Angel Souls and Devil Hearts (53 page)

“How is he?” Peter asked, his eyebrows knitted with concern.

“Sleeping fitfully,” Stefan said. “Even with the blood we’ve all given, his legs have barely begun to grow. I wonder . . .”

Stefan left the thought unfinished, but they all knew where he was going with it, for they had wondered as well. Charlemagne was to have been their leader now. If he had given up, if his will
was not strong enough to heal him, to replace his amputated limbs, then Peter would lead them. And they all knew, as well, that Peter didn’t really want the job. The mood in the house was
somber.

Will, Peter and Allison had arrived only a few hours earlier, with Stefan and Charlemagne in their care. Erika and Rolf had been there a full day, and had been met by Joe Boudreau and George
Marcopoulos, who had already begun to ready the house for them. It was a new beginning, set up for them by Meaghan Gallagher. Now that the others had arrived, and though George was not yet home
from making a most important phone call, they finally had time to mourn, together, everything and everyone they had lost.

They mourned for Alexandra Nueva, for Meaghan Gallagher, and for Elissa Thomas. They mourned for Martha, Isaac and Jared, and for John Courage. They mourned for Lazarus, who might be dead or
trapped forever in the bowels of Hell. They mourned for an old king who lived in agony, and his faithful warriors, who had been resurrected only to truly and finally die, but whose valor had been
instrumental in their salvation. They mourned for Annelise and Carlo, whose last names Rolf and Erika were forced to admit they had never known. They mourned for all those nameless soldiers and
civilians, humans and vampires, who had died at the hands of Hannibal and Mulkerrin and the lords of Hell. And they mourned for themselves, forced to live in a world where they would be hunted by
both humans and vampires, trapped between two sides in a war, like all others, without a victor.

They rejoiced to have discovered the true nature of shadows, to know their history, to have obtained a foundation for the future. They planned for the future, together, and spoke excitedly about
their proselytizing mission, to seek out shadows across the Earth and bring them to their cause, to enlighten them with the truth about themselves, to undermine Hannibal’s barbaric
efforts.

They worried about the new American President, his hatred for shadows, and George Marcopoulos’s contention that the man was insane. They hoped that one day humanity’s leadership
would have more vision, better perception, and see that for all their power, vampires shadows—were more like humans than not like them. They wished they didn’t have to hide, and
secretly, sometimes, that they had remained hidden.

“If wishes were horses,” Allison said when that was mentioned, and a light chuckle filled the room.

“There’s no going back,” Cody added. “We move forward or we die.”

“I’m not prepared to die again,” Octavian said.

“So what then?” Joe Boudreau asked. “We just hide out, wait for the humans to hunt us down?”

“We find Hannibal,” Erika said gravely, “and we kill him. That’s half our problem taken care of.”

“I’m not so sure—” Stefan began, but Erika cut him off.

“I’m sure,” she said.

“And then?” Allison asked, her eyes on her lover, Will Cody.

“And then, darlin’,” Cody said and squeezed her hand, “we start chipping away at the world outside. But we start by taking care of each other. Our own coven, in a way,
but the first made up of shadows
and
humans. We stick together, and watch out for one another, and we’ll be just fine.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Erika said, and it was Rolf, next to her on the couch, who answered in his own way. He reached out and stroked her cheek and merely nodded, as if to
say,
Believe it
.

They were quiet after that.

A few minutes later, George Marcopoulos came in, ready to tell them that the UN had joined the American declaration of war against all vampires, but before he got two sentences out of his mouth,
he saw Allison and Will. And Peter.

Peter Octavian, his best friend, whom he had thought dead for five long years, whose survival he had been unaware of until that very moment. He couldn’t say a word as Peter crossed the
room and took him in his arms. Peter was gentle, for George was getting old, but they hugged each other tight. They were like father and son, though which was which had never been certain.

“Oh, my friend,” George finally whispered into the silence of the room, “I missed you. We have so much to talk about.”

And so George took his place in the high-backed chair that had been left empty for him, put his feet up on the ottoman while Joe went to get him a cup of tea, and told them all that the stakes
had risen higher still. And he told them of the death of his wife, Valerie, the only woman he had ever loved, who had apparently missed him too much.

Once again they mourned, they remembered, they cried. Later, they laughed and talked and dreamed. Finally, when it was far past George’s bedtime and they admitted that they all needed
rest, they prayed.

Together.