Of Saints and Shadows (1994) (28 page)

And she could not deny that worship was exactly what this was. Martyrdom, sacrifice, purification. Faith. Those were the principles of religion. Linda didn’t think she had ever actually seen a Defiant One. She had no idea if they paid any attention to the sacrifices offered up to them.

But she had faith.

Tracey had faith in nothing but herself. That was the way it was and always had been. Tracey had never seen a Defiant One either, but that and the fact that she, also, was far from stupid were the only things the two of them shared. This was Tracey’s first year as a volunteer, though it had taken her three to get into the loop and a fourth to convince Linda that she’d be the perfect roommate. The differences between them would have been substantial even if Tracey had been everything she seemed.

Which she was not.

In truth, she lacked not only faith, but religion. Oh, she believed all right, but she believed because of the things she had seen and heard, believed because she was terrified, and because it made good copy, and making good copy was her job.

Tracey Sacco worked for CNN.

“So,” Tracey said with a quaver in her voice that she hoped passed for excitement rather than terror, “you’re the expert, babe. What do we do now?”

It was 10:00
P.M.
(yeah, ma, Tracey thought, do you know where your children are?) Linda had said they’d go out later, when the streets weren’t quite so crowded, quite so safe. God, it was crazy. And yet it fit right in with the whole point of this thing. They were here to sacrifice themselves, after all. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

Only the biggest news story of the decade. An international cult operating around a community of dark, shadowy figures that the cult deified, worshiped, and to whom they attributed a wide array of magical and demonic powers, and she’d managed to get right into the middle.

When she’d first gotten wind of it, through an old friend whose sister had disappeared in a small town in Germany one year, well, she’d been a little skeptical. But as soon as she started doing her homework, she realized it was there. And she couldn’t possibly be the only one aware of it; there were just too many disappearances, too many murders, too many patterns.

So why was it not public knowledge?

For very simple reasons. People with power didn’t want it to be. Stories were censored around the world, facts blurred, homicide reports vague, times and dates of death adjusted and the media absolutely under control. It was done the same way government, especially the American government, keeps people in the dark.

Sure, JFK was killed with one bullet.

Sure, George Bush knew nothing about Iran-Contra.

Uh-huh.

As soon as Tracey realized the extent of this story—her story, she had started to call it—she had gone behind closed doors with her boss, Jim Thomas. When she was officially and very publicly fired from CNN, nobody asked why Jim’s salary suddenly doubled. And there was no Mrs. Thomas to wonder why half that salary went into a bank account in the name of Terry Shaughnessy. Of course, Tracey Sacco had a passport that identified her as Terry Shaughnessy, and several with other names as well, just in case. Even Tracey Sacco wasn’t her real name, but she’d been Tracey for so long that she was becoming accustomed to it, almost like a nickname. In her heart, she might still be Allison Vigeant, for that was her real name, but in her head she had become Tracey.

As far as Tracey and Jim knew, it was the deepest cover any investigative journalist had ever gone under. She risked her life every day. And now she wasn’t just risking it, she was throwing back her head and baring her throat to the wolves—the Defiant Ones, they were called. She had to learn exactly what she was up against, and stay alive to tell the story. Nothing else mattered.

“Tracey!”

Tracey snapped back to reality.

“I’m talking to you!” Linda whined in an unattractive way that Tracey hadn’t heard from her before. Her nose wrinkled and she realized it was also the first time she’d smelled perfume on Linda, never mind that it wasn’t a particularly pleasing scent.

“Sorry, Lin,” Tracey said, putting on her best smile. “I’m just so—I don’t know—blown away by the whole thing. So, what are we doing first?”

“Well,” and now Tracey saw a girlish excitement return to Linda’s face, and her voice took on the mesmerized tone of a child reciting her Christmas list to a department-store Santa. “I’m just so nervous. We’re invited to a party.”

“A party? You never said anything about—”

“I know. That’s because I never knew about it. I guess it happens every year, but only a few of us are invited. It’s just such an honor, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Tracey answered.

I’ll bet it’s a meat market.

“Why do you come to us?” Alexandra Nueva asked, brows knitted in a mixture of anger and concern.

They stood in a library of sorts, a collection of rare, museum-quality books on occult subjects. The library, and the house that surrounded it, were owned by the Defiant One who stood in front of them. A true elder, he’d been known by many names, the latest a millennium old.

“Yes, Hannibal. What exactly do you expect us to do?” Sheng pushed.

The tall man paused a moment, his mouth forming a question that would go unasked. He cocked his head to one side and studied Alexandra before answering.

“Well, I should think it ought to be pretty obvious by now that a pattern is developing.”

“Obvious to anyone with an ear to the ground,” Alexandra agreed. “Old bastards like you are being stalked by the church. They’ll probably get to us eventually, but the pattern lies with age.”

“Oh, they’ll get to you eventually, I’m pretty sure of that now. But what about Karl? He was not nearly so old as the rest of those who’ve been killed.”

“An error?” Sheng suggested. “Practice?”

Hannibal sneered, obscenely long fangs jutting from his mouth, his thin white hair flying across his blue eyes as he turned on Sheng. “Don’t be flip with me. Von Reinman should have taught you to respect your elders. Of course, he was nothing, so we shouldn’t expect much from his brood.”

“Fucking pompous showboat, I’ll tear your—” Alexandra started, thrusting herself toward Hannibal, her own fangs bared.

But Sheng held her back and kept his own mouth closed. It wasn’t that Hannibal frightened him, per se, only that he knew what the creature was capable of. And it wouldn’t do to have the animosity that existed between Hannibal’s clan and what remained of their own coven become open warfare. Sheng and his brothers and sisters wouldn’t stand a chance. They were too young, too weak, too inexperienced, and too few.

“Now.” Hannibal fumed. “Let me tell you a little story. Last night I was in Monte Carlo. I’m not much of a gambler, but my companion, a human, enjoys it. When the Vatican killers entered the casino, I spotted them immediately. They were looking for someone, and because of my age, I automatically assumed it was me, even though I was not the only one of our kind there.”

He paused for effect, all politician. “It was Cody October.”

“You’ve seen him? He was there?” Sheng sputtered. “I can’t believe he’d come so close to the carnival. Unless . . . well, unless he’s planning on coming, but that would be crazy.”

“He was always crazy.” Alex shook her head in disgust.

“Regardless, it was Cody October. I, personally, have never understood what it was about him that so infuriated your group. Certainly his behavior is, shall we say, unorthodox, but his actions have been crude at best and no real threat.”

“It’s really none of your business,” Sheng said coldly. “Get on with the story.”

Hannibal only stared for a moment, then did so. These young ones were obscenely rude, and in his own home! He might have to kill them eventually just as an example.

“Cody was there, gambling. Winning actually. At the time I took his presence as a matter of convenience. It was nothing to have my companion stagger drunkenly up to him, slap him on the back, and loudly shout his name as if he were a long-lost brother. The Vatican men couldn’t help but look his way and, of course, recognize him for what he was. That’s what they’re trained for, after all.

“Cody, on the other hand, was so engrossed with the game, and with a rather attractive young woman who joined him, that he barely registered my friend’s greeting, didn’t realize that he’d never seen the man before in his life. And of course, he didn’t notice the assassins, even as they followed him out when he left with the woman. And I, of course, followed them.

“As I said, I thought they were after me, but now I’m not entirely sure.” Hannibal returned from wherever his mind had gone when telling the story to find that Alexandra and Sheng were staring at him.

“Well?” the two said in unison.

“Well what?” he asked innocently.

“Did they get him, you idiot?” Alex nearly shouted at him. “Is Cody dead?”

Hannibal blinked.

“Cody? Dead? Most certainly not. The assassins never had a chance. It was really quite a show. Pity, though, the woman he’d picked up in the casino didn’t survive.”

Hannibal said all this very matter-of-factly, as if there was a point that Alex and Sheng were missing.

“So what does all this have to do with us?” Sheng finally asked, not wanting to sound stupid but tired of waiting for clarification.

“Well, that’s the pattern we’re discussing, child,” Hannibal said, and Sheng bristled. “Only truly ancient members of our race have been assassinated thus far, with the exception of your late mentor. Now the Vatican has tried to assassinate a renegade member of your coven. It could all be coincidence, but I doubt it.”

“Seems pretty circumstantial to me,” Alex said.

“As it did to me until this morning.”

“What was this morning?” Sheng asked.

“I had a call from a human . . . mmm, associate in Boston. It seems our friend Octavian has been investigating a strange series of murders involving a Roman Catholic cardinal.”

“My blood,” Alex cursed, “you have us all under surveillance, don’t you?”

Hannibal’s smile just then would have forced many reasoning creatures from the room.

“Not all of you, my dear,” he said. “Only . . . the truly dangerous ones. Regardless, Octavian is on his way here, to Italy. More precisely, as far as I’m told, he is going to Rome—may already be there, in fact.” Before they had a chance to react, he continued. “What I want to know is, why are he and Cody here? What special vendetta does the Vatican have planned for your coven? What are you not telling us?”

They looked at each other, trying to digest what Hannibal was telling them, but he wasn’t finished.

“And one more thing. Octavian made travel arrangements on a commercial airplane.” He looked at them expectantly, analyzing their faces, their reactions. “Much of his flight was to take place during the day.”

For once, neither of the lovers could think of a single thing to say.

Giuseppe Schiavoni ran his gondola across the Grand Canal a hundred times a day or more during the tourist season. When it got cold, though, that meant fewer and fewer tourists, fewer and fewer trips. Less and less money. So he saved up to take a long winter vacation, letting the younger men bear the brunt of the cold winter for the few tourists and the Venetian locals who wanted to cross the canal. But wherever Giuseppe vacationed, he was always sure to be back by carnival time. Not only did the tourists come despite the relatively chilly weather, but it was fun. And an old widower like Giuseppe Schiavoni didn’t have as much time for fun as he had in his younger days.

Now he ran his
traghetto
across the canal with pleasure, for he carried two beautiful young American women, not a man in sight. This was something of a treat, generally. But tonight, well, tonight was different.

“Ladies,” he said to them, raising his voice to be heard above the chilly breeze, “it’s cold and getting late. Are you certain you don’t want me to take you back to your hotel?”

“But signore,” Linda Metcalf answered, “you are not the usual gondolier, you are a ferryman, and this is your post. You can’t very well abandon it to escort us home.”

“I’m done for the night,” he answered, nodding his head, “and I’ll tell you, I don’t want to stay out any later than I must.”

“But how will we get back?” Tracey Sacco asked, a worried look on her face.

“Oh, there is a water taxi, every hour on the half until the day after carnival. But still . . .”

“What are you so worried about?” Tracey’s eyes narrowed and she glanced at Linda, who was doing her best to ignore their exchange.

Giuseppe looked from one of the women to the other, opened his mouth to speak, and then realized that nothing he could say would make any sense to them. “I’m an old man,” he said finally. “The older you get, the more shadows you see in the darkness. Humor me; be careful.”

Now Tracey smiled at him. “We will.”

“At least until we get to the party!” Linda said in that high-school cheerleader voice that grated on Tracey’s nerves. “Then all bets are off.”

Linda’s eyes were glassy and she had a vague, almost delirious smile on her face. It made Tracey shiver.