by Nancy Holder
A few minutes later they found a small clearing, and there, stretching toward the warmth of the sun, a trio—a trinity—of rosebushes glittered in the sun. Deep, blood red, with petals shaped like tears. The Tears of Christ. Tears stinging his eyes, he choked back a sob. He had prayed they would be able to find enough flowers so that he could make the elixir to give his team the extra strength and speed they needed.
And God had answered.
Esther clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him as if reading his mind. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways,” she said.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Maybe you’re one step closer to that rest you’re looking forward to.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” he whispered.
PROJECT CRUSADE HEADQUARTERS, BUDAPEST
NOAH
Noah couldn’t help but wonder how the rest of the team was faring as he made his way deeper underground through the network of buildings that housed the laboratories and war rooms for the shadow organization that wore the black Jerusalem crosses.
Mostly he was worrying about Jenn. She was so sweet, so vulnerable, and yet she had depths of strength that were astonishing. In so many ways she reminded him of his beloved Chayna.
It was best to put thoughts of both of them from his mind, though, as he strode along the corridors. He was dressed as many others: white shirt, black suit, and black Jerusalem-cross lapel pin. He had learned long before that when infiltrating enemy territory the best way to do it was to walk openly, wearing their uniform, and assume an air of authority and purposefulness. People rarely questioned those who seemed to belong.
Of course, the black-cross guys weren’t exactly enemies. They were supposed to all be fighting on the same team. Noah still wished that they hadn’t interfered when Jenn and her team had had a chance to kill Solomon. If they wanted to lead the way in the battle to take back the world from the Cursed Ones, that was fine.
But they should actually lead.
The time for skulking in shadows was over. The Cursed Ones had come out into the light of day and taken over the planet.
The resistance—in all its forms—needed to learn from that example. Hiding in groups of three and four, clustered together in tiny rooms whispering in the dark, wasn’t going to liberate the planet, wasn’t going to drive the Cursed Ones back into the shadows.
We are the ones who need to be the light.
He came to a steel door, glanced at it, and then turned down a different corridor. He needed to get behind the door, but biometric scanners guarded it. It was the only place in the entire complex that had scanners, which meant it was the one place he needed most to go.
What are they planning? What are they hiding even from each other?
He kept walking, turning down a few more corridors, making a mental map of the place in his mind so that he could get out later even if he was being chased.
He thought of everything Jenn and Father Juan had told him about the black crosses—like Dr. Michael Sherman, the scientist who had been developing a weapon to use against the vampires. The one who had been helping the team while Jenn was in Berkeley with her family. Sherman had been converted by a vampire during the battle and then kidnapped by the black-cross commandos who had shown up at the laboratory too.
If they had kept Sherman alive—Noah supposed that was the right word—they’d have to have him locked down someplace. Someplace he couldn’t escape.
It took several more hours, but Noah eventually spotted a dark-skinned man leaving the scanner room. Remaining calm and casual, Noah shadowed him to what ended up being a men’s room.
As the man stretched his hands beneath the flow of water, Noah knocked him out. Fortunately, the bathroom wasn’t far from the locked room, and Noah was able to sling the man’s arm over his shoulders and walk the unconscious body down the hall. He didn’t see cameras, but he knew better than to assume that meant they weren’t there. He’d have minutes if he was lucky, seconds if he wasn’t, before his presence was discovered.
He pressed the man’s fingertips against the pad next to the door, and it slid open. Once inside, he deposited the man on the floor and stared at a second door. This one had a key-card scanner. He unclipped the badge from the man’s pocket and slid it through.
The light turned green, and the door opened soundlessly. Noah stepped inside, trying not to panic when the door closed swiftly behind him.
He was in a laboratory, larger than he would have expected, but still small enough to make him claustrophobic. Everything was gray. No posters on the walls, not even a clock. A small, lone man with pale brown hair, wearing a lab coat, worked at a military-issue metal desk, head bent over a microscope.
The scientist’s head shot up, and Noah knew he had heard him. He swiveled slowly and fixed red eyes on Noah.
“You are not one of my handlers,” he said.
“No,” Noah said cautiously.
The man’s hand hovered over a small red button on his desk. “Then you are . . . ?”
Noah decided to go for it. “I’m fighting with Team Salamanca.”
The scientist cocked his head. “I met them once. Nice kids.” He smiled bitterly. “They couldn’t save me from the vampires.”
Noah didn’t say anything.
The scientist crossed his arms. “So, why are you here?” he challenged.
“The ‘kids’ need to know what Project Crusade is planning. For tactical reasons.”
The vampire raised his brows. “Tactical.”
“Yes,” Noah said. Then he added, “I’m Mossad. Israeli special forces. I can make you tell me. Even though you’re a vampire.”
Sherman chuckled. “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“Or in your case, blood.”
Sherman made a face. Then he shrugged. “I liked those kids. Except the Irishman. I have no idea why they put up with him. So. We’re continuing my work. That’s what all this is for.” He waved an arm.
“A weapon to kill vampires.”
The scientist nodded.
“And you’re willingly helping them?” Noah asked, trying to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
“Don’t worry. You’re not the first to be surprised,” Sherman said. “I was a little surprised myself.” He smiled as if at some distant memory. “But it really was the only thing to do.”
“Why?”
Sherman fixed his glowing red eyes on Noah. Weirdly, although the vampire was small and slight and looked to have been about forty when he was transformed, he reminded Noah of Antonio de la Cruz—who was none of those things.
“Why?” Sherman repeated. He shrugged. “Because all Cursed Ones are evil. We all deserve to die. We’re parasites on humanity.”
Noah was bemused. “But if you believe that, then—”
“Please.” Sherman held up his hand to silence Noah. “I’ve been through this with my handlers. I’m not good. I’m just logical.”
Noah nodded respectfully.
“I only hope that when we’re gone, humanity can recover. But the vampires have so many in thrall. Under their control, I mean. They’ve identified so closely with their masters that they’ve lost themselves. They may fight to save the Cursed Ones.” The vampire looked closely at him. “You’re a soldier. I think you understand, yes?”
“More than you know,” Noah whispered.
ISRAEL, TWO YEARS EARLIER
NOAH
Noah was fearful and excited all at the same time. It was a momentous day. He and Chayna were finally getting married. He was twenty-two, and she was just eighteen, and her parents had finally agreed to the wedding. The vampires were overrunning humanity; best to spend all the time they had together—except that as an Israeli agent committed to supersecret, violent missions against the vampires and their allies, Noah might not have as much time as other people. Chayna had told him over and over that she was prepared for that. Better one day married to him than a lifetime without
him.
As he studied his reflection in the mirror, holding a kittel—his ceremonial white robe—in his hands, he remembered tormenting her mercilessly when they were kids. They were four years apart, and in the land of children, four years was a lifetime. They were friends, then best friends. He remembered telling her his dreams of becoming a writer. They’d celebrated when he had won an essay contest at the age of sixteen—with a shy, quick hug. After all, she’d only been twelve.
Filled with love, he wrote about her, about how it seemed that they were destined soul mates, and his first book was published when he was just eighteen. Overnight he became a literary phenomenon—“Israel’s warrior heartbreaker” beginning his compulsory military service.
And then he remembered sitting on the couch with her six months later, when the Cursed Ones revealed themselves to the world. Chayna’s hand had wrapped around his, squeezing it tight, and she was pale with fear.
He had told her that she was wrong to be afraid. Really, all he had wanted to do was make that look pass from her face. So he wrote—to her, to his country, to his people. His second novel was published after war had been declared, and he stayed in the service. It was not the time to lay down arms. He saw that clearly.
He told her he wanted to join the Mossad. Secret intelligence, assassinations. She cried for days, and her father told her to break it off with him.
“He’ll be dead within a year. Six months,” her father had said.
But he’d survived. And now they would be married.
“I wish you joy,” Yosef said, coming into the room, a huge grin on his face.
“Thank you for being here,” Noah replied. “I know you’re training.”
Yosef shrugged. “I told my master that I had a year to learn how to fight Cursed Ones, but I had only one day to see my best friend married.”
“I’m surprised they let you come,” Noah said, having heard about the rigor and isolation of the Israeli counter-vampire training facility.
Yosef grinned. “They didn’t so much ‘let’ me. What is it your father always says?”
“Better to ask forgiveness than beg permission,” Noah said with a grin.
“So here we are.”
Noah nodded. Here they were, and he couldn’t be happier.
And then it was time.
During the ceremony, under the chuppah, he knew he was holding his breath until he slipped the plain gold ring on Chayna’s finger. For the rest of the day and late into the evening, all Noah could do was grin. I’m married. We’re married.
Everything else was a blur.
In the hotel room she lit candles and told him to turn his back while she undressed. He flushed and he heard her laugh, a short, nervous giggle, and he knew that she was as excited, and as nervous, as he was. And then, finally, they fell into each other’s arms. And all the waiting in the world had been worth it to make love to his wife.
* * *
But something was wrong.
Something was terribly wrong with his wife.
They had been married a week, a week of bliss and parties and prayers for simcha—happiness—that Noah would treasure for all of his life. But then on the eighth evening, after all the parties were over, Chayna went to visit her great-aunt, who had taken ill. He wanted to go with her, but he was also feeling unwell, and he was due to go on a mission in two days. She told him to stay home, insisting she would be very careful on the streets of Tel Aviv, where they lived. The vampires had imposed a curfew, but it was hours away. He sat down to write, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
She didn’t answer her cell, and he was just about to go looking for her when she drifted over the threshold of their flat, moody and fixated elsewhere. When he tried to kiss her, she wandered past him.
She’s upset about her aunt, he reasoned, trailing after her. But when he called her name, she didn’t even answer, as if she didn’t hear him.
She was standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at the moon. He walked up behind her and kissed her shoulder.
She hissed at him. Startled, he took a step backward. “Chayna?”
“He’s calling to me. He wants me to come back to him,” she said in a strange, singsong voice. “He’s not done.”
She turned to gaze at him. The pupils in her normally brilliant green eyes were dilated so much that he couldn’t see the green, and her face was slack.
“Chayna? Are you all right?”
“I have to go to him now.”
“Who?” he asked. She was acting so strangely.
“We were wrong,” she mumbled. “It’s so very hard to be one of them. It’s the least I can do.”
“What?”
She seemed to wake up. Her dilated eyes locked onto him. “I’m a donor,” she declared.
“A donor.” Chills ran down his spine. He thought his knees might give way.
“Blood donor,” she said, voice laced with contempt, as though she thought he was an idiot for asking. “I’ve been chosen.”
No. No, no, no.
“Chayna, while you were out, gone from me, did you meet a Cursed One? Did something happen?”
“Yes.” She said it as simply as if he had asked her if the stars were shining.
He had heard whispers about people being mesmerized, changing behavior, turning on friends and family who stood in their way. It couldn’t be true, could it? But there was his Chayna, standing there, talking about being a blood donor?
He cupped her shoulders and bent his knees so he could peer into her eyes. They were so vacant. “You’ve been hypnotized. I’ll call Yosef. He’ll know—”
And with a scream she threw him off and reached behind herself on the counter. She snatched a knife, lunged at him.
“Get away from me!” she shouted.
He jumped back as the knife sliced across his abdomen. He tried to grab her hand, but she moved like a serpent, twisting and writhing.
“Chayna, please!” he begged, as she stabbed him in the thigh.
She yanked the blade free, and he could feel himself weakening as blood flowed down his leg. He grabbed her hand, twisting, trying to make her let go of the knife.
She kicked and bit at him. He stepped forward, and his foot slipped in a puddle of his own blood. They hit the ground together, her on top, the knife trapped between them. He heard a sudden guttural noise and felt hot blood rushing over his hand.
“Chayna!”
She looked down at him, and blood began to run out of the corner of her mouth and drip onto his cheeks. Her eyes changed slowly, and then she blinked and looked down at him. Love and pain mingled on her face.
“Noah,” she breathed. “Noah.”
“Chayna!” he shouted.
She whispered something so softly that he couldn’t quite make it out.
“What? What?” he asked urgently. “Chayna, what?”
As she went limp, he saw where the blade had buried itself in her chest. Blood was pouring out of her chest, so much. Her eyes went glassy.
She was gone.
He screamed as he gathered her body up in his arms and held her, even as his own blood gushed from his body.
We’ll die together. We’ll be together.
Something cold touched his arm. He jerked; it was the edge of her Star of David pendant poking out of the pocket of her jeans. The vampire who had mesmerized her must have convinced her to take it off. The Cursed One. The demon had to be made to pay.
Noah staggered to his feet and made it to the sink. He grabbed a towel to staunch the bleeding. His free hand shook as he reached for his phone. He would still call Yosef—to get him into the counter-vampire training facility. And he would destroy the bastard who had done this.
Then he would die, and he and Chayna would be at peace.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Salamanca Hunter’s Manual: Your Role as Hunter
Remember this: You are a destroyer. You are like unto the Archangel Michael, who confronted Satan.
You have sworn a solemn vow to kill vampires. Death is what you bring. You are not on this earth to comfort, or heal, or pacify. You are a warrior. Your hand must be steady, and your heart must be stone.
(translated from the Spanish)
STONEHENGE, ENGLAND
JAMIE
“Feckin’ hell,” Jamie said, as beneath the gray sky and lightning bolts four motorcycle riders zoomed in a row along the near-deserted roadway. The clouds gathered around them like enormous cloaks. Lightning danced and shattered above their helmets.
Jamie was never one to stand down from a fight, but it was four against one, and as they rode closer, a shiver ran down his back. Something was very off about them. Every ounce of self-preservation screamed at him to get the hell out of there. He had the Uzi around his neck, but as sure as they were coming, he sensed the Uzi would be less useful than a rosary. Several of which lay inside the saddlebag.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Jamie swore.
He raced for his bike, hopped on, started it up. He was used to unfair fights but opposed to suicide missions, so he made a half circle as fast as he could and headed around the chain-link fence enclosing the henge.
Motorcycle engines blared as if in response. He glanced in the mirror.
Seconds ago they’d been hundreds of feet behind him; now they were practically breathing down his neck. Witchcraft. Had to be. Maybe they just wanted to ask him for directions.
The bad jokes were Holgar’s department.
And curse it all, he actually wished wolfie were there with him.
He hit the open road. Visibility cut to practically nil, he tamped down his fight-or-flight and tried to find the headspace to strategize. The Uzi was getting in the way of his driving. Maybe in the movies the hero could grab up his submachine gun and mow down the enemy without a spill, but this was real life. Being a down-and-dirty street fighter didn’t mean you threw all caution over a cliff and dazzled your enemies with super stunts. It meant you did whatever you needed to survive.
The four riders kept solidly behind him. He smelled the fumes of petrol mingling with the ozone of the thunderclouds, which broke open in that moment and poured buckets of rain on him. A bolt of lightning stabbed the earth inches in front of the bike, and he would have thrown himself off if he’d been able to pry his hands from around the handlebars. But he was frozen to the bike, by necessity and fear. They were behind him, too close, and he put the pedal to the metal best he could, narrowly avoiding a lightning bolt on his left.