The Damned (9 page)

Jamie scowled at the first piece of the cache, a submachine gun. Too impersonal, and therefore not right for the job; he needed the proper handgun to deliver three shots, execution-style—two in the eyes, one in the forehead—and he needed a silencer. A bit more digging and he had his weapon—unlicensed military issue, could be used with a silencer.

“That won’t serve, Jamie,” said a voice from behind him. It was his grandfather, eyes rimmed with red. His wispy gray hair was matted with sweat.

“I’m killing him, Poppy,” Jamie insisted. “Father Patrick stood by and watched while they, they—”

His grandfather approached, hand out for Jamie’s gun. “We’re Catholics, Jamie. We can’t kill priests. Much as we might want to,” he added sourly.

“But . . .”

“No buts, me boyo. There are certain things we don’t do. Especially at your age.”

Jamie’s grandfather turned and gestured for Jamie to follow him to his workbench. He reached up and yanked on a thin chain, lighting a bare lightbulb that hung above their heads. A vise held a gun barrel; there were drills and presses and bits of steel all around. No one made guns by hand anymore except as a hobby or for show, but all guns needed repair now and then.

“We’re the O’Learys,” his grandfather said. “We’ve been making firearms for over a century. That’s what we
do.”
He caught his lip. “We’ll make a gun that shoots silver bullets, you and I.”

Jamie nodded, hatred overflowing his soul and streaming down his face like tears. Ashamed, he tried to turn away, but not before his grandfather saw. He smacked him on the side of the head. Jamie’s ears rang.

“I need you strong,” his grandfather ordered him. “Now close up the potato box.”

Steeling himself not to cry again, Jamie did as he was told. He would be strong.

As soon as it was light, he stumbled through the gray, miserable dawn to the churchyard. The sight of the fresh mounds of earth tore him open. Balling his hands against his mouth, he pushed all the grief back into his soul. He was a man now, and he had a man’s business to tend to.

“Maeve. Ma. Da,” he said to the graves. “We’re going to pay em back. I was going to kill Father Pat for letting it happen. Poppy said no. I suppose I wouldn’t make it to heaven to see you if I did such a thing. But we’ll get the Cursers and the wolves. I swear it.”

When he left, he felt better. He had a plan, a purpose. His hand was on the door to their flat when his aunt jerked it open. Her face was ashen, and she had on her nice coat, the one she wore to Sunday Mass.

“Jamie, Jamie,” she said, grabbing his shoulders. “Father Patrick’s been gunned down. He was in the rectory garden, watering the plants. It’s said he might not live.” She crossed herself. “I’m going to the church to pray for him. Come with me, darlin’.”

He was thunderstruck. For a moment he just stared at her.

“I need me jacket,” he said, as upset as he sounded, and hurried inside.

He raced down to the cellar to the crate of potatoes. He threw off the lid.

The gun was missing.

Father Patrick died that evening. Two days later Jamie’s grandfather insisted they attend the funeral, and they knelt together, heads bowed. The casket was closed, because whoever had killed Father Patrick had shot out his eyes. Jamie was glad the priest was dead, but he felt no relief. Nothing inside him had changed. He still hated the priest. And the vampires and werewolves, even more than the English, and that was saying something.

That night he dreamed of Maeve. She was a vampire, white as porcelain, wearing her first-communion dress with its little crown and veil. She was knocking on his window, weeping.

“Let me in, Jamie,
please,”
she whispered. “It’s so cold out here. Me bones have frozen to ice.”

In the morning Jamie woke with a start, to find his window open. For one instant, hope flared inside his heart that she had really come to him. But he had seen them tear her apart. There was nothing left of Maeve to be converted—and he would surely wish her dead and in heaven than eternally weeping at his window. Would he not?

It wasn’t a question for the asking. No matter; he would warm her poor dead bones with the heat of his fury. And in that way, and only that, would his little sister live on.

Venice was miles away now, and with it all the dead folk.

“Jamie,” Eriko said as they sped toward Marco Polo Airport, “are you crying?”

“Don’t be daft, Eri,” he said. “You’ve never seen me cry and never will.”

Stonily he gazed out the window. Streetlights, bushes, other cars. That was all there was to see.

S
ALAMANCA,
S
PAIN
F
ATHER
J
UAN,
J
ENN, AND
A
NTONIO

Let this be the right course
, Juan prayed once more, as Jenn and Antonio walked into his office. He had cast the runes and entreated heaven to make his decision crystal clear. But as often happened when matters of life and death were involved, he was called upon to exercise his free will, and to ask those in his care to do the same.

Beyond his door the academy students bustled en route to their activities—training, studies, chores—and their lively young voices reminded him of the duties that lay across his shoulders. He had a sure hand in the future of humanity. He might not know everything, but he was certain of that.

Jenn and Antonio kept their distance from each other as they stood before his desk. He gestured for them to sit. They complied. He could remember a time when Jenn would take Antonio’s hand, or Antonio would smile reassuringly at her. Those days had become a memory. The conversion of Heather had harmed their relationship. That was bad. They were fighting partners.

Perhaps what I am going to do signals a more permanent change
, he thought.

“We have been asked to help two teams in Russia,” he told them.

“Two?” Antonio said.

“It’s a combined effort by an Israeli and an Arab team,” Father Juan explained. “Numerous special-forces veterans were ranked among them, and they were expected to gain a significant victory for our side. Unfortunately, it’s gone badly. Out of twenty members two hunters have survived, possibly three. Jenn, you will take the team to Russia and meet up with them, and together you will stop the vampire named Dantalion.”

“Okay,” she said.

Father Juan leaned forward on his elbows.

“We’ve had some intelligence since the teams went in. Dantalion has been overseeing genetic manipulation experiments. He’s been splicing werewolf, human, and vampire genes to make supersoldiers. Others combine human and Cursed One DNA in hopes of creating the perfect vampire.”

“Perfect vampire?” Jenn repeated.

“One who is not affected by sunlight,” he replied.

Jenn paled. “Cursed Ones who could walk around by day?” She glanced at Antonio, and Father Juan saw the longing there. He guessed she was imagining what kind of life they could have together if he were not forced to hide from the sunlight.

But then she looked away again, as if to remind herself that she and Antonio would never have a life together. The vampire bore the strangest expression.

“Has he succeeded yet?” Antonio asked.

“Not as far as we can tell. Although what he has created is far more frightening.” He fell silent.

“Father?” Jenn pressed.

“
Bueno.
A few of Dantalion’s experiments have either escaped or been set loose. They have been slaughtering everything they come across. It’s only a matter of time before he creates enough of these creatures to take out the entire city of Moscow.”

Both Jenn and Antonio seemed stunned by the concept. “That’s millions of people,” Antonio said, finding his voice first. “How can he do that? He’s only one vampire.”

“Antonio, you were in the war when the Germans unleashed the panzers, the armored tanks. And the U-boats. You saw the blitzkrieg for yourself—thousands of bombs fell from the sky. The Allies thought the world was ending.”

Antonio looked thoughtful. “That’s true. And in this war there is also new technology.”

“Vale,”
Father Juan said. “And just as the Nazis sought to conquer the world with their master race, so do the Cursed Ones.”

“When do we leave?” Antonio asked.

Father Juan took a deep breath. “I’ve told the others to return. Eriko and Jamie have booked a flight. Holgar and Skye are already on the road. Barring any problems, the team will leave tomorrow morning.” He hesitated. “With one exception. Antonio, I need you to stay here.”

Jenn sucked in her breath.

“But why, Father?” Antonio protested. “My team needs me.”

“Aurora made contact in Venice,” Father Juan said. “She left a note with the bodies of the resistance cell Eriko and Jamie planned to meet with.”

“The bodies.” Antonio crossed himself. “So . . . she killed them all?”

“Yes.” Father Juan also crossed himself. “She wants you, Antonio.”

Jenn paled, but Antonio betrayed no emotion except for his sorrow at the deaths. “Are you keeping me here to protect me, Father?”

“No. I’m keeping you here to protect the team.” Father Juan turned to Jenn, who looked stricken. “You don’t need to bring that battle to Russia.”

“But . . .” She swallowed hard. “If he’s with us, then we can protect him.”

“No.” Father Juan placed both his palms on his desk, a signal of dismissal. “I am the master here, and this is my decision.”

Antonio lowered his head, and Father Juan made the sign of the cross above it. Without another word Antonio rose and left the room. Jenn watched him go, then turned back to Father Juan.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Powerful vampires like Aurora have enemies,” he replied. “I’ll continue to investigate.”

“And pray that someone stakes her before she reaches Antonio?” Jenn asked.

He shrugged. “We would be very lucky if that were the case.”

“I’ll get ready.”

After she left, Father Juan pushed back his chair and knelt on the stone floor, humbling himself before the One who knew all things.

“Let this be the right course,” he prayed. “Your children cry out to You, Merciful Father.” He made a fist and pressed it against his heart. “Protect us from evil, I beg of You. And I beg of You, stake her.”

Then Juan rose and walked out of his study, and into the small walled garden. Rain wanted to fall; he felt it in his bones and smelled it in the air. The moon was wrapped in gossamer clouds, her face veiled in mystery and pity.

“I pray to you also, Lady,” he said aloud. “I am still your son. Grant me this boon. Grant us relief from her.

“Blessed be.”

Jenn walked to her room, wondering where Antonio had gone. Her face was numb, and her hands were cold with fear. Aurora’s shadow loomed long and dark. The vampire had taken Heather. If she took Antonio, too, Jenn didn’t know how she would stand it.

She shut the door and leaned against the smooth wood for a moment, wrestling with her emotions. Since her entry into the academy, Antonio had never been far from her, except when she had gone to Berkeley for her grandfather’s funeral. That was when her entire world had been torn apart. When
they
had been torn apart.

What was going to happen in Moscow without him? If these two teams of veteran soldiers had been taken out, what chance did the Salamancans have?

Just breathe
, she told herself.

She pushed away from the door and walked over to the small, simple table that served as her desk. Stakes were stacked neatly underneath the table. A rough-hewn cedar chest held vials of holy water and crosses, which the Church provided. The hunters were allowed to carry any religious symbol they wished, since it was their faith and not the object itself that provided the power. Which confused her—she didn’t have any religious faith, so why did crosses work? Because she knew that others believed they would?

All she wanted was to personally hunt Aurora down and kill her. She didn’t want to go to Moscow.

If I get through this mission, I’ll ask Father Juan to send us after Aurora. She will never hurt anyone I love again.

Did she love Antonio? Despite what Father Juan had told them—that the runes insisted they had a part to play in the future of the world, and that they must play it together—she still felt so guarded, so unsure of him. He kept secrets, mourned private matters he wouldn’t share with her. Even before Heather’s conversion he had held himself in check, constantly monitoring himself lest he hurt her.

Kill her.

She grabbed her duffel bag and her journal. After a moment’s hesitation she put her journal down. Father Juan had given it to her when he’d made her the leader, charged her with writing a new Hunter’s Manual, which would replace the centuries-old manual that was required reading for academy students. So far all she’d managed to do was prattle on about daily battles and her own insecurities. Hardly the stuff to inspire new generations. But even that would have to wait. She had to travel as lightly as possible.

She arranged her battle gear, all black with some strategic pieces of body armor. The crest of the Salamanca Hunter was sewn on the shoulder: a red cross consisting of four curved arms of equal length—the cross of the original Crusaders. A blue knight’s helmet crowned with three white feathers—the color for the Virgin, the feathers to honor the Trinity—perched on the top arm of the cross. Below, the word “Salamanca” was stitched in a font reminiscent of Spain’s Moorish roots. Once a sole Hunter had carried the crest; now all six members of the Salamancans wore it. A black covering could be Velcroed over it when the team needed to hide their identity. She remembered her pride when she’d received it on the night of her final exam, just five months ago. That was the same night she’d found out that Antonio was a vampire. Not such a fine moment, that.

It felt strange not to be packing stakes or holy water, but Father Juan didn’t want to raise any alarms. The Cursed Ones were tightening the noose around Spain. Security had increased at the Spanish airports, and the team had to avoid detection.