The Damned

by Nancy Holder; Debbie Viguié

  Maybe it was the end. Maybe the Antichrist walked among them. Maybe he had fangs and red eyes. What if Solomon, or one of the others, was that abomination, and they were suffering the end times? Doomsday cults had risen up over the last few years; they believed it. The end was not near—it was here.

  Juan had done his best to ignore such hysteria. To admit that the war might be the fulfillment of prophecy would do no one any good. People tended to become complacent in the face of prophecy. The vast majority of the world had already rolled over and given up. Those who still fought couldn’t afford the luxury of believing that their fates were sealed, the future already upon them.

  They needed to believe that there was a better world waiting on the other side of their struggle.

  Even if there wasn’t.

  They needed to believe they had a chance.

  Even if they had none.

  They needed to believe that love and faith would win the day.

  Even if the day was already lost.

  Father Juan took a deep, shuddering breath. He prayed finally for himself, for renewal of spirit, of purpose. He needed to stay the course. The years weighed more heavily upon him than usual. He knew the students wondered who he was. It was better to let them wonder than to tell them the truth. He had once been told that proof negated faith. He had been a young man at the time and hadn’t understood what that meant. Over the years, though, he had come to see that it was true. Doubting Thomas wasn’t blessed for his faith, because in the end he hadn’t had faith, but proof.

  On December 2, 1577, St. John of the Cross was taken into custody by the superiors of his order, with whom he had taken issue. He and St. Teresa of Avila argued that the Order of the Carmelites had grown corrupt and required reform. St. John’s captors tortured him, whipping him and imprisoning him in a tiny room barely big enough for him to stretch out in, with no window, no doors. He endured for nine months.

  A dark shadow flitted across Juan’s mind, and a sickness surged inside him. It was done. He could feel it. The unthinkable had happened. He had cast so many spells and said so many prayers to try and prevent it, but in the end he could only alert himself to the moment it happened. He squeezed his eyes shut and continued to pray, knowing that everyone in his charge needed prayer now more than ever.

  It was another two hours before Diego joined him, silently sinking to his knees beside Father Juan. Diego was the bishop in charge of the university, a longtime friend and the only one still living whom Juan had ever trusted to hear his confession.

  An hour passed as the two of them prayed side by side. Finally Father Juan rose from his knees and settled himself into a pew. With a sigh Diego joined him.

  “So they’ve done it,” Juan said, not asking, because he already knew.

  “We feared this day was coming,” Diego said, sounding old and tired for his sixty years. “Rome is close to making a treaty with the Cursed Ones. As a gesture of good faith they are officially closing the training academies they oversee the world over.”

  Father Juan felt each syllable like a blow against his chest. “That’s half a dozen schools with teens who are training to become hunters.”

  “I know.”

  “Unofficially?” Juan asked, with a flicker of hope.

  Diego pressed his hand to his eyes. “I heard from Archbishop Malachi. He’s been a friend of mine for years, but he said that if we don’t close the school, they will.”

  Misery settled around Juan’s shoulders like a stole. “The Church is declaring war on us.”

  Diego nodded. “It would seem so. What do you want to do?”

  The hollowness lessened. He was not alone. He had friends. Father Juan studied the cross suspended behind the altar. Friends, and a Protector. “We can’t surrender.”

  “I agree. I just don’t know how we can fight both Spain and the Church.”

  “We can’t,” Juan replied. “But we can fight the Cursed Ones and reach out to the other hunter teams and resistance cells. If we could strike a real blow, it might encourage those who are still sympathetic to our cause to come forth and join us.”

  Diego stared at him. “Your idea is intriguing, but I’m wondering what you think we can accomplish on a large enough scale to regain the support of the government and the Church.”

  While imprisoned, St. John of the Cross wrote his Spiritual Canticle on paper snuck to him by a friar charged with guarding him.

  “If they can take out Dantalion, it will be a start.”

  Diego shook his head. “Even if they can manage that, it’s too isolated a victory. We need something a bit more public, more theatrical.”

  Father Juan thought of Pamplona. “Like the Cursed Ones? They love to create spectacle.”

  “Exactly like the Cursed Ones,” Diego said. “We need to create a spectacle.”

  “What exactly did you have in mind?” Juan asked the bishop.

  Diego raised a brow. He almost smiled. “They have a spokesman; we need a spokesman. We need a voice, crying in the wilderness. Loudly. With a broader reach.”

  “The Internet?”

  “Too controlled,” Diego replied. “Think . . . older.”

  Juan blinked at him. “You’re crazy. No television station is going to give us airtime. And if we try to take one by force, they’ll just spin the footage. After the hunters are thrown in prison.”

  Diego shrugged. “Surely you remember that before there was television, there were other methods of communication.”

  Juan’s lips parted. “Radio.”

  “Exactly.”

  Juan considered. “In New Orleans we heard a radio broadcast, a man named Kent, who said he was the Voice of the Resistance.”

  “As was done during World War Two,” Diego pointed out.

  “Sí, vale,” Juan said thoughtfully. “We need a way to get the truth out, to share information.”

  “We can also use it to help people find safety and avoid cities that are Cursed One strongholds.”

  Juan brightened. “And maybe we can both find resistance cells and help grow the resistance worldwide.” He looked again at the cross.

  On August 15, 1578, St. John escaped through a window in an adjoining cell. With St. Teresa he reformed the existing monasteries and founded many others.

  “A larger calling. We have the expertise, the training . . .” Juan closed his eyes in gratitude. “And the faith,” he replied.

  In 1726 he was made a saint.

  Diego nodded and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now you’ve got the idea.”

  “With God’s help,” Father Juan said.

  “With God’s help,” Diego replied.

  Both men crossed themselves.

  RUSSIA

  TEAM SALAMANCA; TAAMIR, NOAH, AND SVIKA

  Monsters—hideous, deformed things that had once been men or vampires or maybe even werewolves, or all three—charged the hunters. Eriko froze for a moment as Jamie shouted at Svika to move; then Svika and Jamie started running, weaving through the minefield toward the carriage house.

  The danger of that maneuver took Eriko’s breath away. Also the wrongheadedness. They should fight first and continue to the lab second. Fight the battle that’s in front of you. That’s what her father had said, after she’d told him she was leaving Japan to train to fight vampires in Spain. She hadn’t completely understood what he’d meant until now.

  Only she, Holgar, and Antonio had the strength to out-run those creatures, but even if they could, it didn’t mean they wouldn’t be blown up by the land mines for their efforts. And the other hunters? Blown up as well, or torn apart.

  Skye rushed past her, following Jamie and screaming a spell of some sort. As the adrenaline flooded Eriko’s body, she wished, just once, that Skye would do some sort of spell to wipe out the enemy attacking them. Couldn’t a witch do that? It was dishonorable not to fight your hardest, do everything you could to protect your own people.

  As Holgar ran after his partner, Jenn and Eriko locked
eyes.

  “Follow me,” Jenn said. It was more of an entreaty, not an order.

  “We won’t outrun them,” Eriko said, even as Antonio staked the first creature to come within arm’s length. “I will stay, fight. I will join you in the palace as soon as I can.”

  “You won’t know the way,” Jenn said.

  “Yes, she will. I’ll stay with her. I can see your footprints in the snow and will follow them to you,” Antonio said.

  The creatures were a dozen jumps away. Eriko whipped two stakes from her belt and braced herself for battle.

  “Run, Jenn, hurry!”

  And Jenn ran.

  Eriko and Antonio squared off, and Eriko was grateful he was there. She hadn’t trusted him when they’d first formed their team. But now there was no one she’d rather have next to her when she was making her final stand, even if she hated the fact that he, too, held back when he fought. She did it from pain, he from fear that he would revert to the monstrous evil that cursed him.

  The beasts attacked them like a shock wave, and Eriko spun in a circle, planting stakes in two different chests and catching a glimpse of Antonio doing the same. It was like some insane sort of ballet. Spin, jump.

  Kill.

  Antonio grabbed her and whirled her around to face an enemy approaching on his right side while he stabbed another one standing in front of him. The creatures that filled Eriko’s vision had muscle denser than any human’s, and it took more strength to pierce the flesh near their hearts. That was the point; their own bodies served as a kind of armor, making them all but invincible to a human of normal strength.

  But there was nothing normal about Eriko, or Antonio for that matter. Behind her she heard the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun, and her stomach lurched. Don’t think about what’s happening to the others. Just focus.

  Noah was worried as the line raced along through the minefield. They zigzagged across it like some drunken snake. At every footfall he expected to be blown up, but no mines went off. He finally began to wonder if the field was actually riddled with the bombs at all.

  And then a more chilling thought hit him. How did Svika know the way through it? He stopped so abruptly that Jenn ran into him from behind, and for a moment they grappled together, trying to maintain their balance and stay on their feet.

  “What?” she hissed.

  “Something is wrong.”

  “What?” she asked again, glancing behind as the others slowed down, looking at her anxiously.

  “How does Svika know the way through this field?” he asked her.

  She blinked. “Maybe Dantalion showed it to him.” But she frowned. “Or . . . he is a plant.”

  “But why not just blow us up? Why lure us in?” Noah pressed.

  “Dantalion wants to perform more experiments? He wants to make sure he’s killed you and Taamir?”

  He took that in. “He’s guided us almost across. But you saw him. He’s not human anymore. How can we trust him?”

  “Come on!” the werewolf shouted as he looked back at them, having slowed his pace.

  So, he was running behind a werewolf. And there was a witch. And their Hunter wasn’t their leader. It was a crazy team. What other secrets could they possibly be hiding? They acted like they had lots of secrets.

  Especially Jenn Leitner.

  Panting, Jenn heaved a sigh of relief as they reached the carriage house. Her lungs were burning. As she bent to catch her breath, she glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see Antonio and Eriko following, and fearing that she would see the monsters instead.

  But she could see no one through the reflections of moonlight on falling snow, just the forests and the mountainside they’d run down, with a higher mountain towering over it, black silhouettes in the swirling whiteness. Her stomach clenched. Brushing her damp hair away from her face, she ran on, reaching a tumbledown wooden structure that reminded her of a barn.

  “The tunnel entrance is in here,” Svika said, touching a canted wooden door, as the group hustled toward him.

  “Jamie?” Taamir said, barely winded.

  “Yeah?” Jamie replied.

  “Stab him in the shoulder.”

  And before anyone could move or think, Jamie whipped a stake out and did just that. Taamir clapped his hand over Svika’s mouth as Svika dropped to the ground.

  “What the hell?” Holgar whispered.

  “Tell us what Dantalion’s planning,” Taamir said to the writhing man. He glanced at Noah. “He’s not himself.”

  Noah nodded grimly.

  “I can’t—I didn’t—,” Svika protested

  Taamir backhanded him across the face. “Tell us, or I’ll let Noah ask you.”

  Jenn stared hard at Noah, wondering how he would take this treatment of someone who was, in essence, family.

  “You don’t want him to interrogate you. You know what he can do,” Taamir said quietly.

  “Skye, is there anything you can do?” Jenn asked. “Maybe work a spell of some kind?”

  Skye just looked dazed. Then her eyes ticked past Jenn’s shoulder, as though she suddenly saw someone standing in the snowy woods. The look on her face raised the hair on the back of Jenn’s neck, and Jenn turned quickly, legs spread in a fighting stance, stake in her hand.

  There was no one there. She turned back to Skye. The English witch still wore the same horrified expression.

  “Skye?” Jenn asked, looking from her to the empty space and back again.

  Skye didn’t move. Noah pressed his hand against Svika’s injured shoulder, hurting him. Things were quickly spinning out of control, and Jenn began to sweat, wishing she knew if and when the trap was going to be sprung.

  She strode forward and snapped her fingers in front of Skye’s eyes. Nothing. Forcing herself not to panic, she grabbed Skye’s shoulders and shook her hard.

  “Skye! What is it?”

  Skye turned to her, lips trembling. “He’s here. I don’t know how, but he’s here.” She reached for a cross from her belt.

  “Who’s here, Skye?”

  Skye screamed in utter panic. “Oh, God, he’s found me!”

  “Who?”

  “Estefan! Oh, my Goddess, he’s here!”

  Jenn blinked and stared at the falling snow. “Who?”

  And then, in the sudden stillness, Jenn heard the sounds of battle.

  RUSSIA

  AURORA AND ESTEFAN

  From the towering mountaintop, shielded by tree branches, Aurora ran her hands along her fabulous ermine coat and watched through the snowfall as Antonio and the Hunter fought off Dantalion’s monsters. She’d been picking the disgusting creatures off for days now, thinning them—she hoped it was driving Dantalion mad—but now it was time to let them pick off the hunters.

  Beside her, Estefan stood in black body armor and a heavy black wool coat—he could still feel cold; Aurora just liked fur coats. The haughty and very sexy warlock looked supremely smug and self-satisfied. It irritated her, but if she was going to have a witch on her side, she could do worse than Estefan Montevideo.

  “I can feel her,” he chortled.

  “Which means she can feel you, too, yes?” Aurora reminded him.

  He hesitated, and she raised her brows at him. The egos of men rendered them so stupid.

  “Maybe. I don’t know,” he admitted.

  She sighed. Estefan’s obsession with his ex was inconvenient, but understandable. He was still in love with the little witch, even though he also hated her for setting him on fire.

  It was like that with her and Sergio. She was tired of being a slave to how he made her feel. He wasn’t worth it. She had resolved that she was going to kill him. Their master would either thank her for it or kill her himself. He had always loved Sergio more than her.

  Just as Sergio had always loved Antonio de la Cruz.

  Watching the hunky priest, she wondered why it was that Sergio was so obsessed with him. She guessed Sergio was embarrassed by what he saw as his failure. No other Cursed
One had ever been able to maintain his humanity and thereby so utterly reject his sire. Sergio hated and feared Antonio because of that. And yet, on those many occasions when Sergio could have killed Antonio, Sergio hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.

  Yes, Antonio was Sergio’s failure, his weakness. But Antonio’s misguided strength of will made him truly spectacular, a lone specimen of rebellion among the Cursed Ones. Dantalion would have done well to capture and study Antonio, not create monstrosities in his labs. For all they knew, Antonio would one day will himself to walk in the sun—and wouldn’t that change things.

  She assumed Dantalion was unaware of all the drama taking place outside his fortress. From her vantage point Aurora watched the battle between Hunter and Cursed One, and the hybridized things Dantalion had made. She saw the glint of the rubies in the cross earring Antonio wore. Her rubies, from the crucifix she had carried when she was human. The one that her master had taken from her the night he converted her, in that filthy cell. Her family had been tortured and burned, and the Spanish Grand Inquisitor, Tomás de Torquemada, had threatened to do the same to her. Then he had come . . . and saved her.

  By damning her for all eternity.

  Her sire had broken that cross to bits and handed out the stones to favored members of their court when they had performed a particularly noteworthy task. Sergio had been favored with more than a dozen of them. She had not been around during the year that Antonio de la Cruz had been converted. She and Sergio had had one of their frequent rows, and she’d been off sulking in Rio. She hadn’t really stopped sulking since.

  Behind Aurora two dozen of her vampires waited, silent, watching her and anticipating her signal. They would do her bidding without question. They only represented a portion of those faithful to her. Some she had converted herself, others were older than her, but all had come to trust her, to follow her.

  She was tired of sharing power and jockeying for position with Sergio. It was time to end it once and for all. She turned to Louis, her lieutenant, who appeared to be in his late fifties, with thin, graying hair. She liked Louis. He wasn’t one of the preening ones who liked to look pretty. He was tough, loyal, and utterly bloodthirsty.