By Blood We Live (46 page)

I think he saw the first segment of the sun ease up over the water. I think he shouted something, laughing. It might have been: “It’s beautiful!”

Then the boat dipped for a second, rose again, and I saw him. A bright tuft of violet-edged flame, a brief, soft flare of brilliance—then he was gone.

C
ARDINAL
S
ALVATORE DI
Campanetti, with a big surgical dressing on his nose, was waiting for me when I got back to the BMW. He was holding a gun.

“It used to be, in the old days, that only the wolf’s head would do,” he said. “It was a point of honour with the old Soldiers of Light, to take the monster in its monster form. Even the heathens in WOCOP tried to keep up the tradition. Nowadays we’re a little less fussy.”

My blood jangled. The sick taste in your mouth and the vibration like a tuning fork in your head.

Silver.

Bullets.

Nowhere to run. Nothing. Now. The reality of my children exploded in my heart. All my life rushed to this moment to see if there wasn’t some way, some way to—

Then the Cardinal raised the pistol and shot me in the chest.

I’d never been shot before. It was like I imagined being kicked by a horse would be. I felt myself falling. Just managed to grab the wing mirror and stay on my feet. The pain in my chest was hot and crushing, a detonation of heavy white light filling my lungs and head. I had, what? Seconds? I was remembering—as my eyes, which I hadn’t realised had closed, opened again and the big unidentifiable trees swam back in, vivified, outrageously full of detailed life—I was remembering holding Jake in my arms when he died. How long had it taken? I’d felt it in him, silver racing to map the system, veins, nerves, tissues, bones. I’d felt the silver’s delight, set free in him to do its thing, like a power cut knocking out block after block of a city’s lights. Five seconds? Ten? A minute? I was thinking, too (God being dead, irony still rollickingly alive), that this threw all my big talk of moments ago—of not being ready to find out—in the trash. Finding out didn’t wait until you were ready to find out. Finding
out found
you
out. I imagined Remshi’s surprise, looking back and seeing me so soon on the afterlife road behind him. And of course if that were true, then Vali would be there too, eventually. As would Jake. As would my mother. Awkward disembodied introductions. How ludicrous! The little light dancing part of me laughed.

A second horse-kick. In my gut. Which unstrung my hand’s grip on the wing mirror and sent me, by what felt like pointlessly drawn-out degrees, down onto my hands and knees. Small twigs rolled under my shins, a minor but very distinct irritant. I was thinking of Zoë and Lorcan. Good that they were still young enough to forget me. Walker wouldn’t abandon them. Maddy wouldn’t. They would be all right.

Then I felt it.

Death looking up in the middle of its mardi gras and seeing Life bearing down on it like a tidal wave.

Death trying to recalculate, to assimilate, to grasp.

Reversal.

Giant water hitting giant fire in a deafening inner hiss.

And water always wins.

Something went into me from him.

I didn’t understand.

And of course did.

I’d known I’d never be the same. Just not in what way.

It was very quiet. I don’t know how long I knelt there, staring at the dust and stones of the track. I was aware of the day’s heat building, giving its heavy morning intimation of the suffocating weight it would bring by noon. Something in the BMW’s still-cooling engine
tonked
, softly. I raised my head. Got up onto my knees. Got one foot under me. Stood.

The Cardinal was, to say the least, surprised. His face had lost its guiding will. I stepped to within arm’s length of him. If I simply reached out and took the gun from him he’d be unlikely to resist. I could take the gun, point it at his head, pull the trigger.

And yet I knew I wasn’t going to. Not mercy. Disgusted exhaustion. The world’s infinite supply of action and reaction, cause and effect, Jake’s hated endless
ifs
and thens. The little boat and the rising sun and the flare of flame had emptied me. I was tired. I wanted to go home.

I got into the 4×4 and started it up.

Because the universe doesn’t suspend physics no matter your extremis, I had to go through the farcically cumbersome business of turning the car around in the narrow space. The Cardinal watched all of it, mouth still stupidly open, the gun dead in his hand. I thought, Jake would roll the window down for a parting shot:
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

But I didn’t even have the heart left for that.

I
T TOOK ME
three attempts to find Olek’s. Grishma, toting an AK-47, was at the edge of the garden, looking out for me. When I switched the engine off and got out the cicadas went quiet for a few seconds, then started up again.

“Ah,” Grishma said. “Ah. Yes. Good. Come in, please come in.”

He filled me in on the attack as we went downstairs. With the exception of the Cardinal it seemed almost certain the whole
Militi Christi
squad was dead. Olek (now locked in his most secure room—I assumed weapons, escape tunnels; you didn’t make it to his age without covering the contingencies) had nonetheless recalled his security people, who were expected, Grishma assured me, imminently. The others were all alive, all sleeping. Caleb, Mia and Justine covered in blood. Natasha on a comforter in the lab. Konstantinov slumped against the wall next to her with an automatic pistol in his right hand.

“Mr. Konstantinov was keeping vigil for you,” Grishma said, head on one side, looking down at Konstantinov as might a proud mother at her wholesomely exhausted toddler. “But it became impossible. He’s had so little sleep over the last days.”

I felt as if I’d had none myself.

“There is also,” Grishma said, as we headed back upstairs, “something I’m sure you’ll want to see.”

What I wanted was to take a hot shower and get out of there, but I followed him into the lounge anyway.

The plasma screen was on, muted. CNN. Night footage. A derelict warehouse on fire. Armed figures in combat fatigues.

“They’ve been running this on all the channels,” Grishma said, pouring me a Macallan and handing me the glass. “A development. Absolutely a development.” He unmuted, just as I’d started to follow the rolling banner:
BREAKING: CHICAGO—MILITI CHRISTI ATTACK ON
WEREWOLF DEN … “TIME FOR DENIAL OVER,” REPUBLICAN SENATOR SAYS … TWEET YOUR VIEW …

The footage was hand-held, but professional. This wasn’t a jittery eyewitness with an iPhone. This was a crew, multiple cameras. This—the filming—had been part of the intention.

“… said the attack signalled the start of an open, global action,” a voiceover said. “I spoke to Squad Leader Martin Scholes, who had this to say.”

Cut to a dark-haired guy in his mid-thirties in black fatigues, face a mess of camouflage paint and sweat. He was breathing heavily. He looked elated. “This is what we’re here for,” he said. “This is what—” Another soldier, passing, slapped him on the back and shouted:
“Gloria Patri! et Filio! et Spiritui Sancto!”
followed by a whoop and what turned out to be a failed attempt at a high-five. “Sorry about that,” Scholes said, grinning, when the soldier had bounded out of shot. “That’s … You know, the guys have trained hard for this. This is … You can expect some high spirits. The point is there’s a job needs doing. No one can pretend this problem is getting better. It’s getting worse. Someone has to draw the line, you know? Someone has to … This is a threat not just to Christians, not just to Americans, but to the human species, to all human life, everywhere. If that’s not a clear enemy, I don’t know what is.”

“Numbers so far indicate five lycanthropes dead and sixteen human fatalities,” the voiceover cut in, as footage switched to the beheaded corpses of two werewolves, lying among still-smouldering rubble, guarded by four young, fully armed
Militi Christi.

“We’re not a political organisation,” Scholes was saying, when they cut back to him. “Our goal here is the eradication of this clear enemy by the grace of and for the glory of God. We’re not—”

“What do you say to those people accusing the Church of using this campaign as a credibility lifesaver in the wake of the multiple cases of abuse of young children by—”

“That’s ridiculous,” Scholes cut in as something exploded, off camera, making the interviewer jump into shot. Scholes steadied him. “You all right? That’s okay. That’s just … The point is that’s just an example of hatred of the Church. People have always hated the Church. They’ll say
anything to try ’n’ discredit us. Here, look at this. Can you get this in?”

Someone handed him a bayonetted rifle. With a werewolf’s head jammed onto the blade. Again, it was obvious the bayonets had been thought through, for just this moment. For maximum visual impact.

“This,” Scholes said, “
this
is what we do.”

The report cut to Republican Senator McGowan at a press conference. Camera flashes. A thicket of microphones.

“That’s a misquote,” McGowan said. “What I actually said was that we’re going to need more
than
guns, not ‘more guns.’ We’re going to need more
than
guns and silver to defeat an enemy only the most willfully blind members of the administration still refuse to see for what it is. We’re going to need faith, we’re going to need a return to solid values. And everyone knows in their hearts what I mean by that …”

I hit the mute again.

Grishma hadn’t said a word.

“Tell Olek I’ll be in touch,” I said.

“But, madam—”

“Not for what he’s selling. But we may be able to work something out. Tell him to give me a couple of weeks.” If there was any way of synthesising what I had in my blood, he could be my best shot. Whatever else, he knew his science. Until we had a lab egghead of our own he might have to do. He wasn’t going to stop wanting what he wanted, after all. I’d just have to persuade him not to shop around.

In my room, I called Walker.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the fuck? Why didn’t you call? Didn’t you check your messages?”

No. I was too busy reading Browning and getting vampire-laid.

“Are the kids—”

“The kids are fine,” he snapped. I’d never heard him this angry.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m getting on a flight today. Where are you?”

Pause. Long pause. I thought: Maddy’s in the room with him. It didn’t matter. It was good. It was right.

“Still in Croatia,” he said. “God dammit, Lu. You’ve seen the footage, right?”

“Just now. I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking saying that.”

“Are the kids …?”

“They’re asleep.”

“That’s okay. That’s good. I’m sorry.” Sorry again. It was out before I could stop myself.

“What the fuck is going on out there?” Then: “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m … I’m fine. I’m coming home.”

“What happened with Olek? What about the Cure?”

I thought about it for a moment. The dozen answers.

“Not worth the price of the ticket,” I said. “Not for me, anyway. Not for the kids, either.”

There was a silence. All the things I felt him not asking.

“You know this is just the beginning?” he said. “You know we’re going to have to fight them?”

“I know,” I said. “But we’ll do it as what we are. You were right. There’s no going back. There was never any going back. And if there was for us, there wouldn’t be for them. I’ll call you from the airport. Please don’t worry. Please don’t worry about anything. I want you to be happy. I want you to …”

Come on now, don’t cry, please don’t cry.

“I’ll call you from the airport,” I said again, then hung up.

Downstairs, I asked Grishma for pen and paper. I had notes to leave for everyone.

O
N THE PLANE
—and in the airport before the plane—everyone was talking about the attacks. Over the last twenty-four hours there had been at least twenty other
Militi Christi
raids on werewolf dens (sometimes an individual, sometimes a pack) in half a dozen countries, and footage was on every available TV screen. There was palpable collective excitement in the lounges. Even the cabin crew were jazzed, bright-eyed, serving their drinks with a new air of purpose. I thought of Jake’s diary:
All paradigm shifts answer the amoral craving for novelty.
Well, this was a paradigm shift, all right. Months of rumour and counter-rumour, YouTube videos, conspiracy theories, “hoaxers” and religious fruitcakes—but now the governments of a dozen major powers had come out and admitted it was true. They’d been forced into it by the Soldiers of Christ. This was the
post hoc
scramble to bring it under political control before the holy rollers started to look like salvation. “We’ve known about this threat for some time,” a plummy British general said, on the BBC World News. “We’ve known, we’ve trained, we’ve developed a range of strategies and hardware, but you must understand our primary objective—beyond the obvious one—has been to avoid civilian panic and vigilantism, which, unfortunately, is the likely consequence of some of these precipitate actions. I’d like to take this opportunity to re-state the government’s position in the clearest possible terms: Leave it to the professionals.”

I was thinking, as we took off, and the lift as the wheels left the runway hit all the passengers as a little objective correlative for the launch into an unknown future, of Olek’s words:
Your species—and ours—is living in the last days of its liminality
 … It was, in the weird way of these things, a relief to me that he was right. Everyone who’s lived through a war knows this, the refreshment of the primacy of survival, the new, brutal perspective, the clean, liberating feeling of being able to cut—since you’re living with death on your shoulder like a good-humoured crow—through all
the usual bullshit and irrelevance, to get to the quick of a stranger—for a fuck or a fight—in moments.

I was thinking, too, of course, of Remshi, who hadn’t lived to see it, but who had given me a gift (unknowingly?) that would be crucial in the days and years ahead. If immunity to silver was in me, then we would—oh, make no mistake, we
would
—find a way of getting it into our brothers and sisters. Our children. My children.