by Ian Thomas
“Who’d know? He’s working on his guns and not his friends so little hard to tell.”
“Wow, you’re really angry.”
“Damn right I am. Friends don’t shut friends out.
“They do if the problem is too big to verbalize. Which is not really a problem you or I have.”
“What part? The massive problem or the inability to verbalize?”
“Both actually,” she replied surprised.
“See. I listen. Most of the time. Some. Some of the time. At least half. Yeah half.”
“Whatever. I better go. I hear raised voices.”
“Chanting?”
“Arguing.”
“Ooh, the plot thickens.”
“Take care,” she said and hung up. Rowan’s voice had reached her from Somerset’s office. Which – given the size of the building, the office’s location, and the amount of double glazing in between – was quite a feat.
IX
Ah, the priest.
Henry had found following McLachlan to be immensely rewarding. Truthfully he didn’t know what was the best part. Seeing how low the great Pack Lord had fallen. The once venerable renaissance man now a drunken, whoring hermit. Or that he’d been laid so low he’d been entertaining a siren. Weathering the pain she could inflict in a delicate dance with death.
Matteo hadn’t just hit rock bottom, Henry thought ruefully, once there he started to dig.
Perfect.
Now if McLachlan could stop bleeding and realize he’d had two vampires following him they could jolly this discord along nicely.
Not that Henry was on a deadline. The full moon was a still a couple of weeks away and he needed more pieces in play than were currently. Given how predictably slow vampires moved, he needed McLachlan to blunder his way through that interaction as only he could. Typically the vampires would over react, assert their dominance, make a show of hunting down this rogue vampire, and within moments lose sight of their purpose. Usually about the time they caught sight of their reflection, vain fools.
Eyeing the priest suspiciously, Henry figured he’d remove him if he posed too much counsel to the vessel.
He’d always viewed men of God with suspicion. The irony that Dominic had been a man of the cloth before being sired had always amused him greatly. He had hoped the repression associated with organized religion would explode in some bloody carnage. What was it with these wolves who clung to their humanity amid the raging darkness. That was the moment to relinquish it. Be free. Revel in the godlessness of being a monster.
Would this priest be any different, he mused. It was always entertaining to consider what the curse brought out in a newly sired wolf. Entertaining, but often so very disappointing.
That’s it, Henry thought, noticing the pale watchers across the street. Good boy. Keep it quiet. Keep the priest out of it and he can live.
The vessel was better when he was his own. Reckless, brash, and decent. That would never change.
X
Still reeling from his experience at Matteo’s and unsure which way to come at analyzing any of it, McLachlan found himself heading back to the St Thomas’, the day shifting to night as he crossed lower Manhattan. Given the density of the tall buildings around him it was the surge of energy that told him evening was about to fall.
Crossing the street, he saw a car pull up outside the chapel and a familiar figure exit.
“Thanks for the ride,” Father Alquin said.
“Anytime Father,” a man called back.
“God bless you.” And with a smile, the priest shut the door.
“You’re back,” McLachlan cheered, jogging over. “You should have called, I would have borrowed a car and come get you.”
“Nonsense, you have plenty to worry about than being my chauffeur.” He extended his hand and a smile to the younger man. “Good to see you though.”
“Did you find anything new?” McLachlan asked.
“Not a great deal.” Following The Ordeal and the evidence in Boyd’s notes of Richelieu’s assistant, Father Drake, being part of the Cult, Alquin had flown to Rome to investigate further. Since his departure there had been the occasional email – yes, Alquin used email – about his investigation. To date, Father Drake had disappeared. Richelieu had thrown himself on the mercy of the Church for being duped and the Cult infiltrating his ministry. Both McLachlan and Alquin were leaning toward the notion that Richelieu was actually part of the Cult, yet lacked proof to pursue the matter.
“That fact that Richelieu is still in service does cast doubt on that idea,” Alquin said, frustration in his voice. The young Deacon had unsettled Alquin long before any notion of him being involved with the Cult of the Eighth House was even considered. When that did come to light however, Alquin had all but high-fived McLachlan. In fact if he did, Dylan was going to win yet another bet.
“Maybe he was duped,” McLachlan muttered, his mind elsewhere. “It happens.”
Alquin regarded him closely. “Something tells me you are no longer talking about our friend the Deacon.”
“Just came from Matteo’s. He’s not doing so good. Actually seems to be getting worse.”
“The man has lived a very long life. Dare I say a betrayal such as this would leave quite an indelible mark.”
McLachlan wanted to tell him about Illyana and the vision – or memory or whatever it was – but couldn’t. He had a sense he’d been privy to Matteo’s worst memory. Sharing that even with someone as wise and good as Alquin seemed unfair to Matteo.
“He is pretty old,” McLachlan said dismissively, collecting his uncle’s suitcase and starting for the rear of the chapel.
Given that the supernatural world was behaving – an unsettling notion in itself – he had time on his hands to check in with Alquin.
“Hey,” the priest said firmly, stopping him on the sidewalk. “You cannot burden yourself with this. What the Cult did. What Ben did. Those men who died. All of that is not your guilt to bear. Those people had choices. There were not good choices but they were theirs to make. Making them yours to shoulder is unfair. And actually quite narcissistic really.”
“What about John? He only wanted to make peace with his brother and was killed in the process.”
“Some part of him had to know what Boyd was involved with. Making his sleeping with your friend Jason, going to Matteo’s to corner you, not seeing he was in a safe place with support, all his choices to own. Take that from him and you diminish him.”
“Wait, did you almost say something nice about Matteo?”
“Almost. There is a difference.” Alquin clarified but the concession was there. “And I do not mean you are narcissistic just that you seem to want to carry this guilt and make it your sin. Which it most clearly is not.”
“But–”
“No, that is your choice. And not a good one. Matteo has his choices too and you laying claim to those as well borders on self-indulgent.”
McLachlan reeled from the honesty. It was too much to hope that Alquin would be accepting of the supernaturals but this was a positive sign. Even if it was a brutal yet eloquent clip around the head. Reality checks from men of the cloth were not to be taken lightly.
“Just hard to sit back and see a great man fall is all.”
“Then it is not guilt that you are fighting, but his pride. He is too proud to see he needs help.”
“Thing is when rock bottom comes it’s gonna hurt like hell.”
“And you will be there. Like any friend or family would be. That is all you can offer.”
Good words but not the balm McLachlan wanted to hear. When did people stop saying ‘everything was going to be all right’? When the world got litigious, he thought bitterly. Absolutes weren’t offered anymore. Terms were couched. Condolences left general.
Hating that he was at a dead end, McLachlan looked for a place to run. On the street outside the chapel with the high-rises around him, he felt trapped. Impotent. Vulnerable.
“I�
�m gonna…” he began, unsure where he was going to go. “Take off. That cool? Maybe catch up properly tomorrow?”
With Rebecca out of the city for the weekend, McLachlan sheepishly realized he could focus on the other parts of his life. He never wanted to be that guy who became so consumed in a relationship that he lost his sense of self when apart. And he knew Rebecca was not that way inclined either.
And who better than Alquin.
“That would be good,” the priest said, recognizing McLachlan’s restlessness.
“Cool. Sometime in the morning.” McLachlan was still scanning the street, his vulnerability masking another faint but familiar feeling. Across the street he saw a familiar pair of pale faces. “I’ll stop by.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
“If by ‘always’ you mean occasionally, then yes that would be quite correct.”
Weaving between cars as Friday evening traffic clogged the city, McLachlan knew his uncle had a point. He never intended to be reckless, it just happened. Often beyond his control.
As he reached the other side of the street, he realized he was quite hungry. The feeling only intensified by the two vampires waiting for him.
“This feels really odd without a urinal nearby,” McLachlan said with a smile. The hunger was more his own then theirs, though his forehead itched like crazy.
Rufus looked at the wall of the alley and back to McLachlan.
“Good point. So what’s with the lurking near a church? You two pledging a fraternity?”
“It’s time,” Seth said ominously.
“For a musical number? For a montage? To sound more ominous?”
Rufus looked at Seth. “You deserved that.” He turned back to McLachlan. “What he means is that Gracchus is ready to see you.”
“That man could only get less shit done if he was a politician,” McLachlan said. “Sorry but as unresolved plotlines go, this is up there with Jon Snow’s parentage.”
“Whatever,” Rufus said, “everyone knows it’s Ly–”
“Do you want to meet with him or not?” Seth demanded, interrupting them.
“Take me to your leader,” McLachlan said, smiling.
“Please stop,” Seth said. “Just for tonight. Starting now.”
At least Rufus appreciated his humor, he thought following them toward the subway steps. Having something to think about other than Matteo, his memory, or the uncomfortable awareness that Matteo’s bed practically had a ‘welcome’ mat next to it made him feel somewhat better. Of course heading to the vampire court alone with no one aware of the fact made him a little uneasy. Hence as they stood on the crowded 6 train headed uptown, he fired off a couple of texts.
Eddie // 17:19
Finally got an audience with Gracchus.
Will text you once I’m done
Maybe go for a drink?
Rebecca // 17:21
Hey, how’s your day going?
Hope they haven’t converted you.
Maybe talk later?
XI
The silence dragged on.
Neither willing to budge. Somerset was unlikely to every admit he had a blind spot when it came to McLachlan's. Rowan shared the same one. However, she took strength from her friend while the older man let his personal distaste for McLachlan diminish his authority. Worse still, it was starting to show.
Rowan dreaded the amount of crowing McLachlan would do when he learned this. She loved him dearly but even she would not be able to handle how insufferable he would be.
“So let me guess,” Rowan said, hearing a little of McLachlan in her voice. “Arizona’s here researching the Cult because you guys have nothing on them? Not like you to get caught with your pants down.”
Somerset shifted uncomfortably in his seat. To some extent she was enjoying this. Among the communities, the Clan held a lofty position knowing a great deal of the history and intricacies of the supernatural. Often far more than the communities themselves.
“An oversight,” he replied.
She wanted to call bullshit – hearing McLachlan shout it in her head was bad enough – but decided against that level of immaturity.
“And no, that’s not my main purpose here,” Arizona Chase said, shutting the door silently behind him.
Rowan hadn’t heard him enter.
“You mean you’re still sitting on your hands about the Cult?” she cried angrily. Unbidden memories of Matteo’s tortured body crashed into her mind.
“We have people working on it,” Somerset said firmly.
“And by people you mean interns?”
“Rowan,” Arizona pleaded calmly.
“Don’t do that,” she replied. “Don’t try and do the soft voice of reason thing in your slightly tighter-than-it-should-be sweater. You, sir, need to buy clothes that fit.”
“There are more pressing matters,” Somerset said as Arizona blushed.
“Than a demon worshipping cult who almost managed to summon their demon lord into our realm?”
“Not at all,” Somerset replied firmly. The Ordeal had frightened him, she realized. More than she had thought originally. What had the Clan leaders made of the situation, she wondered. Not that she was on their mailing list but she hadn’t heard of any grand meeting or furious back-peddling. Well, not until now.
“Then perhaps now would be a great time to get out from behind your antique desk, leave your well-appointed residence, and talk to McLachlan. Whether you like it or not you’re gonna have to reengage with actual supernaturals at some point.”
Somerset fumed. She was on a roll. So far she’d made Arizona blush and Somerset fume. Who was next? Mills looked like too easy a target.
“How secure are the Accords?” Arizona asked, rescuing Somerset from another tirade.
“Secure.”
“But how secure?”
“Not something exactly quantifiable,” she replied, a chill in her stomach.
“Which in itself is worrying,” Somerset admitted.
“Again possibly another reason to speak to McLachlan.” She sat forward and reached for his desk phone. “Here. I’ll even dial.”
“So far two bodies have turned up. Drained of blood. Left in pretty grisly situations. We were led to believe the vampires were on a diet.”
“It’s not a diet.”
“Oh really?” Chase asked. “Do they know that?”
“Yes,” she replied but a rise in her intonation made it more of a question.
“Exactly,” he said more confidently. “Two vampire kills in Manhattan alone. A few more over by Notre Dame. The younger vampires are struggling with Gracchus’ imposition–”
“He’s their regent.”
“He’s out of touch,” Chase said. “We’re surprised some sort of vampire rebellion hasn’t happened sooner.”
“Two bodies,” she said emphatically. “That’s hardly an uprising.”
“Gotta start somewhere.”
“I think what Chase is saying is this may just be the beginning. And like everything we could be staring down a disparate collection of factors that may culminate in a perfect storm of chaos and death.”
“Wanna grim that up a little more,” she challenged, getting angry again.
“Sure,” Chase replied. “An out of touch vampire regent, an unsettled underclass of vampires, a demon cult making a big move, a distracted demon vessel, and a betrayed weak werewolf Pack Lord.”
“How dare you?!”
“Am I wrong?”
“He’s not weak.”
“He’s incredibly weak,” Somerset rebuked. “Vulnerable even and acting out in the worst way possible.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s renewed a liaison with Illyana. And when she’s not on hand, he finds others to warm his bed. One of which was the woman killed at his office.”
“Coincidence.” Her face was burning. Had they intended to ambush her all along, she wondered. What if she hadn’t come? Would
Chase just randomly show up in Manhattan to pull all of the skeletons out of the closet or would he be less confrontational about it.
“Really?” Chase asked, hearing something in her voice. “Even you’re not so sure.”
“This is bullshit,” she swore. “You sit up here, fully removed from the city and the supernatural communities only to pass judgment on those you supposedly protect. Your word if I heard correctly.”
“Rowan, we’re not passing judgment,” Somerset said calmly.
“Okay, see before, I was playing nice. Now I call bullshit.” She was on her feet and looking from one man to other. Seeing Somerset’s hands on the desk she went for the jugular. “Matteo’s your pack lord.”
“I don’t have a pack lord,” Somerset growled.
“True, you’ve spent so many decades denying what you are that you’ve completely forgotten ever being a werewolf.”
Now Somerset was on his feet, angrily pointing at her. “You have no right to come in here and–”
“I have every right!” she shouted. “You ambush me with this perfect storm crap feigning concern when the reality is you and your precious clan were caught napping when the Cult made a big move. Sorry not caught napping, you pretty much slept through any and all of McLachlan’s entreaties for help or guidance. And now you’re all scared. Scared you’ll be caught out again that you’re looking for monsters where there aren’t any.”
“Oh there are monsters,” Somerset roared.
“Yeah, one in denial. Too busy playing the gentleman.”
“Get out!”
“Hey, whoa, neutral corners,” Rebecca said, coming into the room. Mills shut the door behind them. “You got a little audience out there.” She looked around the room. “We all good?”
“Hardly,” Chase muttered.
“Maybe don’t try to help,” Rebecca said, putting a hand on his arm. He seemed just as shaken as the others.
“This is why Yael is the coven matriarch,” Somerset spat.
“Go to hell!” Rowan yelled. More insults flew until Rebecca stood between them, her face a picture of worry as she yelled for them to stop.