubts about that.

“It’ll be all right,” Allison said, clutching his hand as the plane descended. She didn’t like to fly. “You’ll see,” she promised. “It really will.”

He didn’t answer at first. But when she held his hand tighter and shook it a bit to get his attention, Will finally turned to face her, brow furrowed with worry.

“No,” he said softly. “No, honey, I’m sorry but I don’t think it will. Until Rolf disappeared, I was pretty successful in ignoring it, dancing around the truth. Now it’s hard not to see what’s coming. We may live through it, but with their numbers so much greater than ours, I just don’t see how we can even hope it will turn out all right.”

Will expected a snappy riposte. Some kind of tart rejoinder that would put him in his place, tell him he was simply being a pessimist, offer him some kind of faith that their love and determination would be enough to get them through.

Allison said nothing.

They stayed that way, in silence, until the plane had landed.

 

JFK was quieter than usual. But of course it was. It was after dark, and so few people were willing to fly into or out of New York after nightfall that airlines had actually eliminated most of those flights. On the other hand, Will thought, hotels near the airport were probably doing great business.

He and Allison had only carry-on bags, so they didn’t have to bother with waiting at baggage claim. After the initial wait to get off their plane, they moved quickly through the airport, following the signs for ground transportation. They’d rented a Toyota from Avis, despite the fact that Will didn’t have much of an idea how to even begin searching for Rolf. Never mind where he was going to park in Manhattan.