Angel Souls and Devil Hearts

by Christopher Golden

  Hannibal heard a file drawer sliding shut in the other room, and then the approach of his deputy chief, Rolf Sechs. The shadow was large, as burly as the man Hannibal had knocked down, and yet almost gentle, if such could be believed of any vampire. And silent. He had light brown hair and crystal blue eyes, and his kindly features belied his size and strength.

  Mute, Rolf communicated with his face and hands, and when necessary with a voice-pad which vocalized his writing. Intelligent, loyal and a fierce warrior, he would have been the logical choice for deputy chief if he had wanted the job. Hannibal knew better. Rolf had no interest in the SJS. He had been asked to take his present position by Meaghan Gallagher, the de facto leader of the world’s shadows. Rolf was also a blood-son of Karl Von Reinman, and Gallagher had given him the job to keep an eye on Hannibal.

  “You have taken the appropriate measures, I presume,” Hannibal said, but did not wait for a reply. “We leave for Salzburg in one hour. Be certain the entire unit is prepared.”

  Rolf simply nodded. Hannibal was comfortable with the knowledge that whatever happened, when he finally made his move, Rolf would have to be destroyed.

  The mute German watched as Hannibal carried a cup of tea into his office and shut the door. When he was gone, Rolf flirted silently with Marie. Though he felt no special attachment to her, they had been lovers for more than a year, and she often told him about things she shouldn’t have, things she’d heard Hannibal saying in the office. Rolf knew far more than Hannibal imagined, and was preparing for their eventual confrontation. Hannibal would have killed Marie if he’d known.

  Rolf knew that thought thrilled her.

  Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.

  Tuesday, June 6, 2000, 11:39 A.M.:

  As far as Meaghan Gallagher was concerned, it was a stroke of luck that George Marcopoulos was still in Boston. He and his wife Valerie, who had been ill, did still live in town, but George spent so much of his time running back and forth to New York and Washington that it was unusual to find him at home. If Valerie’s recovery were less than complete, George would most likely have to retire as shadow ambassador. The thought disturbed Meaghan, for she could think of no other acceptable human candidates.

  Bitch, she thought to herself. How can you be so selfish and cold?

  She ought to be thinking about Valerie, she knew, and about George’s feelings. Though she was loathe to admit it, since her death Meaghan had become increasingly insensitive to the frailty of humankind. She imagined it was a trait of all shadows, and perhaps a natural one. As she became less and less human, her new chemistry distanced her more and more from her origins, so that she could hunt without feeling for her prey.

  She would not allow it. Peter Octavian had overcome that same encroaching numbness, and he was her blood-father after all.

  Now, as Alexandra made preparations for their departure and eventual rendezvous with Hannibal at the Austrian border, Meaghan stepped out of the “T” station at Government Center and began to walk toward Fanueil Hall. Though she could have flown and simply landed in the middle of Quincy Market, it had become etiquette for her kind not to do so. Such a display instilled fear and awe, and attracted a lot of unwanted attention. Though melodramatic by nature, she had determined that her people must refrain from such showboating, even if to do so made life more difficult.

  The city block between Government Center and Boston Harbor was called Quincy Market, a group of buildings filled with shopping and food and, outdoors, merchants’ carts filled with everything from Harvard University T-shirts to fresh-squeezed lemonade. Visitors and locals alike tended to refer to the marketplace as Fanueil Hall, the name of a colonial era meeting house at the front of Quincy Market. George Marcopoulos had never confused the two. Though they were going to have lunch inside Quincy Market, he met Meaghan where he always did, outside Faneuil Hall.

  Meaghan loved George Marcopoulos like a father—her own had died when she was quite young—and he returned the affection.

  “Hello, darling,” he said, and bent slightly to kiss her cheek as she hugged him. George was an old man, or so he constantly told himself, and he knew that people began to shrink with age. But Meaghan had once been significantly shorter than him. He had not shrunk that much, he knew. She had grown. It was just one more in an endless series of fascinating discoveries he and the world were making about the shadows.

  But as usual, he kept it to himself. Let the rest of them find out on their own, and not badger his loved ones.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Meaghan answered, with a smile that reached her eyes. “How are you today?”

  “Worried,” he answered, his own smile disappearing. “But let’s discuss it over lunch.”

  George offered Meaghan his arm and she took it. They walked, linked in that manner, across the cobblestones of Quincy Market, examining the wares of the merchant carts. The noonday sun beat down on them, though the ocean breeze made it bearable, and Meaghan squinted against the glare. They passed a vendor selling flowers, and their myriad scents joined into one, overpowering bouquet. Powerful smells also wafted out of other establishments, including the hypnotically sweet, commanding smell of chocolate chip cookies from the Boston Chipyard. Finally they reached Cityside, a café which boasted the “best burger in Boston.” Although red meat was definitely not in his diet, and Valerie would scream if she knew, George was dying for a cheeseburger . . . and damn the fat content!

  “How’s Alexandra?” he asked as they waited to be seated.

  “Like the rest of us, scared. But the funny thing is that she’s mainly scared for Will. It wasn’t so many years ago that she wanted Will Cody dead, but now she’s even more worried about him than I am. I never figured her for the mother hen type, but there it is.”

  “And how are things between you?” he asked, sincerely.

  “Wonderful,” Meaghan answered, and meant it. She was glad George was so comfortable when it came to her relationship with Alex. Most people his age wouldn’t have been.

  But then, the whole world had changed, and George had been through the changes firsthand. He had been forced to accept a lot of things in light of which her relationship with Alex appeared as normal as she and Alex knew it to be. Life went on, love went on, and George had a kind heart. They would miss him when he died. Meaghan, Alex and Cody had all offered him the gift of life, the Revenant Transformation, more than once, separately and together. He had always refused. They had offered to save Valerie’s life, and she had reacted with fear and disgust, being not as open-minded as her husband. She would rather take her chances with the doctors. And George would join her when his time came.

  But for now, he lived, and he was their greatest friend among humans.

  When they had finally been seated and their orders taken, Meaghan asked him what, other than the obvious, he was worried about.

  “We’re clueless here,” he began, quietly and calmly, so as not to draw the attention of the loud crowd seated around them. “We don’t know where Mulkerrin’s been or how he came back. We have no idea where his apparently new abilities come from, or what their limitations are. Peter’s status is unknown. We don’t know what’s gone on inside Salzburg in the hours since the earthquake, or what’s happened to Cody and Allison Vigeant.”

  “You can rest assured,” she interrupted, “that if anything had happened to Cody, Alexandra would know of it.”

  “Well, that’s something at least,” George said, and was thoughtful for a moment before continuing. “The UN is afraid of you, all of you, I mean. But strangely enough, mostly of you. Because of the power you hold over your people, and because of the book.”

  “I won’t . . . I can’t give up the book.”

  “I know that.” He looked at her sternly, a reminder of who he was. “I’m not suggesting that you do. The safest place for The Gospel of Shadows is with you and Alex, away from any government, especially America’s, away from the less, shall we say civilized, of your kind, like Hannibal.
In the wrong hands . . . Well, I don’t have to tell you this, but they’re also afraid because, while they know you’re not really vampires, at least not the mythical kind, they don’t have a clue as to what you really are.”

  “Neither do we!” She raised her voice, gaining her unwanted attention from the other diners, some of whom easily recognized her. She was a celebrity after all. “Neither do we,” she said again, quietly.

  “They didn’t believe you before,” George replied, “and now that they know we lied to them about the end of the Jihad, about Mulkerrin, they really don’t believe you. They want to do research, to study—”

  “Out of the question, unless they have shadow scientists,” she said, stopping him. “We’ve been over this. I don’t want them trying some synthetic replication of the process; you know where that could lead. I also don’t want them developing weapons against us.”

  Meaghan reached across and held George’s hand, tight. Their eyes met.

  “The only thing keeping the world at peace right now is their fear of the unknown, their fear of us. The more they know about us, the less frightened they become. This new order is a tenuous thing.”

  “And Mulkerrin may be enough to bring it down,” he said. “Listen, I’ll continue to stall, and I think the truth of your words will hold them off a while, but we’ve got to find out everything there is to know about your people . . .”

  His voice trailed off, but Meaghan heard the phrase he’d left unsaid. Before they do.

  “Peace is a dangerous place,” Meaghan said, her mind far away now.

  “A mine field,” George agreed.

  International Airspace.

  Tuesday, June 6, 2000, 12:15 P.M., EST:

  High above the Atlantic, a military transport jet carried Roberto Jimenez toward Germany. He’d been visiting relatives in New York City when the call came through. There wasn’t a person in the world he hated more than the UN secretary general, Rafael Nieto. His boss. He’d never met a more arrogant, aggravating man. And yet, Jimenez respected his boss. He knew the job, did it well, and earned the attention of the world.

  At forty-four, hair white at the temples and streaked through the otherwise dark, close-cut fur of his head and mustache, Jimenez was still young to have been made commander of the UN Security Forces. Still, they didn’t want him out there, fighting. But that was the condition upon which he’d taken the job. He’d trained with nearly every elite fighting force allied with his homeland, Spain. He was not going to give orders from safety. He couldn’t, no matter how badly they wanted to protect him; the thought sickened him.

  And they did want to protect him. The job had gotten that much more important in the three years since ’97, when NATO and the UN had finally merged. The two organizations had been stepping all over each other’s toes for years, but after the whole Bosnia debacle, there was no putting off the merger. NATO had begun to play diplomacy games, and the UN had moved more and more into the area of military intervention. Technology and time had made the Earth like a small town, and there wasn’t room in town for both of them. The new balance of power made Roberto Jimenez one of the two or three most powerful military men in the world. Maybe the most powerful.

  But he didn’t let it go to his head.

  Now the transport brought him at top speed toward a rendezvous in Munich with the UNSF troops gathering to take the hot spot. By dawn, they’d be invading Salzburg on his orders. For the moment, though, he was arguing with his boss on the phone. The duties of the UN secretary general had grown in the past five years, as more and more of the world’s protection was heaped on his shoulders. The man was not one to mince words.

  “I don’t give a goddamn whether you like it or not,” Nieto snapped, and the viewscreen was good enough that Jimenez could see a vein pulse on his superior’s forehead.

  “Listen, Rafe,” Jimenez reasoned, “you know and I know that Hannibal has his own agenda. I don’t know what the SJS is up to, or even if the whole group is under his control, but their presence will compromise this mission.”

  Nieto heaved a sigh, calming himself down.

  “Berto,” he said, “I know you don’t trust him. I don’t. Even the shadows don’t. But chances are, you’re going to need him. His people know a lot more about this shit than we do! He’s agreed to follow your orders. Besides, Gallagher and Nueva will be there to keep him in line.”

  Roberto Jimenez listened, but wasn’t buying any of it. He feared the shadows, and didn’t trust any of them, even the “good” ones.

  “Who’s going to keep them in line?” he asked, sarcastically.

  A cloud fell over UNSG Nieto’s face.

  “Just do your job.”

  The connection was broken, leaving Jimenez with the thrumming of the jet for company. He unzipped his jacket and reached inside to pull a sharp object from under his arm, where it had been hidden in a leather sheath. It was a crucifix, made of silver, whose base tapered down to a razor point. A dagger. A friend of his, a lieutenant in the Italian army, had found it in the ruins of Venice after the Jihad, and given it to Roberto as a gift.

  And for protection.

  Jimenez stroked the blade for a moment before replacing it inside his jacket, then zipping up. It made him feel a little better to have that weapon, and symbol, nestled against his body.

  It bothered him that Nieto referred to the shadows as people. They weren’t. They were exactly what they were called—shadows. Shadows of human beings.

  And shadows were fickle things.

  Roberto Jimenez didn’t trust any of them.

  4

  Salzburg, Austria, European Union.

  Tuesday, June 6, 2000, 3:14 P.M.:

  It was amazingly quiet.

  Everything human had fled this particular street except Allison Vigeant, and she stood between John Courage and Will Cody, Beretta in hand. They couldn’t even hear screaming in the distance. No sirens, no vehicles. For a moment, the only sound was the chilly summer wind whipping down Getreidergasse.

  In front of them, were humans whose souls had been torn out and replaced with the supernatural will of the ghosts of centuries-dead soldiers, their tourist clothing replaced by perfectly preserved, clanking armor, stolen from the museum at the Fortress Hohensalzburg. Behind them was a demon, eleven feet tall, with lobster-like pincers for hands and eyes all over its man-shaped body. Only the enormous, sharply glimmering horn on its forehead was without eyes. And certainly there were more demons where it had came from.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” John Courage said aloud, and the silence was broken.

  Noise came shrieking back into life: sirens started up in the distance, and the rumbling of trucks could be heard nearby. People were screaming as the demons emerged all over the city and the evacuation began in earnest. A large group of people ran screaming across the street several blocks behind them, and then something large and black charged after them.

  In front of them, armor began clanking anew, as the dead soldiers rushed forward.

  Behind them, a roar, as the demon lumbered ahead.

  “Unless you want to leave Allison here, just how do you propose doing that?” Cody answered, acid in his voice.

  “Only one way,” Allison said, answering both their questions as she squared her feet the way Cody had taught her, aimed the Beretta, and shot the nearest soldier in the eye.

  “Allison, they’re tourists,” Cody reminded her, right hand nervously tugging his beard.

  “Get with it, Will. We’ve got no clue what’s really happened to them. What Mulkerrin’s done. Besides, it’s them or us. That’s a no-brainer.”

  She squeezed off another round, then pawed Cody’s jacket for backup clips. There weren’t any. And there were a lot of soldiers, moving in slowly, but inexorable as the tide.

  “John,” Cody said. “Can you burn?”

  “Of course I can, but—” He wasn’t allowed to finish.

  “Take the demon.” He flashed a look at Allison. “I
’ll take these guys; you cover me. We’ve got to get an escape route.”

  Behind the demon was a side street from which some civilians still appeared, screaming and shouting but afraid to turn back, fleeing instead to the east, away from them. That side street led to Franz-Joseph-Kai, and the Salzach River beyond. At least from there, Cody figured, they’d have space to figure out their next move. He transformed, in a heartbeat, from William F. Cody into a tiger, a form he’d first seen taken by Meaghan Gallagher. Then he sprang, launching himself into the armored, possessed creatures that hunted him. Shots rang out, as Allison fired her weapon. Bullets glanced off armor near him, one lodging in his flesh, stinging for a moment.

  He tore into them, their armor no match for strength that could smash their ribs, tear the limbs from their bodies. Claws raked skulls and fangs bit deep. Allison would run out of bullets quickly, and then she’d be defenseless. Cody was not going to let anything happen to her. Swords bit deep into his flesh, and he knew he was lucky they were only steel. The sheer numbers of the soldiers, many with no protection—there were only so many suits of armor—began to overwhelm him, and he turned to mist to escape the press of their flesh.

  John Courage lived up to his name, his flesh flowing like liquid, forming itself into the body of a huge hawk. His wings spread wide, and he dove to avoid the scrabbling arms of the many-eyed demon as it rushed toward them. Talons raked the thing’s groin and thighs, eyes popped, spurting an acid ejaculate which soaked John’s wings, and his scream was that of the bird. He changed fast, fire enveloping the demon, immolating it. Flames licked at the creature’s body, and it let out another roar, using its hands to smash at the flames, slapping its burning, charring flesh in a feeble attempt to douse the flames. Eyes burst all over its form, the sound like popcorn popping, and the thing threw itself to the street, rolling around to kill the fire.