Blood Sacrifice (13 page)

“What? No thanks?” I mock pouted.

“You never say thanks to a brownie,” said Niko, all too amused.

I smacked the back of his head as I joined Adam in opening the boxes from the libraries. “That’s for being cheeky,” I said. “Brownie, indeed. Why don’t you and Tucker go back up, find Grace, and get us some comfy furniture. These pew benches are murder.”

“Will do,” Tucker said and dragged Niko up the stairs with him.

“I think I’ll just move these pews back against the wall,” I said. “You’re better than I am to sort those old books out.”

I shoved one pew up against the right-hand wall, hoping to leave the left side of the chapel for our work room. The stairs emptied out onto this side, and frankly, I would be a lot happier with some sort of barricade while we were all four in the room. Paranoid, much? Well, just because I could be paranoid didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone out to get us. We knew there was.

Instead of immediately digging into the books, I could see Adam walking slowly to my left, as if measuring the walls.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I’ve been here a few times, as I said before, but never really paid much attention to the layout,” he said. “I believe there’s a door behind that one tapestry.” Adam nodded toward a small alcove to the right of the altar. “I think it leads to the sacristy.”

“The what?” I grunted the word as I shoved a third pew against the first two. Damn it. They weren’t going to fit together as easily as I’d hoped. I wanted to Tetris them together, one atop another and some next to them, making one fairly solid barrier wall, easy to shove up against the stairwell door if needed. It wasn’t going to work. At best, I would have a tottering tower of wooden pews, too easy to shove over.

“Where the priests got their groove on,” Tucker responded as he and Niko strode down the staircase.

“That’s where they store the vestments and all the
sacred vessels and such, you sacrilegious man,” Niko answered. “I’ll help you move the pews, Keira.”

I straightened and wiped my hands on the back of my jeans. “Didn’t take you guys very long.”

“Nope. Didn’t have to go far to find things, evidently.”

Tucker strode over to where Adam said the door was, removed the tapestry by unhooking it from some hidden upholstery tack-like fasteners. The wall was some sort of plastered over adobe type material and the fasteners looked like parts of iron nails. Sure enough, there was a door there. Hung on ornate iron hinges, it was made of wooden beams fastened by iron nails and iron bands of some sort. Reminded me of barrel staves.

“This door is really old.” I touched the worn wood above the latch. “Centuries, I’d guess from the handmade hardware.”

“Two centuries or more,” Verena’s voice floated down from the staircase. “It was part of the original chapel.” She reached the floor and crossed to where we all stood. “Go on in. There are several pieces of furniture in the sacristy. We stored them there some time ago.”

The door opened onto another large room, this one lined with cupboards and shelves. A couple of wardrobes stood against the left wall next to a fairly large sofa, covered by some sort of sheeting. Quite a few cushions and pillows were stacked on it. A few armchairs blocked one of the back cupboards, covered in what looked like bedsheets.

“To avoid dust,” Verena said. “Grace and I covered it all and moved it here when one of the studies got water damage a few years ago. Feel free to use any of it.” She came down to the floor level and wafted over to the
doorway. “There’s a couple of camp beds in here, too,” she said. “Linens and bedding, too. In the cupboards.”

“We’re sleeping in here, too?” I asked.

“If you like,” Verena said. “Tucker said you wanted to set up a war room. I only figured…”

“Thanks, Verena,” Tucker said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

She turned then and looked straight at me. “They won’t come down here. You might be more comfortable.”

I stared back into her watery eyes. Old eyes. Older than she looked. “It’s no longer consecrated,” I said.

She blinked once, her expression remaining the same neutral emptiness it had been since she’d first appeared in the front hallway. “But it is sacred.”

I shivered as her words echoed my earlier conversation with Adam. Had she been listening to us?

Without another word she turned and disappeared up the staircase.

“The only people without problems are those in cemeteries.”

—Anthony Robbins

T
wo hours later and I was beat. We’d hauled in furniture, even a few area rugs, all rich, plush, and in excellent condition. The chapel now looked like some sort of eclectic hippie hideaway, if said hippies were in their mid-forties with money to throw around. At least one of the carpets we’d uncovered in the sacristy was an Aubusson, somewhat faded, but still glorious in its reds and bronzes, and woven in the style of the Bayeux Tapestry. We used that one as our centerpiece. Other smaller rugs lined the cold stone floor.

We’d set up one long plush couch along the left wall, with two wide armchairs flanking it, one on each side. A hand-carved wooden table had been holding up a stack of moldy cloth. I’d rescued the table and banished the cloth to an empty trunk. To the right of the grouping and up against the back wall left of the door, Tucker set up one camp bed, piled high with clean sheets and blankets. He’d done the same at the opposite end. Both bedding areas had lamps and small side tables.

I wiped my brow. A layer of grimy dust came off on my tank top. Gross. My head was pounding and my sinuses felt full of gunk. “Guys, I’m going to step out for a bit. I need some air.” I escaped up the staircase. Yeah, I lived with a vampire and spent a lot of time in his underground bedroom, but you know, this seemed different. Maybe it was the underlying oppressive feeling that kept seeping in, despite my shields, or maybe it was just my own self, weirding out. Before I committed to spending hours in the chapel, head buried in a book or online doing research, I needed to get outside for a bit. Take a walk under the stars. Was it even full night yet? I extended a feeler. Yup, thank goodness. It might still be warm but at least the sun wasn’t out. I hated summers in this part of Texas.

At the top of the first flight, I stopped to listen at the closed door. Sounds of some
corrido
floated up alongside the laughter of at least two women speaking in Spanish. Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t disturb them. I was a guest, after all, and was sure that they’d much rather do their thing without having me walk down in the middle of whatever they were doing. Washing up after a late supper? It was nearly ten o’clock. This was the first indication I had that Grace and her sister had actual employees other than the gardener I’d spotted earlier. I suppose it sort of made sense, though perhaps not. How did one explain the unusual nature of the guests, anyway? At least the gardener probably stayed outside and didn’t have much interaction with guests.

What the hell. I opened the door.

Grace and her sister sat at a small Formica-topped table, each of them sipping on a cup of what smelled like hot tea. A thirteen-inch television sat on the kitchen
counter tuned to one of the local Spanish-language stations. That’s what I’d heard, not actual people, just the sounds of the
telenovela
actors.
Betty La Fea
, it looked like. I recognized it because one summer, Aunt Jane had been utterly entranced by the Mexican soap. She’d picked up a lot of Spanish. I’d been totally disinterested by the shenanigans. I didn’t like American soaps either, for that matter.

“Keira.” Grace sprang up, her cup clattering onto the saucer. “Is there anything—”

“No, I’m fine. We’re all fine,” I said. Verena had not reacted, simply sipped her tea and continued to watch her program. “I wanted a bit of fresh air,” I said. “You know, outside? Out back?”

At this, Verena set her cup down and turned to me. Now both sisters were staring at me with identical odd expressions. Their eyes glinted in the kitchen light, each of them staring as if I were something out of P.T. Barnum, yet at the same time, they remained somber, no smile or any other semblance of courtesy crossed their faces. Creepy.

Once again I doubted the decision to hole up here. Sure, it would be tougher at a fancy hotel, but frankly, you throw enough money at the staff and they would ignore just about anything. I knew this. Been there, done that, partied like it was 1999—oh yeah, it kind of was. My dad had paid the very substantial bill afterward. Not that I’d done the wild party thing justice, I mean, they’d had crazy rock stars trash the place much better… or so the manager had told me. He’d been part of the party that night. What? He was cute.

“It’s okay, right?” I asked, motioning toward the outside again. “It’s safe?”

At the word “safe,” Grace started, but Verena just sipped her tea, still staring at me.

“It is safe out there, right?” I repeated.

“What, oh, yes, I suppose it is.” Grace waved an unsteady hand. “The door.” She pointed to a screen door to the left of the sink area.

Had I interrupted something or was it the thought of my going out back that disturbed her? I frowned and stepped toward the door. “I’ll just go out then.”

“Wait. You’ll be needing a lantern—I mean—” Grace went to the sink and scrambled in the left-hand drawer. “A flashlight? The sun’s set.”

“No, no, that’s fine.” I waved her away as she brandished a tiny plastic flashlight toward me. “I’ll be okay without it.”

Verena got to her feet soundlessly. “Leave her be, Sister,” she said in her whispery voice. “She doesn’t need the flashlight, she has her own light.”

Grace’s eyes looked a bit wild as she bit her lip and nodded. “Yes. Well, then.”

Before I could say anything or rather, do anything I’d probably regret later, I pulled open the screen door and scampered down the three crooked concrete steps. Freedom. I was outside and away from whatever weirdness was in that bloody house. Shades of
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane
or some other offbeat sister movie. I had no idea what was going on with those two women but did
not
want to know. I had plenty of my own problems to think about.

I wandered for a bit, just happy to be outside in the quiet dark. I was still within the wards, but just getting out of that house improved my mood a great deal. I hadn’t realized how much the atmosphere had
affected me until now, when I wasn’t in the middle of it.

The back of the inn wasn’t much to look at from ground level either. The patio slab ran the width of the entire house. A set of French doors was the only access from the back. Must be from a sitting room or dining room. I couldn’t see inside, the doors had heavy-duty Grecian blinds, all of them down and the room itself was dark. The only lights from the house came from upstairs, what looked to be a guest room. My guest room, actually. I must have left a light on. Yellow light spilled out from the side—the kitchen door where I’d exited.

As I listened, the sounds of the TV show floated through the air, tenuous noise at best. A few crickets chirped halfheartedly. It was still bloody hot. Nineties, maybe, instead of hundred plus. No traffic noise, no streetlights. We were in this weird patch of land, semi-attached to the bustling city, yet not really part of it. Beyond the cement slab of what could have been a very nice patio if furnished, the usual bunch of live oak, scrub, cactus and then the edge of the cemetery.

Light suddenly flooded my surroundings as the full moon came out from behind a cloud. Clouds? That was brilliant. Maybe we would get some relief. I looked up but my excitement vanished as I realized that there were only a few patchy clouds tonight, nothing near enough to rain from.

The moonlight marked a path between the trees, worn and old, but obviously kept up. Gravel with rocks marking the sides shone the way into the small graveyard. Keeping to the path, I entered the cemetery proper.

Guadalupe Ramon Quinteras, b. 1893, d. 1919 Ora pro nobis. Emilio Vasquez, b. 1822, d. 1907. Francisco Reyes Ramirez, b. 1819, d. 1844.
As I read the names on the worn markers, I began to realize they had one thing in common. They were Mexican names, Spanish names, all dead at least a hundred years or more. Servants? That made the most sense. This inn was near a part of San Antonio that once housed the laborers and servants of those in the mansions in the King William district. At the far edge of the property, just beyond another stand of live oak, the moonlight glinted on glass. Must be the window of the garden shed.

“They come here to be shriven.”

I started, not having heard anyone approach. The old gardener stood just behind me to my left, straw hat worn on his head, weathered skin telling tales of many years. He dressed casually, faded loose cotton chinos and an equally ancient T-shirt his only garb. Bare feet brown against the cracked gray of the dirt. He leaned against a rake, one hand clutching a gardening glove, the other sporting its match. What the hell was he doing out here in the dark?

“Who? What?” My thought process couldn’t grasp what he’d said. Who was he talking about?

“Them.” He waved the dangling gardening glove toward the tilting headstones. “The dead.”

What the hell was the old man talking about? Had the heat parched his brains?

A low rumble sounded in the far distance. Was that thunder, finally? Were we getting rain? I tilted my head to the sky, trying to make out clouds.

The man chuckled and wiped his brow.

“
Après la sécheresse, le déluge…”
I muttered, modifying
the famous Louis XV quote. After the drought, the deluge.

“Perhaps you mean,
après vous
?” The man turned his attention to me. “Though that noise was not thunder but a dump truck. There is a facility a few hundred yards or so over the ridge. Acoustics around here are funny sometimes.”

“I’m no duc d’Anjou,” I retorted, trying to grasp the idea of a gardener, a manual laborer, recognizing both the language and the mangled quotation.

“Nor is your man Madame de Pompadour,” he returned drily.