Of Saints and Shadows (1994)

by Christopher Golden

  There, on the bedside table, innocent as a King James Bible, lay the book that had started it all. That, too, must be saved. She picked up the book just as the door was kicked open, the weak frame not enough to support the lock Hannibal had installed. Somewhere in this house were Hannibal’s secret quarters, though he’d refused to tell them where. No matter, she wanted to fight.

  Just before she turned to face her would-be murderers, Alexandra Nueva took a final look at the woman she was charged with protecting.

  Meaghan had stopped changing. On the bed sat an enormous wolf, whose eyes shone with a new intelligence and a look of hunger. The wolf leaped toward the home’s invaders.

  “Excellent,” Alexandra said, and followed after her.

  For the first time in decades, Rolf Sechs wished he had a voice. Beside him, Will Cody was whooping and shouting with every burst of lead from his gun, and Rolf wanted Will to know that he, too, was reveling in this slaughter. These humans had come to kill them, to massacre their brothers and sisters while they slept, as the Nazis did to Rolf’s family, his great-grandsons and daughters. This time, however, he was there. He would not leave his people unprotected again, and he found a joy in their defense greater than any he had ever known.

  The clergy had not expected them to have guns, had only blades and fire, and magic themselves, and this group didn’t seem very well trained in that department. Several apprentices attempted to work spells off to one side, but Rolf strafed them with bullets, cutting them down before they could raise more than a single demon. And that single shadow creature ran amok without a magician to control it, killing several of the clergymen before scampering off along Calle de Verona.

  By Rolf’s estimation, he and Cody killed at least half of their attackers, including the woman who had apparently been their commander. Several times, humans armed with flamethrowers attempted to reach them, only to be shot. Two of the three were able to drag themselves to safety, where one of their fellows could take their throwers.

  “Rolf,” Cody said finally, when most of the surviving attackers were just out of range, behind buildings and around the corner. “When they come again, aim for the tank.”

  As difficult as it was to aim such weapons as Will Cody had supplied them with, Rolf did just that. The explosion was a monstrous thump that he felt go right through his body, and he shielded his eyes from the glare of the flame, nervous for a moment about the fire and the sun. He banished that dangerous thought from his mind and looked up to see black and burning body parts tumbling from the sky.

  That would keep them from attacking for a while, he thought. His people would rest comfortably, though he doubted they were still sleeping through the sounds of battle. He knew from listening to Peter’s conversations with Hannibal that there would be no attempt by the police to end the violence, and it would take the army hours to respond. By then it would be over. He and Cody would see to that.

  No matter that the man standing next to him had been a rebel, despised by their whole coven. Today he had proven his true character to Rolf. He was a warrior, and that was the only language that Rolf could speak.

  From where they stood in the center of St. Mark’s Square, Mulkerrin’s half of Unit I could hear clearly the sound of gunfire only blocks away. They had drawn their swords and attacked, and several civilians had gone down, bleeding onto the stones of the street. Still, there were too many people in the square even to notice what was happening. The gunfire changed all that. Immediately it did the job he had assigned the fifty-three men and women who surrounded him. The civilians were silent, listening, and when the gunfire did not let up, they scurried for cover. It took only minutes before the square was nearly empty, only a handful of civilians, mostly locals, wandering, wondering, and leaving their enemy exposed.

  They were an even dozen, masked and costumed, in a rough circle at the perimeter of the square. At a signal from one, dressed in a long cloak and tricorner hat, all of black, with a white mask, they began to move slowly in, closing the circle. Several were dressed like the first, but others had more gaudily designed outfits. Harlequin costumes with ugly green monkey-face masks with hats, oversized cloaks, and painted faces of all colors and designs. One especially drew attention, a tall creature in all red, a red veil hanging over a white mask, a black tricorn hat topped with many-colored feathers.

  “Stay where you are!” Mulkerrin ordered, not at the approaching creatures but at his own soldiers, who seemed about to bolt from the square. “Octavian!” he shouted, and the circle got no smaller.

  The black-cloaked figure who had signaled their move took an additional step forward and spoke. “You can’t win, Liam,” Peter said loudly. “Too many of us have broken the bonds which your church placed on us those many years ago. And you certainly can’t go back to Rome, not with the pope’s death waiting to confront you. The whispers are already circulating about how so many clergymen could disappear at the same time.”

  “Octavian, you are children of the devil himself. You must be destroyed in the name of God! And we will have returned what you stole.”

  “You know far more of the devil than we,” Peter answered, “but so be it! Any of you who wish to leave may do so without fear of harm from us, but Mulkerrin dies.”

  There was a terrible silence among the group, and many shifted their feet as though deciding whether they had the courage to leave, or to stay. Finally, one man made to move away from the group, and Mulkerrin lifted one hand toward him, muttering under his breath.

  A huge shadow shape drifted up from the brick floor of the piazza, difficult to see in the daylight, though the sky was heavy with clouds. The mist-wraith darted from place to place, jumping in the air as if it were a kite in crosswinds, then dove upon the man as he stood and watched in terror.

  As the man screamed snow began to fall, and the screaming was joined by a brief burst of gunfire from the direction of the theater, and then the noise of an explosion. Mulkerrin turned his attention back to Octavian as the shadow thing made slurping noises nobody wanted to hear.

  “Guns, Octavian? I’m surprised at you.”

  Peter took off his hat and mask, shook out his long hair, and smiled. “That was the general idea. It’s a new age. A lot has changed.”

  Mulkerrin pointed at Peter and shouted a word no one understood. Apparently, however, the wraith did, because it got up from its feast and flew toward him in a flash of black mist. It looked as though Peter was simply going to allow it to hit him, but in the second before it reached him, Peter was gone, mist himself.

  The white cloud that was Peter Octavian passed within the black, mixing with it, the two swirling together in a ghost war. Then they burst into flame, or rather, Peter did. The black mist became black smoke, and when Octavian’s feet touched ground, the shadow called up by Father Mulkerrin was gone.

  Mulkerrin was speechless, but his thoughts raced ahead of him.

  Abort! he screamed in his head, not caring that the Montesis and Sister Mary must be doubled over in agony from his panic. Abandon all other activities and join me immediately.

  Those at the theater could not hear his mental call, but he felt it best to leave them. He did not yet know the extent of the danger, or what they faced. As he spun, looking for a way out of the square, the snow falling harder limiting his sight. Mulkerrin witnessed half of the hellspawn withdraw guns from their own robes. Automatic weapons.

  “Once again,” Octavian said. “Do any of you wish to leave?”

  “Get down!” Mulkerrin screamed to his soldiers, and all hell broke loose.

  In the shadows of the Correr Museum, through the falling snow, Tracey Sacco and Sandro Ricci got it all on tape.

  28

  COSTUMES WERE IN TATTERS, STILTS WERE broken, masks were thrown off to reveal panicked faces. The people of Venice fled to their homes, and visitors to the water city, including those who had come to offer themselves to the Defiant Ones, took refuge anywhere they could find shelter. Hotels, restaurants, a
nd bars took them in. Many, though, were more curious than frightened, and wondered if war was in the offing. If so, they asked, who was fighting? Discussing this, they stood in groups at the intersections of alleys and along the edges of the larger canals, and word spread quickly.

  One man stepped away from his friends as a group of soldiers passed, dressed in black and carrying swords and flamethrowers, and held out a hand to ask what all the commotion was about. He stumbled back to his friends, screeching, as his hand was brutally thrust aside by the soldiers.

  Who were they? the people of Venice wanted to know. Where were the army, and the police?

  All over Venice, small fires became big fires. Throughout the city, the path of destruction left by the soldiers of the Vatican spread even after they had gone ahead at the summoning of their leader. Even those who had been in the midst of battle with Meaghan and Alex had fled, and left Hannibal’s house burning from the inside. Not all of them had left, though. Between them, Meaghan and Alex had made certain that eleven of those who had attacked them would never leave the burning house again.

  “What now?” Alex said, deferring to Meaghan’s judgment without realizing it. Alexandra still could not drive from her head the images of Meaghan’s bizarre series of transformations at the time of her resurrection. Her mind was racing with questions, but she knew they had to wait for the moment.

  When Mulkerrin had issued his command to take cover and erected a sorcerous shield to provide his troops with that cover, he was still off balance slightly after the rapid turnaround in their plans. So were many of his soldiers, and only fifteen of them had been close enough to him, and fast enough, to get safely within his shield before bullets tore into the group. The rest of them had been spread out across the center of the square, and a number of them fell immediately under the gunfire. The rest ran—either in attack or in flight toward the arcades and alleys that led to relative safety. As Mulkerrin watched, several of the unarmed Defiant Ones broke away in pursuit. Many of those fleeing saw that they would not escape, and turned to face their attackers, drawing swords and brandishing flamethrowers.

  One woman, who Mulkerrin knew was named Lorenza, battled valiantly, avoiding the blows of her brightly costumed attacker and slashing several times at its flesh with her sword. Safe for the moment behind his shield, Mulkerrin had time to wonder why the creature did not change, as Octavian had done, to a more powerful form.

  And then the Defiant One did change, bursting into flame as Octavian had. And yet not quite as Octavian had. It took Mulkerrin a moment to realize that this was a different sort of flame. This was the flame of destruction, the flame of belief in the power of the sun that had been implanted in the creatures a millennium before. Clearly, many of these Defiant Ones were not as confident as Octavian himself. If he could make them lose their concentration, the sun might still destroy them!

  He raised his hands and began to weave a spell of passage.

  Ellen Quatermain was the first to notice the silvery shimmering of the air. Through the steady snowfall she watched as what appeared to be a mirror grew into existence just feet from where she stood, armed and ready. She had enjoyed their battle thus far, as it was largely one-sided, though she’d been saddened to see the death of the Defiant One who had lost his concentration, his faith. Pity, really, she hadn’t even known his name.

  She was watching the group of Vatican killers huddled inside whatever magical protection Mulkerrin had whipped up at the last moment. Then her attention was drawn to something else. This mirror thing, an oval shape hovering vertically, was growing roughly two feet from the ground. Though its edges were indistinct, it continued to grow until it was three times her height, and only when it had apparently stopped did her curiosity overwhelm her.

  it had all happened in seconds. She looked around, but nobody was paying attention as of yet. Those with guns were still shooting at Mulkerrin, hoping he’d let his guard down. Those who had run were not pursued, but those who turned to fight had been killed easily and quickly. Peter had been clear about that. Many of these people were simply misled, and their hatred ought to be placed on Mulkerrin and his acolytes alone, though they’d yet to see these acolytes.

  It occurred to her that this mirror must be so thin as to be almost invisible from many angles, and she approached it now, and reached out a hand to touch its surface.

  “Shit!” she cursed and drew back her hand, sucking her fingers. Ripples spread across the mirror as though it were a calm pool of water, just disturbed. And indeed it was a pool of some liquid, though at scalding temperatures.

  Ellen knew this must be some magical construct of Mulkerrin’s. She had not survived this long without her wits. Yet she could not see its purpose. She looked at her reflection in the mirror-pool and touched it with the muzzle of her gun.

  “Ellen! Get back!”

  She turned at Peter’s voice, alarmed and confused. Then she heard the roar of the approaching beast. She turned back to the mirror and the pool had become turbulent. She cried out as the scalding water splashed and burned her, though she healed almost immediately. Under other circumstances, she would instantly have retreated, metamorphosing into some other form to battle whatever was preparing to emerge, or into mist to escape it. But the events of the past few minutes had worked a terrible magic on her, one that had nothing to do with sorcery.

  The gun in her hand had given her a false security, a terrible confidence. She took one step back and began to strafe the mirror-pool, even as the burning liquid bathed her. For one wonderful second she had the attention of all of her peers.

  Then the thing emerged. The demon. The shadow.

  Its huge head was covered with nubs and horns and spiny protrusions and its flesh had the appearance of an open wound. Blood ran from the red thing in profusion, yet at her first whiff of it, Ellen felt nauseated even through her fear. This was not the blood she knew.

  She fired again, and was joined by gunfire behind her. Several of the bullets hit her, but she ignored them and silently thanked whoever had come to her aid. The huge shadow, at least fourteen feet high, which now stepped completely through the pool and into their world, did seem to be hurt somewhat by the constant stream of gunfire. Some—but not nearly enough. The eyes of the thing searched angrily for the source of its pain, and found her. While the shadow had seemed slow at first, its talons now swept down upon Ellen in a flash, lifting her to its clicking jaws.

  Finally sensing the futilily of her weapon, Ellen dropped it. She had little time to think, and her uncertainty of the sun might kill her even if she were able to shapeshift. Brute strength was her instinctive reaction. Pinned between the shadow beast’s great claws, she kicked at the thing’s left arm with sheer power that she had been given as an immortal. Its arm snapped in two with a sickening crack and the thing howled in a voice from hell. Still, it did not let her go.

  Clamped in its one good hand, Ellen was shoved toward the huge mouth, the jaws closing on her left knee, biting clean through, her lower leg falling to the ground even as the thing gulped down its bite. Screaming, she struggled to keep away from the mouth, using her hands to snap several of the fingers on the hand that held her, and finally breaking free, only to fall across the thing’s shoulder.

  Her claws dug in, her fury at its peak, and her left arm drew back and drove forward, fingers stretching into claws themselves. The taut, needle-pointed fingers plunged into the thing’s right eye, and her arm sank into the burning flesh of the creature halfway to her elbow. She withdrew it, screaming in agony and triumph, and barely noticed her charred flesh sloughing off the arm as she went for the left eye. But the creature moved, swallowing her arm as it shot forward, then biting it off.

  Ellen was dropped to the ground and the thing bent over her, its jaws closing on her skull. Her brains sliding from its lips like spittle, it sat back on its haunches and howled again in pain, then fell to one side with a massive thud. In seconds it began a rapid dissolution that would erase all memory
of it.

  Peter stood by and watched it dissolve, holding at his side the silver sword he had taken from one of Mulkerrin’s soldiers and with which he had opened up the thing’s guts as it bent to finish off Ellen. He mourned her for a moment, but a moment was all he had.

  “Peter!” A voice shouted, Lazarus’s voice.

  He turned toward the mirror-portal, and confirmed what he’d expected. The creature had not been alone. Glancing about, he saw other things forming, dark mist-wraiths that were Mulkerrin’s favorite slaves, huge demon shadows appearing through the portal. He could see another portal shimmering into existence.

  Mulkerrin couldn’t possibly be doing all of this alone.

  Peter saw past the creatures, to the hundreds of men and women in black, swords held high, who swarmed into St. Mark’s Square. He saw several who must have been Mulkerrin’s acolytes, for they, too, were weaving spells aloud, hands high.

  “Damn,” he said quietly. “Sheng,” he yelled, and the man appeared next to him. “Go to the theater. See if you and Cody can’t get a bunch of those cowards to tempt the sun. Hell, it’s snowing, there’s no sun out here anyway. Then get back here, and bring Cody with you.

  “And all of you,” he screamed aloud as he lifted his sword toward a demon, his eyes squinting as the piercing wail of the banshees began. “Get their silver. The swords and knives. The guns aren’t worth anything now, only your own power and the silver.”

  Silently he hoped that Meaghan was safe.

  Then they were the ones surrounded, and he found himself between Hannibal and Lazarus, preparing to bring down the largest of the demon shadows.

  “You didn’t say the acolytes were this powerful, to open such doorways!” Hannibal yelled.

  “I didn’t know!” Peter yelled back, to be heard over the wailing.

  “Plan B?” Lazarus asked.