Antonio wore cuffs of silver, which Skye had exposed to the moonlight while praying for him. Around his head she had woven a diadem of silver ribbon. He was shirtless, and she had drawn a pentagram on his chest with the ashes of oak wood. He had pressed his body against the bars, eyes closed, while she touched the ash to his icy skin.
Skye’s left and Father’s Juan’s right arms stretched between the bars of the cell. They held each other’s hands, then took his hands in theirs, and Antonio caught Skye’s slight jerk. Because she was still afraid of him, he knew, and because his hands were cold. Because his blood didn’t circulate. Because he was a Cursed One.
Was it a curse that could be lifted?
Or is there a part of me that really doesn’t want them to help me?
That part of him that had reveled in the curse of vampirism?
As a boy Antonio had observed the lonely existence of Father Pablo, the Catholic priest in his little village—denied a spouse and family, sharing the joys and sorrows of his flock without taking part in them. When Antonio had asked Father Pablo about it, the priest had told him that God approved of such a sacrifice and sent other, much more wonderful gifts in compensation.
Antonio had not quite understood, and as he was only a boy, and a sinful one at that, he didn’t expect to. But he would become a priest like Father Pablo, and he would get those wonderful gifts. It would be like Christmas.
Years passed, and everyone in the village knew Antonio de la Cruz was destined for the priesthood. But when Rosalita Hernandez had arrived from Mexico to live a few houses down from his family’s, Antonio had been tempted to deny his calling to the priesthood and marry her.
Then he remembered Father Pablo’s words. He gazed around at all the proud faces of the villagers—one of their own would become a priest! He listened to his mother’s prayers of thanksgiving to Mother Mary for the wonderful gift of her son, Antonio.
He couldn’t betray their trust in him. So he’d stayed true to God and left for the seminary in Salamanca. Soon after, the bombs of the Spanish civil war had dropped on his village, killing Rosalita, Antonio’s widowed mother, and his entire family.
From the safety of his monastery Antonio had grieved, and his religious community had gathered around him, prayed with him. The girls who came to Mass swooned over him—so handsome, tragic, and unavailable! He had grown closer to God, comforter of all, and even though Antonio had still been very lonely, he had not felt alone.
But in the dark Antonio wondered: Did God make the bombs fall to make sure I would stay true to Him?
“Yes, he did,” Sergio had informed him, on the night they had met in a forest in France, in 1941, the war. “He did that to you, Antonio. Because he is a god of suffering. I offer you another path.”
Then Sergio had converted Antonio, and he had lost God, or so he had believed. When the change had first come over him, he had lost his conscience and his humanity. He ran, free, overwhelmed by the passions he had denied his entire life. He found joy in lust, hatred, and cruelty. Sergio loved him for it, declaring him the finest, most heartless vampire he had ever run with.
“You’re magnífico,” Sergio would tell him, as they terrorized Madrid, and Antonio killed the priests on Sergio’s hit list. “An inspiration!”
What had brought Antonio’s humanity back to him, back in 1942? He remembered his pride at bringing a dead Hunter to Sergio’s court on the night of the ball to be held in his honor. Antonio had just dropped the young man to the floor when something happened to him. Then and there he had become horrified by what he was doing. It was like waking from a nightmare.
But how? Why?
Antonio had known as he turned his back on his sire that he had shamed and humiliated Sergio—and that he would be marked for Final Death.
After he had left Sergio’s court and found sanctuary once more at the university, the kindly priest in charge of the chapel had allowed him to live in the basement—or what they had referred to in those days as the basement. There had been a misunderstanding; because he was a vampire and not a mortal man, he had pushed open a heavy door sealed a century before and had gone down more flights of stairs than the current inhabitants had known about.
Assuming he had reached the basement, Antonio dwelled in the deepest depths of the catacombs—the rooms of the dead, where the bones of the faithful had been stacked for centuries rather than buried in the churchyards. Perhaps Salamanca had suffered a plague or the churchyard had reached capacity. Such were the reasons for the catacombs of other cities. Skulls lined his walls; leg bones and arm bones marked the route he would walk to hear Mass, go to confession, and to drink blood from his friend. He was in an agony to be the best Catholic he could. Whatever he had done to save his soul he had to keep on doing, or he would be doomed.
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.”
<
br /> “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?”
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