The Damned (40 page)

But as he sat in the cage facing Skye and Father Juan, Antonio wondered if he had actually had nothing to do with his own reawakening. Had witches drawn down the Moon that time too? Had the prayers of men and women he didn’t even know altered the energy of his life, and rescued him from hell?

Surveying Skye and Father Juan’s careful preparations through the bars of his cell, shame rushed over him.
I didn’t deserve rescuing, not this time. I would have killed that baby. They don’t think I would have, but none of them is a vampire, like me.

“There is no other vampire like you,” Skye said, startling him.

Antonio’s lips parted in astonishment, and he let go of both their hands. “Did you just read my mind?”

Skye looked just as surprised. “Blimey, luv, I guess I did.”

“What?” Father Juan said.

“Um, well, he thought about how there are no other vampires like him,” Skye said. She was lying to Father Juan, perhaps to protect Antonio.

“You
read
his thoughts,” Father Juan said.

“Heard
them. Clear as day,” Skye replied.

“Try again,” Father Juan told them.

The light from the candle flames reflected on Skye’s forehead as she closed her eyes. Antonio and Father Juan both watched her in silence for a few seconds. Then Antonio closed his eyes, and concentrated.

I’m thinking about sunshine.

“Skye?” Father Juan pressed.

Skye opened her eyes and shook her head. “Nothing. Are you doing anything different, Antonio?”

“No,” Antonio replied.

“What were you thinking about?” Father Juan asked him.

“The sun.”

“Maybe it has to be something more emotional for you. Maybe a memory.” She studied the layout of the candles and herbs, the crystal ball in the center. “I wonder if I added rosemary for remembrance . . .” She returned her attention to him. “Try thinking about Jenn.”

Try not thinking about her
, he thought, and Skye cocked her head.

“Heh. Since I
told you
to think about her, maybe I’m just assuming that you are. But a picture of her face appeared in my mind.”

“What precisely was he thinking when you first read his thoughts?” Father Juan asked, and Antonio shifted uncomfortably. “Tell me the truth this time,” he added.

“He was afraid that he would have ki—hurt that baby, if he hadn’t been startled.” She cleared her throat and moved one of the candles a fraction of an inch, avoiding eye contact with both of them.

Antonio smiled grimly. “I was afraid I would have
killed
the baby. Skye,
brujita
, it’s sweet of you to try to protect me, but in this case honesty is definitely the best policy.”

She moved her shoulders. “It’s not the way of my tradition to cause any sort of harm. And this is painful for you. Another sort of witch might be able to do it”—a cloud passed over her features—“but I’m your friend.”

“Then
be
his friend,” Father Juan said. “Aurora was torturing and starving him, so we can assume she broke him down. But we need to know what built him back up into the Antonio we know. This is the second time Antonio has overcome the natural condition of the vampire.”

“Did he have a girlfriend the first time?” Skye asked, and Antonio traded a look with Father Juan.

“Jenn isn’t my girlfriend,” Antonio said.

Skye raised a brow. “So much for honesty.”

The two men fell silent. Then Father Juan said, “Our tradition is very different from yours, Skye. To you, denying your human appetites is an affront to the Goddess. To us, we offer those appetites as a sacrifice to God, so that we can channel our energy in service to Him and to His flock.”

“Well, then, maybe he’s gone off the deep end because of that,” she said. “If he stopped trying so hard, you know . . . Maybe Antonio needs to eat, drink, and be merry. He’s often rather dour, wouldn’t you say?”

Antonio gave her a lopsided smile. “Is that how you see me?”

“We’re at war, Skye,” Father Juan said. “Antonio has been a soldier for decades. It hardens one. Toughens one.”

“But he serves your god.” She looked confused. “And your god does not like his holy men to kill people.”

“He doesn’t like it, but sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes, for the greater good, one has to make war,” Father Juan said.

“But in your world ‘good’—well, that’s a moving target, isn’t it? The Crusades of the Middle Ages—you killed people like Taamir by the hundreds of thousands.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Father Juan said.

“In my world things are only good as long as no one is hurt.” She sighed heavily. “Maybe that’s why I’m the only White Witch I know fighting the Cursed Ones.”

“Maybe if you told me how you came to that decision, it might help illuminate Antonio’s decision as well.” Father Juan picked up his rosary beads, kissed them, and put them back down on the altar.

At once the candle flames leaped and burned brighter, filling Antonio’s cage with light. Skye gasped, and Antonio looked down at the pentagram on his chest. The ash was softly glowing in a silvery hue.

“Silver, the color of the Goddess. Is it possible she’s claiming him?” Skye slid off her chair and got to her knees. She spread her arms wide. “Hecate, Queen of the Universe, is this a sign?”

Alarmed, Antonio crossed himself. “I’m a Catholic, nearly a priest.”

“Let’s join hands,” Father Juan urged, “and see what Those of the Most High wish from us.” He reached for Antonio’s hand. Skye cried out softly as she laced her fingers through Antonio’s.

“What?” Antonio said.

“For a moment your skin was warm,” she said.

Father Juan’s eyes widened. “I felt nothing.”

Antonio let go of them and touched his face. Cold. “It must have been the heat from the candles.” He made a moue of apology, as if he were somehow dashing Skye’s hopes.

“Or it was magic,” she retorted. “I
do
believe in it, you know. And we
are
here in a ritual setting, with, y’know, an
altar
and everything. So one might expect something to happen that’s a little, I don’t know,
special.”

Determined, she grabbed Antonio’s hand again, then huffed and leaned sideways, taking Father Juan’s. “And may I remind you gents that
I
am the High Priestess here, and I serve a Mother who
would
warm the hands of a child of Hers, if he were cold? Please, close your eyes.”

Antonio did as she asked, feeling unaccountably light-hearted. There was a lot at work here that he didn’t under stand. Maybe if he could relax, then—

I didn’t stop because I wanted to. I stopped because I was startled. How could I have let that happen? I am a prince among vampires. My sire is a king!

His eyes flew open, as did Skye’s. Her chest heaved as she gazed at him in horror. Antonio looked down, seeking Father Juan’s rosary to steady himself; instead he saw the crystal ball. Dark gray smoke swirled inside it.

“What is that?” Father Juan murmured.

“His aura. His thoughts. They’re still very dark.” Skye’s voice shook. “He’s not all the way back with us. Not even halfway.”

Bite her wrist
, a voice whispered in Antonio’s mind.
Drink her blood.

Skye cried out and jerked her hand away. She backed into her chair, knocking it over, and Father Juan instantly placed himself between Skye and Antonio.

“Fight it, Antonio.” Father Juan reached down and grabbed up his rosary. He dangled it in front of Antonio, who recoiled from him.

“I only want a little,” Antonio said calmly. “For the love of God, you’re starving me.”

“You fed just this evening,” Father Juan countered. “Before Skye came.” He pushed up his jacket sleeve, revealing his bandaged wrist.

“But your blood is thin, and old. Hers is young. Fresh.” Antonio leered at her.

“Your eyes,” Skye cried. “Father Juan, keep away from him!”

“Can you read his thoughts?” Father Juan asked, eyes fixed on Antonio.

“Yes. He wants to kill us both, and tell Aurora where he is.”

“I
don’t
!” he shouted. “You little liar!” Then Antonio trained his attention on her. “Skye, forgive me,” he said sweetly. “I—I lost my temper, but I’m all right now. Come, let me prove it to you.”

“He’s trying to mesmerize you.” Father Juan cupped Skye’s shoulders.

Antonio flung himself at the cage bars. They clanged and rattled. Did they think they could keep him caged up like some
human
? “Don’t you know who I am? Who
we
are? Legion! Legion! Legion! We are coming from the depths of hell!” he shouted. “Armies of us will fall on you! We’ll rip out your throats! You
dare
to turn us to dust? You will be
less
than dust! You will be
nothing
!
Nothing!”

He grabbed the bars and yanked. Enraged, he bellowed the names of the gods of hell:

“Orcus! Samedi! Hel! Baal!”

“Saint Michael! Saint Gabriel! Saint Raphael! All holy angels and archangels!” Father Juan shouted. “All holy orders of blessed spirits!”

“Do not try to exorcise
us
!” Antonio shouted. He spoke for all of them, the many inside him, the ones who were coming and would crush—

“Jenn!” Skye shouted at him. “Jenn! Jenn! Jenn!”

He gasped.

“Jenn!” she cried again. “You love her. You do!”

“No,” he whispered. Suddenly he felt dizzy and empty. And hateful. And alone. “No.”

“She loves you. She loves you,” Skye said. “You are loved.”

He slid to his knees. “Oh, Skye, oh,
Dios.
Help me, Father,” he begged, lowering his head. “I’m sorry.
Lo siento. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

Jenn had heard it all. Antonio speaking so earnestly, and then like someone in a horror movie.

The horror movie that all their lives had become.

Forcing down her tears, she gestured to Taamir. She had joined him on guard duty so she could eavesdrop, and now she wished she hadn’t.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, munching an apple, as if he were accustomed to hearing Antonio’s rages.

The door burst open, and Skye tumbled through it. She looked at Jenn, then put her arms around her tightly. Jenn held herself stiffly. She couldn’t fall apart. She
wouldn’t.

“Taamir, please go in and stay with Father Juan,” Skye said. “No one should be alone with Antonio. Are you on watch, Jenn? I’ll take it from here.” She took Jenn’s Uzi from her and slung it over her shoulder. “Go on. You know it’s best you find somewhere else to be.”

Jenn took a deep, ragged breath and nodded. Wheeling away, she half ran past the other tents and buildings to the open field, where the life-size photograph of Solomon had been obliterated. Only scraps of the poster clung to the hay bales.

“I hate you. I hate you,” she said, kicking it. “I’ll kill you.” She pounded at it with her fists, one at a time, and then both, doubled. She kept hitting and kicking, finally crying, punching it until the pieces of straw raised crisscross welts on her hands.

Then she slid down it, exhausted, still crying. She lay curled in the icy mud as the tears nearly froze to her face.

“Honey,” said a voice, as someone gently shook Jenn.

She startled. She hadn’t been asleep, exactly—now she was just so numb and cold she couldn’t move. A blanket came around her shoulders. She opened her eyes slowly, and for a moment she was so stunned she couldn’t focus.

Her mother was kneeling in the freezing mud, showering her face with kisses.

“Mom,” Jenn said, throwing her arms around her mother. Jenn closed her eyes tightly and inhaled her mom’s warmth, her scent, her. Her mother. Safe, alive, here.

“Oh, my baby,” her mom said. “Oh, Jenn.”

They held each other for a long time. Jenn’s mom smoothed her hair and tried to help her get up. Jenn’s leg was asleep.

“When did you get here?” Jenn asked. “How?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Gramma brought you here, yes? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She raised a hand. “Here! I found her.”

Noah approached. “Good,” he said. Then he slid his arm under Jenn’s shoulder and steadied her. He was solid and strong beside her. And warm. Tentatively, she pressed her weight on her tingling foot.

“Mom, I didn’t kill Brooke.”

“I know. We all know.” Her mother kissed her cheeks, then sniffled and kissed her forehead once, twice, a dozen times, and embraced her again, smiling shyly when her arm brushed against Noah.

“Mom, Daddy was on TV,” she said. “He was trying to send me a message.”

“Jenn,” her mother said, pursing her lips. “I don’t know about him. I . . . I’m not ready to believe anything he says.

“How’s Heather?” her mother asked, changing the subject. “When did you see her last? Father Juan said she’s in a safe house, but they can only call out, and since he’s here, they’re being extra careful. I’ve been
dying
to talk to her. She’s all right, though, yes? Does she have someone to talk to about it? A therapist, maybe?”

“Oh.” Jenn hazarded a glance at Noah, who stayed very neutral. He knew about Heather. It killed Jenn to lie to her, but she and Father Juan had both agreed that no one outside the team—and Noah and Taamir were part of the team—could know about Heather, not even Jenn’s mom. The best way to protect her sister’s life was to lie about her condition.

“I want to be with her. Father Juan is trying to arrange it,” her mom added.

Jenn was surprised, and also very pleased. That was a great idea, if her mother could take the truth. It would help Heather reconnect, and it would reunite Jenn’s family. As much of her family as was left, anyway. Would her father ever join them again? Jenn didn’t know.

Beneath the moonlight her mom looked younger than Jenn ever remembered seeing her. It was as if her new life agreed with her. Jenn thought of all the things her mother had done to try to be helpful in postwar San Francisco, like taking meals to shut-ins, many of whom had been injured battling the Cursed Ones. The local authorities had shut down her art gallery because some of the pieces she exhibited had been seen as “inflammatory” and “detrimental to the truce process.” Even though she was Gramma Esther’s daughter-in-law and not her blood relative, they were two of a kind.