So now we lick our wounds, Jenn thought. Literally, in the case of Holgar. Jenn turned away, unable to watch the werewolf as he surreptitiously cleaned a small wound on his wrist the way his wild brethren did. She focused instead on a calendar above a small table holding an electric teakettle, a sugar bowl, and some cups and saucers. The calendar featured the gardens and statuary of El Retiro Park.
Antonio hesitated, then sat in a leather chair facing the TV, away from Jenn. Skye plopped down beside her.
Then Jenn asked the question that had been plaguing her.
“How come Moncho never showed? He asked for help. We went. On the very night the vampires attacked, and we were caught off guard.”
“Yeah, funny thing,” Jamie said, grunting from his place slumped in a recliner.
“We keep going on missions like we did before New Orleans,” Jenn persisted. “Someone asks for help, and we go. But it’s not working.”
“Yeah, funny thing,” Jamie said again.
“But what about the worldwide resistance?” she asked. “How many groups are there like those in New Orleans, who are trying to fight back with the only skills and tools they have?”
“Why, you want to get them killed too?” Jamie drawled as he pulled a cigarette out of a pack in the breast pocket of the shirt one of the male witches had given him.
“Shut up,” Skye said, an uncharacteristic outburst from the group’s peacemaker. “We’d only just started going out as a team for two months before Jenn had to go to California. People around here found out about us and started asking for help.”
“Your point?” Jamie said.
Skye’s cheeks were pink. Jenn knew Skye had a crush on Jamie. Skye’s lousy taste in men amazed her.
“So it makes sense the Cursed Ones heard about us too, yeah? So more of them are showing up at each mission. They’re gunning for us. We’re outnumbered,” Skye said.
“Well said,” Holgar told her, flashing her a smile. He was lounging on some decorative pillows on the floor.
Eriko didn’t join the conversation. She was rubbing her shoulder and looking tired and wan.
Father Juan reappeared with a lacquer tray containing a water bottle, a dark green bottle of wine, and seven glasses. Jamie tapped his unlit cigarette against the cardboard container. Skye glared at the Irishman, who sighed and put the cigarette away.
“What are you all arguing about?” Father Juan asked.
“Jenn’s wondering about other groups like ours,” Antonio told him. “During the war there were resistance cells everywhere, struggling to survive, to fight.”
When Antonio talked about the war, he meant World War II. Adolf Hitler had begun his campaign of terror, and Antonio had brazenly walked away from the seminary in 1941 to join the Free French Forces. He had been called a Maquis, after the thready brush by the same name, where they hid in the French forests. On one of his first missions he had stayed behind to offer a dying compatriot the last rites of the Church, and he had been attacked and “converted” on the battlefield. More than that Jenn didn’t really know. He didn’t like to talk about it.
“So it stands to reason that there may be lots of resistance cells today,” Jenn put in.
Father Juan nodded as he set down the tray. “Perhaps it’s time to reach out to these groups. Help them, and maybe get their help in return. At the very least we can try to coordinate our efforts. This is not a local problem. And if one day we could all rise up as one body and take on the enemy perhaps we could win.”
“Amen,” Antonio murmured, crossing himself.
Father Juan’s eyes gleamed with the hope that Jenn had lost. He decanted the bottle and arranged the glasses in a semicircle, but he didn’t fill them. He was waiting for the wine to breathe. Jenn’s chest was so tight that she couldn’t breathe.
“Rise up?” Jamie scoffed. “We can’t even trust the allies we do have.”
“Maybe we need better allies,” Eriko ventured.
“And more of them,” Holgar added, in his singsong Danish accent. He quirked a half smile. “Preferably less cranky ones.”
“Zip it, wolf,” Jamie said, glaring. “There is nothing funny here.” He gave Antonio a pointed look. “Someone told the Pamplona vampires to push up the date.”
Antonio’s answering stare was icy. “It’s common in wartime to spread misinformation. They may have been planning all along to ‘run the humans’ last night. But I agree. Too often the vampires seem to know about our plans.”
“Fancy that,” Jamie bit off. “And now we’ve got two vampires livin’ under our roof.”
“Enough,” Father Juan chastised them as he began to fill the glasses. He added a healthy measure of water into one of them, and handed it to Jenn. She still wasn’t a wine drinker.
“Let’s seek out these resistance cells,” Jenn said.
“We’re not diplomats,” Jamie argued. “I came here to kill vampires, not start a club.”
Father Juan ignored him. “Jenn is your leader, and this is a wise move. Skye and I will work magicks and try to discern who is safe to approach.”
“We can’t even trust each other, Father.” Jamie’s voice rose. “And meanin’ no disrespect, but you and Skye ain’t found the traitor who keeps telling the suckers our plans.”
“Jamie-kun,” Eriko murmured. “Please, don’t argue with Father Juan.”
Jamie clamped his jaw shut, the vein in his forehead bulging. He was barely keeping his fury under control.
Father Juan stood. “I’ll ask Brother Manuel to make you all something to eat. You must be hungry.”
“I’m sure Antonio is,” Jamie said. “All that blood splatterin’ about. Like starters for a big dinner.”
“Jamie,” Father Juan reproved.
The priest left, and the team sat for a moment, staring at one another, sipping their wine. After a minute Jamie picked up the remote control for the small television in the corner and clicked it on. A little television would help them unwind. And if they were watching something, they wouldn’t have to talk about what had happened.
A news program came on. “Bienvenidos, España,” said the beautiful blond anchorwoman. Her coanchor, a man with salt-and-pepper hair, sat beside her and smiled at the camera.
“Today the Ministry of Economy and Finance unveiled a new benefits program for our senior citizens. All pensions will be increased by ten percent, effective November fourteenth. This will be accomplished without an increase in taxes, due to reductions in spending on national defense.”
“Yeah, us,” Jamie said. But the Spanish government had never footed the bill for the academy or the hunters it graduated. The Catholic Church had, and as far as Jenn knew, it was still paying.
“In other news,” the male broadcaster said, “there is a new art exposition at the Alhambra called Brothers. It features oils and watercolors by some of the world’s leading vampiric artists. The queen will attend the grand opening, and political heads of state and cebzbrities from stage and screen are flying in to admire the beautiful canvases celebrating the special relationship between humanity and those who walk the night.”
The group groaned in unison.
A segment followed about a drop in violent crime in Madrid. So much of the news was propaganda, lies about the Cursed Ones or banalities in context of all of the fighting and dying.
“This is shite,” Jamie grumbled, and Jenn had to agree. She looked over at Antonio, who was watching, stone-faced. He’d seen it all before—in other times, during other wars. After all this time was he still the idealistic man he had been more than seventy years before, giving his soul to God and his life to the people?
That’s why I fell in love with him, she thought wonderingly. He’s like my grandparents, putting it all on the line to fight for justice. Like Papa Che. God, I miss Papa Che so much.
She had left home and joined the academy because of Papa Che. She realized with a start that Antonio had been born about the same time as her beloved grandfather.
>
“Antonio, I need to see you,” Father Juan called.
“Ya vengo,” Antonio said in Spanish. I’m coming.
He got up and started to leave the room.
The anchorwoman looked mournfully into the camera, and a logo of a bat carrying a heart appeared behind her. “In news from the United States, you may remember the tragic tale of Brooke Thompson and Simon Morton, the young lovers who were brutally murdered in Brooke’s home in Berkeley, California.”
“Oh, God,” Jenn said, feeling ill.
“Moved by their plight, Solomon erected a beautiful monument in their honor, which, sadly, was defaced last night.”
A photograph flashed on the screen behind the anchor-woman. It showed a round Grecian temple with two white marble statues standing within.
“Fingerprints and other forensic evidence have pointed to the perpetrator of their murders, as well as last night’s desecration, as a young human woman named Jennifer Leitner, a former schoolmate of Señorita Thompson.”
An image of Jenn flashed behind the anchorwoman. It was her freshman-year high school picture.
Jenn felt her stomach plummet. After her father had betrayed her to the vampires, Jenn had sought refuge in the home of her childhood friend Brooke, not realizing that Brooke’s fiance was a vampire. It hadn’t taken long for the Cursed One to turn on them both, tearing out Brooke’s throat before Jenn was able to stake him.
Hot tears welled at the memory of seeing Brooke lying lifeless on the floor. I got her killed by going to her for help. He killed her. That’s not love. Simon never loved her. If he had, he couldn’t have done that.
Her gaze ticked to Antonio, who stood by the door, watching intently, a muscle working in his jaw. For a moment doubt stirred her. There were many times that Antonio had had to restrain himself from hurting her even though he loved her. His vampiric nature was so powerful it was nearly impossible to fight, even for him.
She watched as he turned and left the room to join Father Juan.
“This is a pretty dead horse they’re beatin’,” Jamie remarked. “This happened, what, a month ago? Nearly?”
“They’re using it as a symbol,” Holgar said. “Symbols are very powerful.”
“Solomon has stated that the vandalism serves as a grim reminder that despite the peaceful coexistence of vampire and human, ignorance and hate still exist. And it is in the interest of that peace and an attitude of genuine forgiveness that Solomon has invited Ms. Leitner to meet with him.”
“What?” Jenn cried.
Then there he was on the screen: Solomon, the vampire who had orchestrated the war against humanity. Redheaded, with a turned-up nose and startling blue eyes, he was dressed in a black suit and a white, high-necked shirt. His face was somber.
Then the camera pulled back, revealing a second figure on the screen. Jenn blinked in astonishment as she recognized her father. Solomon’s hand was on his shoulder.
“This is Paul Leitner, Jennifer’s father. He has asked if he might say a few words to his dear daughter.”
The hunters all stared at Jenn, then at the screen.
“What’s he doing with Solomon?” Skye said. “Wasn’t Aurora the one who attacked you?”
Jenn leaned forward, dizzy and sick at the sight of the man who had tried to trade her life for his, and Mom’s, and Heather’s.
“Is he a fanger?” Jamie asked. “Skye, you getting vibes?”
“I’d only be able to tell if he were physically present,” the witch answered.
“Me too,” Holgar said. “By the smell.”
“If he was physically present, he’d be dead,” Jamie said, holding up two fingers in the Irish version of the one-finger salute.
“Shh, please,” Eriko murmured.
Jenn’s father’s face was drawn. Jenn could barely stand to look at him. His eyes were twitching, and he licked his lips once before beginning to speak.
“My daughter is a very sick young woman. I don’t know what caused her irrational fear and hatred of the Cursed Ones, but I know that she needs help. Please, Jenn, if you’re listening, come home. Everything will be okay. The authorities have promised me that we will get you the help you need, and if you come in, no charges will be pressed. Please, baby, come home. It will be better for everyone.”
“What the hell?” Jamie cried.
“Oh, Goddess, why does Solomon want you?” Skye blurted in dismay.
“Maybe Aurora and Solomon are working together,” Holgar ventured. “We know Aurora was trying to get to Antonio. So maybe Solomon wants Antonio too.”
“Hate to say it, but he’s just not that important,” Jamie said, reaching for the wine bottle at the exact same time as Holgar. Jamie made a show of letting him take it.
Holgar handed it to Jenn. “Drink,” he ordered her.
Staring at the screen, which now featured a commercial for a department store, Jenn got to her feet and left the room.
The familiar heaviness of the sun pulled on Antonio as he followed Father Juan down into one of the underground sections of the university. He wasn’t sure what the space had originally been for, but they had been able to modify it to create a cell that even an insane vampire couldn’t break out of. And newly converted, torn away from everything she knew, and denied the ability to hunt, Heather was one insane vampire.
After passing through a series of locked doors, each one more impressive than the last, they arrived at the room that contained the prisoner. Heather had wadded herself into the farthest corner of her cage. They had hosed her off, but her blond hair was matted, and dried blood was crusted under her ripped fingernails.
As soon as he felt she could endure being touched, Antonio was going to make sure she got a bath and clean clothes. He had no idea how he was going to accomplish it, but it would be an important step toward making her look, and hopefully feel, human.
Antonio sighed in frustration at her living conditions. When she had been captured by Aurora, Heather had also been kept in a cage. Two cages, two prisons—that made it hard for them to distinguish themselves as the good guys now that her circumstances had changed.
Heather stared at them, eyes filled with bloodlust, fangs clacking together. The scent of blood hung thick in the air even as he watched the evidence of a wound on Heather’s arm slowly fade.
Antonio shared a quick glance with Father Juan. Heather was drinking from herself. That was not good. Father Juan looked worried too, as he produced a goblet from beneath his robes, along with a packet of blood that looked like it had come from a hospital.
“Gracias, Padre,” Antonio murmured as he took the items. Father Juan and one of the other priests at the universidad took turns supplying Antonio with the blood he needed to survive. Cursed Ones could only drink human blood. That was one more lie they had told the human race. Those who claimed to be able to drink from animals said so only to deceive mankind.
Antonio had been a vampire for decades, and he had trained himself to survive on very little. For Heather, newly converted, the need for a continuous supply of blood was too great for two or even four priests to provide. So Father Juan had needed to go elsewhere to secure a supply. Antonio suspected it had cost him greatly to do so, especially since the universidad didn’t enjoy the same privileges it once had.
Antonio opened the pouch and poured the blood into the goblet. It wouldn’t really quench her thirst. Living blood would nourish her far more satisfactorily. But drinking from a cup was just one more way they were trying to get Heather to reconnect with the humanity that had been ripped away from her. By forcing her to take her blood in a glass, he was trying to get her to remember all the other times, all the other liquids, she had drunk that way, and associate that with the proper way of getting her nutrition, not drinking from someone’s throat.
Heather whimpered and moved to the front of the cage, stretching out a hand toward him as the smell of the blood hit the air. He walked toward her carefully, trying not to frighten her.
�
�How are you today, Heather?” he asked. The daylight would sap her strength as well, make her a little quieter.
She blinked at him. The conversion process was so violent that it often left the victim in shock, unable to speak or even reason, sometimes for as long as two or three months. Antonio prayed fervently that she’d adjust soon. It would be easier to reach her when she had passed through this phase. At the moment it was like trying to converse with a rabid lion and hoping it understood you.
“Jenn is eager to see you. She misses you,” he said.
Squinting her crimson eyes and showing her fangs, Heather whined as she stretched her hand toward the goblet. He consented, handing it to her. She snatched it with a victorious scream, then splashed the contents over her face.
“Ay,” Father Juan said, as he moved his hands and began to chant in Latin. It was not a prayer to God but a magick spell to calm and soothe her. Antonio prayed that this time it worked. He always prayed, every time.
As Father Juan performed his incantation, Antonio crouched in front of the cell. Heather retreated back into her corner, busily trying to lap up the blood on her face and hands as she plopped down on the blanket and pillow they had given her. Her gray teddy bear was oozing stuffing from two puncture marks in its neck. Beside the bear lay the inhaler that she had needed in life for her asthma. She would never need it again, but Antonio was hopeful that, like the bear, it would serve to remind her of the girl she had been.
“Heather, we can give you more blood, if you’ll only speak to us,” Antonio said. “Please, bonita. We all miss you so much.”
He heard steps behind him. There were few who came down here. Antonio turned and saw Jenn approaching in near panic.
“Father Juan,” she managed. “My father was on TV with Solomon.”
“What?” Father Juan and Antonio said in unison. They stared in horror at each other. Jenn tried to push past him to Heather, but Antonio blocked her. He didn’t want Jenn to see her sister with the blood smeared all over her face. His mind raced. Could Solomon have killed their nemesis? Had Jenn’s father escaped Aurora and sought sanctuary with Solomon? They needed to find out more immediately.
The Damned Page 4