The Damned (11 page)

What did the American kidlets say? Epic fail. That was for certain. Only reason Jenn was wearing that crown was Antonio wanted it on her.

“I’d begun to think we were going to start dating, that guard and me,” Jamie went on, mostly to fill the silence as they headed for the exit. Not a fan of it.

“He wasn’t,” Holgar drawled. “I read his body language. You’re not good-looking enough.”

“And the sad thing is, you think saying that will bother me,” Jamie shot back, hating Holgar more than usual today. Or maybe just on principle. Or maybe because he’d had to leave his nearly finished gun with silver bullets back in Salamanca. He’d been thinking a few more hours’ work, a nice, dense Russian forest, a good firelight, and Holgar might not live to turn into a rampaging beast on the next full moon.

By Father Juan’s edict they had been forced to leave all their gear home, even their holy water. Marc Dupree, the (dead) leader of the (crushed) Resistance back in (vampire paradise) New Orleans, had told them they were only kidding themselves if they thought magick spells would protect their luggage from being searched by airport security. It had worked well enough flying out of Madrid the last time. But no.

No worries; Jamie figured that in Russia, with only two hunters of the original twenty left to use the provisions
they’d
smuggled in, there would be a lot of extras lying around for the Salamancans. Things to kill Cursers with too.

“By the way, that woman guard
did
want to date you,” Holgar said. “The one with the mustache.”

Jamie grunted. “Then that wad of euros Skye slipped her must have been a down payment, not a bribe.” He glanced over at Skye, who had in reality bribed the guard to stamp their passports, as everyone expected foreigners to do, while casting a spell so she’d stop being interested in them—a little trick Skye had picked up from her mates in Pamplona.

“Guys, please,” Jenn hissed, and they emerged from the building into a crazy honking mess of snarled traffic. “Start looking for our contact.”

The night was black and raining. One of the Fellowship of the Mid-East Stake, an eighteen-year-old Muslim named Taamir, was coming to pick them up in an old military truck. How the intel for the rendezvous had been relayed to Taamir’s sultan back in Gaza, and from there to Father Juan, was a mystery to Jamie. If they could manage all that, why not send some more of
their
own guys to clean up
their
problem?

“There,” Jenn said, pointing as a camouflaged box truck rumbled down the street. “That’s got be him.”

“Hai hai,”
Eriko said.

“We’re supposed to meet him around the corner,” Jenn reminded them.

Jamie frowned at her. That was an idiotic idea, and she should never have agreed to do it. They’d look bloody conspicuous sauntering down the street toward a military vehicle. Any second now some Russian
polizet
was going to demand papers or a bribe, whichever struck his fancy. Maybe both.

But before Jamie could complain, they were down at the corner, scrambling into the cargo area of the truck. Jenn climbed up front with the Arab, and they bounced into the traffic. Eriko was squashed next to Jamie. Skye settled in next across from them, making room for Holgar, who pulled out an iPod and put in his earbuds. Holgar blinked, pulled out one of the buds, and put it in Skye’s ear. They shared a smile. How darlin’.

Jamie closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He was in the mind of thinking about his dead sister and his ma. He wasn’t sure why, just that the rage simmered inside him.
Another damn trip to save someone else’s arse.
They’d gone to New Orleans for that, and look what a pile o’ shite
that
had turned into. Venice,
another
mess. He swore in silence as colorfully as possible and set his jaw. He should just hop a plane to Belfast and to hell with the lot.

Except . . . Eriko.

He opened one eye to see her sneaking a rub of her ankles. He closed it quickly before she could glance his way. He had a thought: If this whole Hunter thing was taking too great a toll on her, maybe she’d give it up and come to Ireland with him. She could still do the fightin’ and brawlin’ if she had a mind to. But they could get away from all these misfits and, y’know, also lead a semi-normal life. Maybe eventually even have a little superbaby kid. If she was a girl, they could name her Maeve, in honor of his sister. Maeve Sofia.

S
ALAMANCA
A
NTONIO,
H
EATHER, AND
F
ATHER
J
UAN

The plane had taken off.

Jenn was gone.

Now Antonio sat in front of Heather’s cell, empty of prayers, filled with worry. From the school’s lost and found he had picked up a paperback copy of a novel about a girl who had fallen in love with a vampire. There were a lot of such novels, more than ever now that the Cursed Ones had revealed their presence to mankind, and he felt a strange sort of enraged tenderness as he turned the pages. This was not their reality, but Solomon and the others had exploited this romantic yearning to their advantage. So many young girls wore those bat-and-heart necklaces now. Would their vampire “boyfriends” drop the act at some prearranged signal, ripping out their throats?

Because that’s what we do
, Antonio thought.
We rip. We don’t sweetly pierce and gently drink. We attack. We drain.

We kill.

“Hasn’t the Church banned that one?” Father Juan asked, chuckling, sitting beside him.

“Do you think Jenn’s read it?” Antonio mused. He looked through Heather’s bars. She had pulled a blanket over herself and lay inert, as if she were sleeping. But vampires didn’t sleep.

“If you’re asking me if Jenn thinks it adds to your allure, trust me, she doesn’t,” Father Juan said bluntly. “She wishes you weren’t a vampire.”

“So do I.” Antonio closed the book. “I think the people in this book are very sweet. He struggles every day to be worthy of her. And she expects it of him.”

“Vale, vale.”
Father Juan cupped Antonio’s cheek. “Antonio, you’re old and yet filled with youthful idealism.”

Antonio cocked his head. “And what of you, Padre? How old are you?”

A silence fell between them. Antonio looked hard at Father Juan. He saw the same face as on the images of St. John of the Cross—the saint whose name in Spanish was the same as his own,
de la Cruz.
A priest who gazed into crystal balls and swung pendulums over tarot cards. A child of God who left flowers in the woods for the Goddess. Antonio had followed him, watched him honor her and call himself her devoted son.

“Are you the saint?” Antonio asked sharply. “Are you here because these are the end times? Are the angels coming to help us?”

“Better, perhaps, to ask yourself what
you
are,” Father Juan replied.

Then Heather started screaming. She threw off her blanket and leaped to her feet, spinning in a circle with her head thrown back. Her shrieks pierced Antonio’s ears; then she raced forward, flinging herself against the bars, wailing.

“There! Blood! She’s there!” Heather screeched. Her voice was inhuman. She sounded possessed. But they were her first words since her conversion.

“She’s
there!”

“Heather,” Antonio said, as he and Father Juan rushed forward. Antonio reached for Heather’s hands, but she thrust herself backward, landing hard on the floor. She kept screaming.

“A bad dream?” Father Juan said.

“We don’t dream,” Antonio reminded him. “We don’t sleep.”

“No, no, no, no!” Heather cried, arms outstretched again, backing away as she stared at the ceiling.
“Dantalion!”

Father Juan and Antonio traded looks.

“What about Dantalion, Heather?” Father Juan said calmly. “Can you tell us?”

She screamed.

Antonio opened the cell and stepped in, shutting the door behind himself. Cautiously he approached her. She didn’t seem to notice him, only continued to scrabble away from him.

“Listen to me, to my voice,” he said. He crouched over her, holding her chin in a viselike grip. Her eyes jittered from left to right. He exerted his influence, pushing.

“Listen.” Antonio pushed again, and her voice dropped to a horrible, mewling whimper. He put his forehead against hers, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“Antonio,
cuidado,”
Father Juan said. “Be careful.”

He saw nothing in her eyes but fear. He sought to overcome it, whispering softly, “It’s all right. You’re safe with me. You’re safe.”

“She’s . . . there,” Heather said. “Dantalion!” She burst into tears and batted at him, flailing, kicking. As he tried to hold her, he pushed one more time.

“You’re safe. With me,” he said gently. “Tell me about Dantalion.”

She stared at him, and sighed heavily. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed into his arms.

“Dios,”
Father Juan said. “What was that?”

“I mesmerized her, to calm her,” Antonio replied, easing her onto her back. He opened one eye. Heather appeared to be unconscious. “But she fainted, perhaps to avoid talking to me.”

“Did someone else mesmerize her, perhaps from a distance?”

“We can’t do that,” Antonio said. “At least I can’t. I must be able to look into the eyes of the person.” He opened her other eye; then he lifted his arm and pushed back his shirt sleeve, preparing to place his wrist against her mouth. “Perhaps if she fed, we could wake her. Human blood would be better, but she can get sustenance from mine.”

“No, don’t,” Father Juan said quickly. “Don’t you feed her.”

Antonio frowned. “Why not, Father?”

“I’ll get some blood from the refrigerator for her. Just . . . don’t.” Father Juan gestured for him to come out of the cell. “Drinking from you is still drinking from flesh, and it could undo all the effort we’ve put in.”

Antonio parted his lips as Father Juan unlocked the cell. Surely in the midst of a crisis they could forgo the niceties. Nevertheless Antonio came out and shut the door, making sure it was locked. Heather stirred. Then she lifted her head, sniffing the air. She rolled over onto all fours and charged the iron bars. Babbling and yelling, she reached for Father Juan.

“Tell us about Dantalion,” Father Juan said.

She kept raving and gibbering, making no sense.

“It was a vision that she had,” Antonio said. “From magick, maybe. Or from God.” He looked at Father Juan. “I’m going to Russia, Father.”

“Antonio, no.” Father Juan looked at him. “We don’t know what this means. I forbid you.”

“Then forgive me, Father.”

M
OSCOW
, R
USSIA
T
EAM
S
ALAMANCA
M
INUS
A
NTONIO;
T
AAMIR AND
N
OAH

“We’re here,” Jenn announced, standing at the back of the truck. The door was still shut. Skye was leaning over Jamie and moving her fingers in quite a suspicious manner; Jamie wondered if she’d put him—all of them—to sleep with a spell. He yawned and cricked his neck, then rolled his eyes as Holgar yipped in his sleep. The wolf did it again.

Jamie swore in colorful Irish, then said to Skye, “Can’t you shut him up? If the foreigner hears him, we’ll be in trouble.”

“I
did
shut him up,” Skye said. “I turned Holgar down nearly to zero.”

“And why didn’t you go
all
the way to zero, hmm?” he queried.

She pursed her lips. “Because I’m tired, Jamie. Magick costs, just like everything else.”

“Jamie-
kun
, please,” Eriko said.

The door opened into gloomy, snowy sky, and an olive-skinned lad with big ears nodded a greeting to Jamie and the others.

“Hello. I’m Taamir,” he said. Since everyone except Jenn had hopped into the back without being properly introduced, no one else had actually met him. “Noah is at the camp with the noon meal.”

“Neat,” Jamie said. “Especially since it’s teatime.” Four p.m. He was starving. Brother Manuel had packed them some sandwiches, but he’d devoured his before he’d even sat down in the Madrid airport waiting area.

“The camp’s about ten kilometers away,” Taamir added. “We’ll march in.”

Jamie swore again. Not so much because he was tired, but because he didn’t want Eriko to have to exert herself. But he knew if he said that, she’d probably kick him.

“Then let’s go,” Jamie said.

Jamie knows
, Eriko thought. She fought not to limp as they threaded their way through dense, overgrown forests. Time and again she caught her boot on thick roots, wrenching her bones.

He couldn’t know exactly what was wrong with her—she’d done her best to hide it—but he still knew that something was bothering her. On the night of their graduation from the academy, after Father Juan had selected her, Eriko, to become the Hunter, the priest had given her a cup of sacred elixir distilled from herbs so rare and precious that he could only make one dose a year. That year he had chosen to give it to her.

Eriko had loved her enhanced abilities, even though she wasn’t positive she deserved them. She was as strong as Antonio and as fleet-footed as Holgar on his wolf nights. But both their bodies could accommodate their physiological differences. Hers could not. It was literally being torn apart, and she didn’t know how much longer she could stand it.

I should have told Father Juan
, she thought, as Jamie glanced over his shoulder at her. She was bringing up the rear in case the vamps were shadowing them, preparing to launch a surprise attack. But she’d been afraid that if she had told their master, he would have made her stay behind in Salamanca. It was bad enough that Antonio and Father Juan had remained in Spain. From what she had heard about this Dantalion, they needed all their fighting power.