Salvation

by Tanith Frost

  “Not bad,” I say, and step out into the parking lot.

  “Truly?” he asks. “I have plenty of experience in containing the expression of the light within me, but not externally.”

  “So far, so good.”

  There’s one other car here. Its driver shuts the engine off and emerges, glancing furtively over his thin shoulders. He’s not dressed for the weather—just wearing a dark grey hooded sweatshirt over his faded, baggy jeans. He pulls the hood up and jogs over, slinging a dirty white backpack over one shoulder.

  “We going in?” he asks Gideon after giving me a curious once-over.

  I smile back at him. His heart beats stronger and faster for a few seconds, and it’s all I can do not to pin him by his shoulders and have a little taste. He doesn’t know what I’m thinking, though, and looks pleased with the attention.

  “We’ll get you in,” Gideon says. “Then you’re on your own. You’ve got everything you need?”

  “I think so,” the man says. “You’re sure this is all you want?”

  “For now.” Gideon leads us around to the back of the building and pushes the door open. Someone’s left it unlocked. I wonder how much Gideon had to do with that. “You’ll find the statue in the pastor’s office—up the stairs and to the right.”

  The guy nods and slips through the door, which Gideon closes behind him, leaving the lingering scents of new plaster and fresh paint.

  “Feeling anything?” he asks.

  “A little tightness.”

  He nods. “I can’t make the light go away, only concentrate it in a smaller area—in this case, within the building itself. Once this miracle gets rolling and humans start dropping by to marvel, it’s going to be like shaking a soda bottle. Hard to contain, explosive when I release it. You’d better be prepared.”

  I move away from the building, and the sensation disappears. “I didn’t take you for a soft drink fan.”

  His mouth twitches. “Hardly. But it seemed like imagery that would make sense to you.”

  “What, to a small, simple mind like mine?”

  He just smiles.

  “So this is it?” I ask. “This is where it happens? We might have a hard time drawing the enemy onto the property.”

  “Not here, exactly. Let me show you.” He leads me behind the building through a space enclosed by a green chain-link fence. He scuffs his boot over the dirt. “This will be the graveyard as soon as someone decides to be the first to pop off.”

  “New building,” I say, glancing back at the church, which can’t be more than a year old. “I’m surprised the light has made a permanent impression on the land so quickly. I thought these things took time.”

  Gideon glances sideways at me. “That’s the beauty of the site. Keep walking.”

  We hop the fence at the other end of the graveyard-to-be and trek upward across a stretch of uneven, rocky ground. “You can’t feel it now,” he says, “but we’re still on the property. Just over this hill…”

  “Oh. I see.”

  A smaller building sits below us, out of sight of the main building. This one, constructed of wood covered in peeling white paint, is as obviously old as the other is proudly new. A graveyard sits nearby, looking better-tended than the building that stands guard over it.

  “They have plans to turn this part into a recreation hall or some such thing,” he says. “That doesn’t matter for our purposes except that they don’t have renovation money in the budget, so the building is being ignored at the moment. What’s more important is the fact that it’s one property—there’s a connection between both ends of this site. Humans are so intent on boundaries and ownership that the light stays within bounds.”

  “So when you uncap that pop bottle, the light will blow out this way.”

  “Exactly. As long as your enemy’s vampires are between there and here, they’ll be in the line of fire. So to speak.”

  My mind is swirling with possibilities already. If Gideon can keep the light suppressed and contained within the newer building, we could make Lachlan think we’re hiding in this one. It looks abandoned, and for all he knows, it could be as devoid of light as the one I sheltered in with my allies before we decided to hunt down Helena Slade. It will seem as if we’re being clever, hiding in a place he’d never think to look.

  We want him to think we’re on the run, after all, not setting a trap.

  I follow Gideon up the stairs to the front door, which sits high off the ground. He pushes the door open and holds it to allow me to step inside.

  I feel nothing. If he’s right about light normally occupying the entire property, he’s doing a flawless job containing it in the new building. For all I can tell, this place has been abandoned for decades, though it smells a hell of a lot better than the last church I visited.

  “It’s perfect,” I tell him. “How did you know about this?”

  “You actually got the ball rolling.” He follows as I step into the sanctuary where the wooden pews are all covered in ghostly white sheets. “This wasn’t exactly a congregation of spiritual slouches before their pastor had his recent night of angelic visions, but—”

  I lay a hand on his arm. “You mean…”

  Gideon’s smile pulls the corners of his eyes tight. He rarely looks this openly pleased about anything. “Pastor Franklin Watford O’Dell has become an absolute magnet for the light. And it’s spreading.”

  “But he hasn’t told anyone what happened?”

  “You believe me incapable of shutting up a mere human?” Gideon tries to act wounded, but falls short and quickly resumes looking like a cat that just ate a fat pigeon. “His memories of that night are muddled, but I let him go on believing something divine had visited him.”

  “So you lied to him.”

  He flashes me a darkly charming grin as he looks me over. “Seems accurate enough to me.”

  I roll my eyes and head back out the door, Gideon close behind me. He takes the lead at the bottom of the stairs and leads the way back up the hill that hides the newer building from view.

  “Fine.” I scramble up the face of a curved mound of rock, ignoring the hand he’s offered to help me up. “So if Pastor Franklin hasn’t told anyone, how’s it spreading?”

  “It happens. His faith is renewed, as is his passion. Other humans sense it in him and are drawn to it. He makes them remember that feeling if they’ve experienced it and lost it, or makes them interested in discovering it. You planted a seed of sorts. It’s growing. And now we’re going to dump a load of radioactive fertilizer on it and see what sprouts.”

  My stomach squeezes tight. “Doesn’t it bother you at all? I mean, he didn’t see an angel. He saw a creature that’s been utterly rejected by the light he’s basking in right now. And you’re not going to increase that with a real miracle sent by God, but with… what are you doing, anyway?”

  “Weeping statue. Always a crowd-pleaser, ultimately explainable by science but still cherished by those who truly believe.” We’ve reached the parking lot. Gideon leans against the hood of the car, watching me. “As to whether it bothers me… I’ll answer that with another question. Do the ends justify the means?”

  “You mean, is it worth manipulating and using people’s faith so that my clan can survive?”

  “No. I mean for them.” He nods at the church. “Pastor Franklin Watford Et Cetera prayed for a sign that would show him there was more to reality than what he could see and feel on his worst days—something to renew his faith, assuming it was worth anything at all. You showed up, and he got what he asked for. Even if you’re not an angel, the result is the same.”

  I shove my frozen fingers into my coat pockets. “And the so-called miracle?”

  Gideon’s focus shifts from me to the church. His jaw tightens as a slight frown creases his brow. “Imagine a man in a river, drowning after his rowboat overturned. Imagine his lungs filling with water, choking off his screams for help. And imagine now that, in his fear, his mind forms a prayer�
�please, I have to get home. For whatever reason, a genuine miracle occurs, one beyond his understanding. An angel appears, tells him not to be afraid, and the man wakes up on the shore, his airways clear.”

  “Okay, I’m imagining it.”

  Gideon’s frown deepens. “Now imagine that this man shares his story. The light that fills him draws others in. But this man, thanks to life experiences that have nothing to do with the miracle, has a twisted view of the God he believes saved him. He preaches hellfire and damnation and teaches his congregation to indoctrinate their children with the same beliefs, fuelled by the certainty that he was saved for this very purpose. The passion kindled in him by a genuine miracle becomes a curse, a perversion of the light that saved him.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And imagine if you will a false miracle—the face of a saint appearing in the seeds of a pomegranate. A random arrangement produced by nature and the growth conditions of the fruit paired with a human mind designed to seek meaning in everything it sees. Imagine that it inspires the woman who cut the fruit to devote her life to the teachings of her religion—all of them are imperfect, but thanks to her own experiences, it leads her to care for widows and orphans, tend to the sick, and feed the hungry.”

  “An overactive imagination and a bit of fruit aren’t the same as what we’re doing,” I say. “We’re lying.”

  Gideon seems unfazed. “All I’m asking you to consider is whether it’s the origin or the outcome of the event that determines whether it’s miraculous.” He catches the frustrated scowl I can’t help casting toward him and chuckles. “Delightful, isn’t it?”

  I turn and join him, watching the building. “Is there a right or wrong answer to your little riddle?”

  “If there is, it’s beyond my pay grade.” He stands up straighter as a figure emerges from behind the church.

  I incline my chin toward him. “So, what does he owe you for?”

  “Oh, I can’t tell you that any more than I’d tell him what you’re getting out of this. Give me a moment.” He jogs across the parking lot toward the other car.

  Fair enough, I guess.

  We get back into the car after they’ve spoken for a few moments, then follow the human out of the parking lot. While he heads back toward the town of Twillingate, we pull off the road, and Gideon shuts off the engine, leaving us with a view of the church’s back door.

  I don’t have time to ask what we’re waiting for before another car pulls into the lot, stopping out of sight of our current position. A human plods toward the back door, shoulders hunched against the cold, looking down at the phone in her hand.

  “Come to clean the church,” Gideon says. “She likes to work when no one is around to bother her—suffering a little of what your friend Franklin was not so long ago.”

  She enters the church, and we wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  “Can you tell what’s happening in there?” I ask.

  “Not from here and in this form, no. But I think we’ll know if—”

  The back door of the church bursts open, and the woman races out. She’s left her coat behind, and it looks like her phone, too. Whatever’s set fire to her feet has also apparently chased thoughts of photos and social media shares from her mind. She’s got her keys, though, and a few seconds after she vanishes around the corner of the building, her car peels out of the parking lot, travelling well over the speed limit before she hits the top of a nearby hill and disappears, heading toward town and Pastor Franklin’s house.

  I still don’t know what the outcome of all of this will be for the humans involved, but it looks as if Gideon’s associate did his job.

  Gideon turns his car back on and takes us in the opposite direction, humming a tune under his breath that sets the void in me instantly on edge.

  I’m pretty sure it’s “This Little Light of Mine.”

  27

  Watching my fellow vampires climb the wooden stairs and approach the old church’s threshold is like seeing a few dozen cats sneaking past a sleeping Rottweiler—silent steps, tensed muscles, ready to bolt at the first hint of a threat. The first of them, an older blonde I recognize as a doctor from the hospital, hesitates at the door. Those behind her freeze.

  “It’s okay,” I call up to them. “It’s abandoned. Nothing to hurt you.”

  They just turn and stare at me.

  “They don’t feel these things like you do,” Daniel says quietly.

  “I don’t feel light any more than—” I begin, but he’s already moving away from me, nudging his way gently through the group until he’s reached the door.

  “Keep moving,” he urges, loud enough for all of them to hear. “It’s fine. I’ve been in. Look.”

  He pushes the door open and steps inside. I can’t see him anymore, but it must be obvious to the others that he hasn’t crumbled to dust. They still look like every alarm bell in their heads is ringing at a feverish pitch, but they overcome their natural fear and follow him in.

  Hannabelle stands beside me, watching them. “We were just as nervous the first time we tried it. Remember?”

  “Sure. You, me, and Lucille. First through the door.”

  She smiles sadly. “Remember how Genevieve hated that Lucille was right?”

  “She wasn’t used to being wrong, I guess. You okay?”

  She nods, but I catch her brushing a tear away as she enters the church behind the others.

  Hannabelle hasn’t had much time to get used to the idea of Genevieve being gone. As soon as her team arrived, I pulled her aside and told her. It must be a weird kind of grief for her. Genevieve was often her tormenter before Hannabelle figured out how to be what Genevieve would call a proper vampire, and was only recently her friend. She was her housemate though, a constant, and I don’t suppose Hannabelle ever really considered the idea of her not being around.

  I have no idea what to say, so I let her go.

  Odette and Imogen appear from behind the building, approaching from the east, and I wave them closer. Odette is carrying a large, bulging shopping bag in one hand.

  “Everything okay?” I ask Imogen.

  “I think so.”

  And that’s all. Even if I asked what they were up to, I’m sure she wouldn’t tell me.

  Miranda and Clark approach from the dead-end road that leads to the old church, Clark carrying Eoin. Clark passes us, and someone holds the door for him. Unlike the others, he doesn’t hesitate to enter. Guess Miranda’s word was enough for him.

  “Is she any better?” I ask.

  Everyone else certainly is, at least to some extent. Ryder’s arrival from town with what stock he could gather coincided almost perfectly with that of four other teams who had finished up their zombie work. It wasn’t a lavish meal by any means—there are still few enough stock that we all had to share, Miranda included—but it hit the spot for all of us after a few long nights on the run. The reinforcements lifted everyone’s mood, too. We’re not exactly an army, but it’s hard not to feel hope when we’ve got a few dozen capable fighters under one unlikely roof.

  Miranda shakes her head. “The smell of blood roused her enough that she could feed, but it’s hard to say what will happen.”

  Odette frowns in the direction of the church and shifts the shopping bag from one hand to the other. “She’d be better off if she’d accepted Imogen’s offer.”

  “Perhaps,” Miranda says.

  “Perhaps?” I turn to her. “You know what Imogen is capable of.”

  Miranda nods slowly. “I know. And truth be told, I might have refused her help just as Eoin has if I’d known what you were up to. I am glad for what you did, but I won’t do the same to her.”

  I rub my hands over my arms though it does nothing to warm me. I gave the coat back to Imogen, and I’m wishing Ryder had brought more than stock. “You don’t have to give her the choice,” I mutter as we head for the church.

  Miranda walks beside me, and I feel her gaze on me. “But isn’t this what we�
��re fighting for? As I see it, if we want the freedom to preserve magic or werewolves or any other power, we must also be free to choose whether to benefit from them.”

  I glance up at her. “Does that mean your clan is free to stand against you, too?”

  She arches an eyebrow. “They’re free to disagree and free to be fools about it if they choose. I didn’t say they were free to bring the rest of us down with them.” She lengthens her strides and pulls ahead as we reach the bottom of the steps, then glides up and enters alone.

  “That’s not an answer,” I grumble, but she can’t hear me. I can’t help being nervous. I know I’ve done my part, but everything else is shrouded in secrecy. All I want is a little reassurance.

  When we enter the old sanctuary, all of the vampires present, save for Eoin, are seated uncomfortably in the hard wooden pews. Hannabelle, Imogen and I take seats near the doors as Odette heads farther up. Miranda stands at the front of the room—not behind the pulpit, thank goodness, but at the bottom of the steps leading up to that area. She’s absolutely still, her hands resting at her sides as she waits for the whispers and shuffling to stop.

  “I know this is strange for all of you,” she says at last. “And I know it was asking a lot to bring you all here without giving you a warning about our destination. It was a necessary precaution, and I assure you that this is the safest place. Though no harm will come to us, it is unlikely that our enemies will think to search for us here. Sunrise will be coming soon. We may not be comfortable, but there’s plenty of space for us to rest.”

  The door beside me opens, and Ryder and Padma enter, having completed their task of stowing our stock offsite, safely away from peckish vampires. We shove down, and they sit beside me.

  “This is weird,” Ryder mutters under his breath.

  Miranda motions for Odette to come closer and whispers something to her, and Odette makes her way up the centre aisle with her shopping bag, passing out smaller bags from within it to those sitting at the end of each row. As she gets closer, I hear the instructions she’s speaking softly to each of them—“Take one. Pass it along.”