The Damned (18 page)

“Te amo, mi amor,”
he said as he finished the kiss. “I will always love you. Always.”

“Estefan,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Kiss me again. Never stop kissing me.”

“Never,” he promised.

N
EAR THE
I
MPERIAL
H
UNTING
P
ALACE
T
EAM
S
ALAMANCA,
T
AAMIR,
N
OAH, AND
S
VIKA

“No,” Skye murmured, aghast.
Now
she felt like the Sleeping Beauty, awakening from slumber.

Estefan Montevideo had cloaked memories from her. She hadn’t remembered that night in the caves, the vampire in the shadows. Estefan had hidden the fanger from her. He’d conspired with it. Had the others done so too?

What else had happened? What more had he hidden from her?

In the nearly three years since she’d last seen him, she had grown as a witch. So why, while she was focusing on another matter, had this vision been revealed? There had been a Cursed One at their wild parties in Lord Dashwood’s Hell Fire Caves. Perhaps more then one. She
would
tell Jenn about that, and soon; but now she had more urgent business.

She refocused. And then, in her mind, she saw three deep tunnels, one left, one right, and one central. The one on the right glowed with warm light.

Her eyes flew open. She said urgently, “There are tunnels, like Svika said. We take the one on the right.”

“Yes.” Svika regarded her gratefully. “There’s an outbuilding. It was a carriage house. It’s to the west. And there’s a tunnel inside it that leads directly into the lab.”

“Oh, right,” Jamie said. “And if she’d said to take the tunnel on the
left
, you’d conveniently have a different outbuilding to point out, to lead us to our deaths
that
direction—”

“Jamie-
kun,”
Eriko said gently, “you know that Skye has abilities that we don’t have.”

“Eri,” Jamie said, looking peeved, “I
do
have a brain.” Then he blanched as Eriko pursed her lips and dipped her head. “Sorry.”

Eriko nodded without looking at him.

“We’re going in. Now,” Jenn declared. “It’s three miles to the carriage house, and then we’ll enter the tunnel.”

“I’m
not
going,” Jamie said, jutting out his chin.

Jenn gave him a hard look. He was completely unfazed.

“After we got back from New Orleans, you agreed to follow me,” Jenn said to him. “You nominated me to be your leader.
Now let me do my job.”

She’s grown too
, Skye thought, impressed. And relieved.

“I am following Jenn to the tunnel,” Eriko said, and Skye knew Eriko was speaking to Jamie, fighting partner to fighting partner. The Hunter didn’t realize Jamie was in love with her. Just as Jamie didn’t realize that she, Skye, was in love with him.

Eriko looked steadily at him. Jamie huffed, and Skye knew Eriko had won the battle of wills.

“Bloody hell.” Jamie looked at Jenn. “As long as the monster goes in first, and you give me permission to shoot him when I decide it’s best.”

“Done.” Jenn looked past him to the Middle Easterners. “Taamir, Noah, what do you have with you? Any grenades?”

“Jenn,” Skye said, shocked. “The germ warfare. There are things inside we should not unleash. What about the people who live near here?”

Jenn paused, then shook her head. “We have a mission to destroy Dantalion.”

Skye shook her head violently. “No.”

“Yes,” Jenn said. “We kill vampires by any means necessary. That includes blowing up their lairs.” Still, Skye could read the uncertainty in her face. What would they unleash if they did this?

“We need to win this war,” Noah affirmed, and she felt that same warmth toward him as before. He reached in his pockets and handed Jenn two grenades. “We’re hunters, not peacekeepers.”

“I should go first,” Svika said. “Follow me across. There are land mines all over the grounds.”

“Then we’d better step lively,” Jamie quipped.

“And form a line. Step where the guy in front of you steps,” Jenn said.

“Unless he gets blown up. Then I’d try a different route.” Jamie made a point of planting his Uzi in Svika’s back.

They assembled into a line.

Noah said, “Do you think we still have the element of surprise on our side? Has Dantalion figured out that there are more hunters out here than just me and Taamir?”

“Let’s assume he doesn’t know,” Jenn said. “So we don’t want to inform him otherwise by making any noise. Agreed?”

Noah nodded. “That’s how I would play it.”

“Okay, we’ll fall out on my mark,” she began.

“Goddess, protect us all,” Skye said, holding out her hands in benediction.

Just then Antonio burst from the trees and half ran, half rolled into the ditch.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted. “The woods are packed with them! They’re everywhere!”

“Follow me!” Hunkering down, Svika raced down the slope. The hunters followed.

And the forest shattered behind them.

BOOK TWO

VELES

Oh, night that guided me,
Oh, night more lovely than the dawn,
Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover,
Lover transformed in the Beloved!

—St. John of the Cross,
sixteenth-century mystic of Salamanca

CHAPTER EIGHT

Humans, lend us now your aid
Fight for us with law and blade
There are those who hate us still
They’re the ones that you must kill
Safety peace, our common goal
War takes an unpleasant toll
Now we put your love to test
Lay our enemies all to rest

U
NIVERSITY OF
S
ALAMANCA
F
ATHER
J
UAN

Father Juan ignored the pain in his knees as he knelt in the university chapel, praying. He had been that way for most of the day as unmoving as the statues of saints that kept silent vigil with him. He prayed for his team out in the field, for the students training at the university, for the war, and for the Church. There in the chapel he wrestled with demons of his own, struggling to find the hope that he needed to believe in so that he could share it with the others. For the first time since the Cursed Ones had announced their presence to the world, Father Juan felt completely hollow.

Maybe it was the end. Maybe the Antichrist walked among them. Maybe he had fangs and red eyes. What if Solomon, or one of the others, was that abomination, and they were suffering the end times? Doomsday cults had risen up over the last few years; they believed it. The end was not near—it was here.

Juan had done his best to ignore such hysteria. To admit that the war might be the fulfillment of prophecy would do no one any good. People tended to become complacent in the face of prophecy. The vast majority of the world had already rolled over and given up. Those who still fought couldn’t afford the luxury of believing that their fates were sealed, the future already upon them.

They needed to believe that there was a better world waiting on the other side of their struggle.

Even if there wasn’t.

They needed to believe they had a chance.

Even if they had none.

They needed to believe that love and faith would win the day.

Even if the day was already lost.

Father Juan took a deep, shuddering breath. He prayed finally for himself, for renewal of spirit, of purpose. He needed to stay the course. The years weighed more heavily upon him than usual. He knew the students wondered who he was. It was better to let them wonder than to tell them the truth. He had once been told that proof negated faith. He had been a young man at the time and hadn’t understood what that meant. Over the years, though, he had come to see that it was true. Doubting Thomas wasn’t blessed for his faith, because in the end he hadn’t had faith, but proof.

On December 2, 1577, St. John of the Cross was taken into custody by the superiors of his order, with whom he had taken issue. He and St. Teresa of Avila argued that the Order of the Carmelites had grown corrupt and required reform. St. John’s captors tortured him, whipping him and imprisoning him in a tiny room barely big enough for him to stretch out in, with no window, no doors. He endured for nine months.

A dark shadow flitted across Juan’s mind, and a sickness surged inside him. It was done. He could feel it. The unthinkable had happened. He had cast so many spells and said so many prayers to try and prevent it, but in the end he could only alert himself to the moment it happened. He squeezed his eyes shut and continued to pray, knowing that everyone in his charge needed prayer now more than ever.

It was another two hours before Diego joined him, silently sinking to his knees beside Father Juan. Diego was the bishop in charge of the university, a longtime friend and the only one still living whom Juan had ever trusted to hear his confession.

An hour passed as the two of them prayed side by side. Finally Father Juan rose from his knees and settled himself into a pew. With a sigh Diego joined him.

“So they’ve done it,” Juan said, not asking, because he already knew.

“We feared this day was coming,” Diego said, sounding old and tired for his sixty years. “Rome is close to making a treaty with the Cursed Ones. As a gesture of good faith they are officially closing the training academies they oversee the world over.”

Father Juan felt each syllable like a blow against his chest. “That’s half a dozen schools with teens who are training to become hunters.”

“I know.”

“Unofficially?” Juan asked, with a flicker of hope.

Diego pressed his hand to his eyes. “I heard from Archbishop Malachi. He’s been a friend of mine for years, but he said that if we don’t close the school, they will.”

Misery settled around Juan’s shoulders like a stole. “The Church is declaring war on us.”

Diego nodded. “It would seem so. What do you want to do?”

The hollowness lessened. He was not alone. He had friends. Father Juan studied the cross suspended behind the altar. Friends, and a Protector. “We can’t surrender.”

“I agree. I just don’t know how we can fight both Spain and the Church.”

“We can’t,” Juan replied. “But we can fight the Cursed Ones and reach out to the other hunter teams and resistance cells. If we could strike a real blow, it might encourage those who are still sympathetic to our cause to come forth and join us.”

Diego stared at him. “Your idea is intriguing, but I’m wondering what you think we can accomplish on a large enough scale to regain the support of the government and the Church.”

While imprisoned, St. John of the Cross wrote his
Spiritual Canticle
on paper snuck to him by a friar charged with guarding him.

“If they can take out Dantalion, it will be a start.”

Diego shook his head. “Even if they can manage that, it’s too isolated a victory. We need something a bit more public, more theatrical.”

Father Juan thought of Pamplona. “Like the Cursed Ones? They love to create spectacle.”

“Exactly like the Cursed Ones,” Diego said.
“We
need to create a spectacle.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Juan asked the bishop.

Diego raised a brow. He almost smiled. “They have a spokesman; we need a spokesman. We need a voice, crying in the wilderness. Loudly. With a broader reach.”

“The Internet?”

“Too controlled,” Diego replied. “Think . . . older.”

Juan blinked at him. “You’re crazy. No television station is going to give us airtime. And if we try to take one by force, they’ll just spin the footage.
After
the hunters are thrown in prison.”

Diego shrugged. “Surely you remember that before there was television, there were other methods of communication.”

Juan’s lips parted. “Radio.”

“Exactly.”

Juan considered. “In New Orleans we heard a radio broadcast, a man named Kent, who said he was the Voice of the Resistance.”

“As was done during World War Two,” Diego pointed out.

“Sí, vale,”
Juan said thoughtfully. “We need a way to get the truth out, to share information.”

“We can also use it to help people find safety and avoid cities that are Cursed One strongholds.”

Juan brightened. “And maybe we can both find resistance cells and help grow the resistance worldwide.” He looked again at the cross.

On August 15, 1578, St. John escaped through a window in an adjoining cell. With St. Teresa he reformed the existing monasteries and founded many others.

“A larger calling. We have the expertise, the training . . .” Juan closed his eyes in gratitude. “And the faith,” he replied.

In 1726 he was made a saint.

Diego nodded and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now you’ve got the idea.”

“With God’s help,” Father Juan said.

“With God’s help,” Diego replied.

Both men crossed themselves.

R
USSIA
T
EAM
S
ALAMANCA;
T
AAMIR,
N
OAH, AND
S
VIKA