Matthew nodded. “It’s not a cure. The medicine simply delays the inevitable. If I go more than a couple days without taking it, the transformation begins. Severe physical injury or trauma has the same effect.”
“I’ve searched unsuccessfully for a cure for forty years,” he said. “I cannot go to my superiors in either the Church or the Watchers. It would be a death sentence. They’d have me killed rather than risk further contamination.”
It was difficult to remain fervent in the face of his stoic acceptance, but she didn’t understand. How could he be so resigned? Maybe she could have accepted a Zen-like approach to his own death, but this apathy didn’t sit well with her at all. What would happen when he finally did die?
“Magnus and I have an understanding,” Matthew said, answering her unvoiced question.
Aiden jumped, staring at the priest with unease. Was she so easy to read? “An understanding?” she repeated. “Does that mean…”
Father Matthew nodded again.
“Oh.” She stared down and absently rubbed her fingertips over the rug, using the contrast between smooth and coarse as a distraction. The circumstance might explain at least some of her dreams. But what kind of a man could kill his friend of more than forty years? His best friend?
They sat in silence for a while, isolated in their internal world of discord and discontent. A cleared throat created a harsh disruption, and both of their heads jerked up to stare at the person framed in the doorway. A chill hit Aiden, and she had to bite back her dislike of the woman. How long had Desdemona been standing there? What had she heard?
“Excuse me, Father Bunson,” Desdemona Leromenos said, gazing at priest and student with a disapproving gaze. She wore a severe black dress with long-sleeves that ended just above her wrists, and she had pale, frail-looking hands. Her hair, pulled tight atop her head, matched the straight line of her lips.
“Not at all, Madame Leromenos. How can I help you?” Matthew asked, standing to show courtesy. The priest remained, as always, unfailingly polite when dealing with the stunningly unpleasant woman.
“Yes, Father. I require your expert opinion on a matter.” Desdemona indicated the carry case she clutched in her bony fingers. “It’s a sword. A very ancient and powerful one.”
Matthew’s brow rose inquisitively. “Of course, bring it here, and I’ll have a look,” he said, gesturing with one hand. The priest removed his spectacles from his pocket and put them on. He turned up the lighting and moved to a suitable workspace, an oak table in the center of the room.
Curious, Aiden rose and followed.
“It’s a sensitive matter,” Desdemona said, casting a pinched, significant glance toward Aiden. Feet together, she stood rooted in place, clutching at the case as if someone might try to take it from her.
Matthew’s eyebrows rose, and he looked Desdemona directly in the eye, his stare unwavering. “Aiden is my apprentice. Anything I have to say is important to her education. She’s welcome to stay.”
Desdemona glared, and her lips pursed. The Watchers remained locked in a silent contest of wills and minutes ticked by like centuries. Finally, Desdemona looked away.
“Very well,” she agreed huffily, shooting a narrowed eyed look toward Aiden. Reluctantly, Desdemona surrendered the case to Father Matthew.
“Alastors Troy and Katsue came across this during their search for Thor Aston. They found it immediately following your hospitalization so I have been waiting for an appropriate time to show it this morning,” Desdemona explained.
“Has there been any further word on Thrash?” Aiden asked.
“No, nothing yet,” Watcher Leromenos said. “Alastor Aston left the weapon in the possession of a friend,” Desdemona said. “This friend knew to call Troy once he realized that something was amiss.”
“There’s a civilian involved?” Matthew asked sharply.
“Two, and only briefly,” Desdemona replied. “I’m satisfied that they didn’t see or understand enough to become a nuisance.”
“What about their safety?” The priest scowled, disapproving of his colleague’s lack of concern.
“If they’re smart and mind their own business, then they’re in no danger,” Desdemona said. Her lips pursed, and her eyes hooded. “If not .... They’ll be dealt with.”
The threat lingered.
“Did they know anything else, Madame. Leromenos?” Matthew asked, struggling to keep his temper with the surly woman.
Aiden met his gaze and offered her silent support. Desdemona Leromenos was simply unbearable, and no one liked her.
The old Greek woman gave a single sharp shake of her head. “Take care not to touch the weapon with your bare hands,” Desdemona instructed. “You’ll understand why once it’s unwrapped.”
“Let’s see what we have here, shall we?” Matthew suggested. He set the carrying case down on top of the table, worked the zipper, and exposed a swath of black velvet cloth.
“Alastor Katsue had her hand bandaged this morning,” Desdemona continued. “I’m positive she’s held the blade and been injured.”
“Eh?” Matthew looked up, squinting at the other Watcher. “What did she have to say?”
“She denied it, of course,” Desdemona said, and she clearly expected no better from Katsue.
Aiden bristled, torn between vehement dislike of the old woman and sympathy for her friend. If Katsue had lied to this witch, she didn’t blame her.
“Mmm,” Matthew acknowledged and returned his attention to the sword. “Very well. Let’s see what we have here then, shall we?” The priest laid the swathe of black cloth on the table, centering it with precision and care. Folding back one flap of material and then the other, he spread the material out to reveal a slender sword.
The sword was three-feet in length with a short cross guard and an ebony blade composed of a non-metallic material. The surface drank in the light, giving the impression of a rippling fluid, swirling in hypnotic patterns that emanated pure power. Highly ornate decorations included silver Celtic circles, etched on the blade, and a hilt in the shape of a dragon, its spread wings forming the stunted cross guard.
Aiden felt the sword’s power hit her as a blow, and she automatically stepped away. If she’d had a weapon, she’d have drawn it. Terrible longing filled her, raw, griping, and lustful. She wanted the sword, craved it, even as she rejected it as obscene and evil.
A soft gasp was the priest’s only distinguishable reaction to the power of the blade. Aiden watched awed as he conquered and controlled, rejecting the sword’s power. He was in much closer proximity to it than Aiden, and she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to resist its influence. Even at a distance, she clenched her fists to prevent herself from reaching for it.
“It’s immensely old and extremely powerful,” Father Matthew finally said.
“Yes, I know,” Desdemona responded in a Tell me something I don’t know tone.
Peering over the top of his spectacles, Matthew looked up with askance. Then he sighed. “Very well. This sword is very similar in design to a Roman spatha. The quick, short blade is designed for the sort of close-quarter hand-to-hand combat favored by the Celts. The dragon is Celtic, as are the Circles. The craftsmanship of the hilt is intricate and detailed, obviously the work of a highly skilled artisan.”
Father Matthew used the cloth to turn the hilt toward him, blade facing away. He bent forward to inspect the winged serpent motif more closely and then carefully turned the blade over, once again using the wrapping to avoid touching the sword. The hilt bore two dragons, one on each side.
“What is it made of?” Aiden ventured, her gaze drawn to the hypnotic swirling blade against her will.
“I’m not sure,” Matthew said, removing a round magnifying glass with a folding handle from his breast pocket. He opened it and held it over the blade, scanning the length until he reached the hilt. “Hmmm.”
He strode to one of the bookshelves, leaving Aiden in an uncomfortable face off with Desdemona a
cross the table. Aiden frowned, and the older woman scowled back at her which led to a staring contest. Breaking eye contact would have been a sign of weakness, and Aiden refused to back down after the way Desdemona had treated her.
After an eon, Matthew returned to the table with a large tomb bound in dark red leather. His finger marked a page, and when he laid the book on the tabletop alongside the sword, he opened it to a two-page illustration of a dragon that closely resembled the one depicted on the hilt.
“It appears to be a drake with six appendages. Two hind limbs, two forelimbs, and two wings. The eyes are forward, set with a vertical-slit pupil, indicating stereoscopic vision, and there are four fingers on each hand. Traditionally, drakes breathe fire. However, ice and acid are not unheard of.”
“You can tell all of that?” Aiden asked, surprised at the amount of detail he disclosed. Her entire body tingled with excitement and intense curiosity.
“Yes, see for yourself,” Matthew offered her the magnifying glass which she accepted.
Aiden positioned the lens above the hilt and then moved it closer to bring the dragon into focus. A soft gasp escaped her lips. The detail work was exquisite! She could make out individual scales on the serpent’s hide and each individual talon on the four-fingered claws.
“Can you extrapolate anything specific about the serpent?” Desdemona asked. “Is it a depiction of a specific dragon, or is it a generic representation?”
Father Matthew shook his head. “There’s no way to be sure. If I had a name, something more to work with... No, I’ll have to do more research. Perhaps if I can find out more about the sword itself, then I can make such a determination.”
Pursing his lips, Matthew looked up and removed a pen from his pocket which he moved back and forth along the length of the blade without touching it. “This, the blade isn’t forged from steel. It’s been carved out of bone, or possibly a claw.”
“Dragon bone?” Aiden said in awe.
“You were correct not to touch it, Mrs. Leromenos,” Matthew said, nodding.
“It’ll require study before I know anything more. I’ll need to consult Ondik’s Mystic Weapons of Antiquity and Modesto Marevka’s Western Dragon Anatomy,” the priest continued, verbalizing his thoughts. “If I can determine what body part the blade is composed of, it might provide insight into…” Turning and hobbling over to a bookcase, he trailed off with a thoughtful mumble.
Impatient, Desdemona gave a sharp nod. “Very good. Keep me informed.” She left without waiting for Father Matthew to provide acknowledgment.
Familiar with her mentor’s eccentric methods, Aiden knew better than to disturb him while he was thinking. She settled for edging closer to the table in order to get another look at the sword.
It wasn’t her intention to get dangerously close, but abruptly Aiden became caught up in its spell. The patterns dancing across the surface of the ebony blade swirled faster, and it took on a sensuous luster. Black and silver glowed in startling contrast, the serpentine handle writhing with sinuous grace. The dragon came to life.
Hold me. Touch me. I am yours…
The command filled her mind, a husky and beckoning voice whispering to her of its desire to be held, caressed, and possessed…
Aiden extended her hand and reached for the weapon. Her mind was both blank and full, with no thought other than for the sword. Her fingers flexed as she hesitated over the hilt, a small part of her resisting the enchantment. She shouldn’t…
“Aiden, what are you doing?” Matthew’s demand, sharp and loud, broke the spell.
Aiden jumped away from the sword, jerking her hand back. Pure fear jolted her entire body, causing her to tremble.
“Nothing,” she replied automatically, meeting his eyes. But he’d seen, and he knew, and she hung her head in shame.
“Never mind,” Matthew said, adopting a kinder tone. “It could happen to anyone. I’ll have to be careful not to let anyone near it alone.” He moved to the table and quickly wrapped the blade in its cloth, obscuring it safely from view. Then he locked it in the safe.
Her hands shook, and her stomach twisted into a sick, tight knot. Panting, Aiden averted her gaze and took a moment to recover, trying to put her mind back in order.
When she finally looked up, she discovered that Matthew had put on his long overcoat. He wore the heavy jacket even in the summer. Cold aggravated his arthritis which caused him a great deal of pain.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Aiden demanded sharply, moving toward her mentor with the intention of stopping him. Doctor Henriques had made it perfectly clear that the priest needed to rest, or he’d risk a relapse.
“As I said, I’m going out to locate Magnus. He’s Celtic and the sword is Celtic. They’re both museum pieces. It stands to reason that he might know something about it,” Matthew explained, pretending not to notice Aiden’s attempt to block him. He tried to evade, but she was both quicker and nimbler.
“Oh no you’re not,” she forbid, giving him a hard, stern look through narrowed eyes. She put her hands on her hips. “You sit. I’ll go.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Aiden said. “Remember what the doctor said?” They traded stares, both frowning furiously, and then, to Aiden’s astonishment, Matthew gave in and sat down.
“Oh, very well,” he complained. “But I wasn’t going very far. I sent Magnus home to rest, but I know he didn’t leave. He’s been stuck to me like glue for the last few weeks.”
“You mean he’s here?” Aiden remembered Magnus’ disappearing act at the hospital, and hairs rose all over her body. She stared suspiciously at the shadowy corner near the bookcases.
“Not here in this room,” Matthew corrected, dispelling some of her unease. “He wouldn’t eavesdrop on me like that. But yes, he’s close. I’d bet my last dollar.”
“Here, you’ll need this.” He reached into his pocket and removed a small silver dog whistle.
Aiden accepted it with a reluctant sigh. “Isn’t there some other way? I could call his name,” she said dubiously.
“He might not hear you,” Matthew explained. “The whistle has a much better range. Just go on up to the roof and give three short, hard blows.”
“And he’ll come?”
“He’ll come,” Matthew said, suddenly smug and smirking. “I have him trained. Now shoo.”
Chapter Eleven
Troy stepped into the crowded coffee shop and scanned the caffeinated throng: the noisy groups of friends, the intent intellectuals caught up in intense debates, the desperate students bent over books, the transient Goths, the Internet junkies tethered to their laptops, and even the occasional couple.
The Alastor was somber and determined, dedicated to his purpose: the hunt. In centuries past, he might have been entering a bar or a brothel, a club or a cemetery. However, times had changed, and 21st Century vampires had adapted, leaving the savvy modern hunter no choice but to do the same.
Welcome to Starbucks.
Troy moved with grace and deliberation, a wolf in a roomful of sheep. He exuded an aura of danger and excitement that had nothing to do with the veritable arsenal concealed beneath his brown leather jacket. He carried knives, guns, stakes, and a 14” short sword worn in a single strap, baldric and sheath across his back.
The big blonde, blue-eyed Troy boasted the ideal physique of an athlete, tall, lean, and muscular. Cool but classy, he dressed in Abercrombie & Finch coordinates: khaki cargo pants and a baby blue V-neck sweater. He regularly received job offers from the fashionable, exclusive retailer which irritated his Japanese American partner to no end.
Katsue had once waspishly commented that she could work for them too… if she were willing to clean windows and stay in the back room out of sight. In reply, Troy smirked and suggested that she submit an application. “I know the manager. I’m sure he can get you in.”
Cutting sarcasm and fierce rivalry were their mode of communication. The first year they’d been assigned to wor
k as a team, Katsue had bought Troy a gay-pride tee shirt from San Francisco during a visit home to see her family. He supposed she’d intended it as a gag-gift, but he’d instantly recognized the underlying challenge. Katsue was the sort of woman who’d take a mile if given an inch.
A week later he’d given her a pretty pink gift bag tied with matching ribbons. The white tee shirt inside read, “Two Wongs Can Make It White.”
“I’m Japanese, you asshole!” Katsue had snapped, dark eyes flashing dangerously. She’d flung the offensive shirt, which depicted a Chinese man, down like a gauntlet.
“And I’m not out of the closet, bitch,” he’d returned snidely. “My sex life is no one’s business but my own. Remember that, and we’ll get along great.”
That single exchange had set the tone of their partnership, cementing it with rivalry and intense one-upmanship. Differences aside, both were determined professionals, and they developed an innate understanding of one another until they moved with practiced synchronization, communicated volumes with a look or hand signal, and knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses inside and out.
Liking wasn’t part of their relationship, but it didn’t stand in the way of them doing their jobs. After six years as partners, they were one of the most accomplished and deadly Alastor teams on the East coast.
Tonight, they were hunting vampires, one in particular that they’d been tracking for the last week. It had been three weeks since Thrash had disappeared, and one since Desdemona Leromenos had called off the search for the missing albino. Troy was furious. Thrash was one of their own and a buddy, and in Troy’s book that warranted more than just two people looking for a couple weeks. Two long weeks.
He’d protested of course, but Desdemona had overruled him, calling any further investment of time and energy “a waste.” Instead, she sent them vamp hunting. So while Katsue waited outside, Troy entered the Starbucks alone, because he’d been elected to the reluctant role of ‘bait.’ Their objective was to lure a pretty young female vampire away from the crowd so they could isolate and kill her.
Phoenix Contract: Part Three (Fallen Angel Watchers) Page 2