Angel Souls and Devil Hearts

by Christopher Golden

  At first she sucked on her right hand, which was bleeding, but then she gave up and rubbed vigorously at her left shoulder where she’d been hit. She sensed it, sensed him, for she knew it was John, standing over her. But it wasn’t him really, at that moment. Whatever stood there, it was huge, and its breath was heaving, panting, and it wasn’t at all comfortable on two feet. A gorilla? she wondered. No, more likely a bear. But when his left hand burst into flame finally illuminating their path once again, he was just John Courage again, and she understood what he’d done.

  The path they wanted was not along the ledge, beyond the barricade, but behind it, where the rocks had been piled up against the wall. He must have turned to mist and found his way through the rocks, only to transform again inside, taking a shape with the size and strength to drive through the barrier. A whole lot faster than trying to dig from outside. She wondered for a minute why there was such a good-size opening at all. Why take the chance, she wondered, when only vampires were inside? But then she remembered why she was there. Blood from a willing, human female. They needed to be sure their sacrificial lamb could get inside.

  John was quiet now, and he looked exhausted, which didn’t really surprise Allison. They made their way into this new tunnel, which went forward half a dozen feet, then turned a corner and down a crumbling, rocky slope for another dozen, after which it came to an end at a huge wooden door. The door was strapped together with iron, but it had no handle or knocker as far as Allison could tell. Somewhere, she heard a trickling sound, like a brook running, and she thought of melting snow from high up on the mountain.

  John pounded on the door, but there was no response. Once again, he held up a fist and slammed it against the door, again and again, but still they heard nothing but their own mutterings and the echo of his “knock.” Courage kept it up, knocking every minute or so, louder each time, though it seemed impossible.

  And then they heard it, a rustling of movement behind the door, light footfalls on stone and then, finally, a voice, low and ominous, in a language Allison didn’t think she’d ever heard before. Even so, she knew what its question must have been. John Courage replied in that same language, though it didn’t seem to her that his reply included his own name, and certainly not hers.

  And then another sound joined the others: that of a bolt being drawn back, large and rusted. The wood of the door seemed to have swollen tight with moisture, though Allison thought it quite dry at that moment, and though it scraped both floor and ceiling, the figure behind drew it open without any trouble.

  And the tip of a long sword rested on lohn Courage’s throat.

  The holder of the sword was dressed all in a sort of linen, with a scabbard hung from his leather belt. On his feet he had leather shoes, which Allison immediately recognized as having been handmade, and probably not in this century, or the last. Over the linen pants he had wound some cloth around his legs, for what reason she could not guess.

  He was not an attractive man. Though obviously clean, he had a scraggly beard and wild hair which, when combined with his thin lips and wide, flat nose gave him a bestial appearance.

  Not to mention that sword.

  John Courage spoke again in that language, which sounded familiar to her, fluid like Italian or Spanish, yet guttural as well. He spoke in calming, friendly tones, but the holder of the sword barked something in return, and Allison was discouraged.

  “Can’t you disarm him?” she hissed, and the warrior’s eyes flicked to her for the first time, examining her as if he were window-shopping at the butcher’s.

  “Unnecessary” was Courage’s only reply.

  If you say so, she thought, but didn’t speak again, because she didn’t like the way the man with the sword looked at her. He barked something else and shook his head, and John continued to speak in that soothing voice. And then the voice changed suddenly, became deeper, older. Though she couldn’t see him clearly from behind, Allison could tell that John was changing. His head seemed longer, his body thinner; his hair hung, now, long down his back, and she could see even from behind that he had a light edge of beard. His skin had darkened significantly, to almost an olive color. In short, though she couldn’t see his face, she knew that John Courage looked nothing like the shadow she had come to know.

  The sword fell clanging to the stone floor inside that door, and a moment later, its wielder was also there, prostrate on his knees, eyes downcast, hands together as if pleading for forgiveness, which was obviously what he was doing. When John leaned forward to urge the man to stand, Allison caught a good glimpse of his face in the firelight he himself generated, but his features had returned to those she knew.

  Clearly, John had been here before, and had worn a different face, one the guard, for she was sure that was what he was, had not only seen before, but respected, even feared.

  Allison wasn’t sure she liked that idea.

  The warrior turned now, and led them through a stone tunnel and to a set of stairs, which eventually opened into a large cavern. The stairs went down and down, with John’s fire lighting the way, and before long Allison realized that there were two more of the warriors behind her, following them.

  “What language was that?” she asked John.

  “Frankish.”

  “Uh-hmm,” she said and nodded. “They seem to know you.”

  “Oh, they don’t know me much better than you do,” he said.

  “Which is not at all,” she said archly. “Never mind that I haven’t yet prostrated myself before you.”

  John was quiet for a while, so Allison voiced the question currently on her mind.

  “Why won’t you tell me your real name?”

  John stopped, turned and looked at her, studying her a moment. Allison was defiant, unintimidated, but not petulant. She needed to know what the hell was going on. The guards around them stood still, waiting for John to continue. He smiled at her kindly, without any trace of menace, and she felt somewhat more comfortable.

  “You thought you had a story with Venice,” he said. “Wait till you get to the bottom of this one.”

  Then he chuckled and turned away, and they continued down the stairs for a good five minutes more. Finally, the stairs ended at the floor of the cavern, stretched out far before them. Allison thought she could see still forms on the ground around them, but her eyes would not focus much past the circle of light thrown by John’s flaming fist.

  “Here we are,” he said to her.

  “Here?” she asked. “How ’bout some light?”

  Courage said something quickly to their companions, and the one who had confronted them pointed ahead to the right. John walked forward, leaving Allison in the dark, but she was nervous about doing anything that might set off their guards, so she waited for him to give the word. He didn’t. But she could still see him as he moved to the wall of the cavern. As he moved farther from her, but closer to the wall, she saw a huge iron chain hitched by a single link to an iron spike that had been hammered into the wall. John said something, and the two who had been following Allison rushed to him and, pulling the chain from the spike, played out two dozen rusty feet of slack that had been coiled on the stone floor.

  Above them, Allison heard a creaking and rattling as a huge weight descended. It drew her attention but also made her suddenly aware again of the sound of running water, which had disappeared for a while but now was back, and louder than before. Courage, with his light, came closer to her, and they both craned their necks to see whatever was rattling its way down to them. As it came lower Allison began to make out a huge circle of iron, more than twenty feet in diameter, and through its center the elaborate network of chains that held it aloft. In seconds it hung six feet above the floor, and John walked over and stood under it.

  And Allison finally realized what it was: a chandelier.

  John turned in a circle, his fiery touch reaching out to the huge candles melted onto the iron. Allison wondered how long it had been since those candles had been
lit, but she didn’t need to worry about whether they would still burn. Moments later, the two guards were hoisting the chandelier once again toward the ceiling of the cavern, and Allison looked around, nearly overwhelmed by what the light had revealed.

  She thought back to what John had told her, to his vague words: The king sleeps in the heart of the mountain with one hundred of his most loyal soldiers, and when Europe needs him most, and the ravens no longer fly at the summit, he will return.

  She had been able to pass off the dead ravens; after all, they might have been some sign of Mulkerrin’s return, his influence. But now, in the heart of the mountain, Allison Vigeant was looking at one hundred sleeping soldiers in linen and leather, covered in furs, with swords at their sides. Far to her left, an underground stream ran through the cavern, above her the candles burned on, and across the huge room, opposite the stairs they had walked down, was what might have been an altar. On top of it was a bed carved of stone, and upon that bed lay the creature of legend. Even in that repose, he looked like a king.

  “Come,” John said, taking her by the hand and leading her across the room. They moved carefully around the dead-looking forms of the soldiers, and the three who had escorted them followed behind and kneeled at the base of the stone upon which their leader lay. But she and John continued up those steps, and in a moment, she was looking down upon his face.

  His eyes were closed, but there were bags under them and his face was deeply lined. His long hair and equally long beard and bushy mustache were a reddish brown, streaked with gray. His nose was aquiline, his cheekbones high and proud, and his skin was the white of ivory, as had been the skin of the sleeping men behind Allison. He was dressed very much like his soldiers, save for the blue cloak that was wrapped about him, the silk edges of his tunic, and the pure gold belt and scabbard he wore. His crown sat next to his head on the stone bed. It was gold, encrusted with jewels, and had a cross on top. Only when John Courage touched her arm was Allison able to tear her gaze away. The man was fascinating to look at.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” John asked, and she thought that was a pretty stupid question. She’d come all this way, and the life of the man she loved, not to mention so many others, hung in the balance.

  She raised a sarcastic eyebrow, a comment he’d become used to in the short time they’d known each other, and no other reply was necessary. The blood of a willing human female was needed. As far as she could tell, she was the only female at the party, not to mention the only human!

  John reached behind him, and one of the soldiers kneeling there stood to hand up his sword. He took Allison’s hand and lay the sword in her palm, and then before she had time to think about it, he drew the blade across her flesh. She flinched, wanting to pull her hand away, but his strength held her there as her eyes began to water.

  “Mother of God!” she hissed, but that was all, as she bit her lip. John curled her hand into a fist and kissed her knuckles before handing the sword back to its owner. He nodded his approval of her strength, of her determination, and yet Allison could see the sympathy he felt for her pain.

  “Let it drip on his lips,” John said, and she turned, held her hand above the old king’s face and bled.

  His lips parted slightly, and Courage told her it was enough. Allison stepped back as the king’s eyes opened and he smiled. His tongue slid out and cleaned his mouth of her blood, and she couldn’t help but shiver. She watched as John Courage helped him sit up, and then stand. They exchanged greetings in a language she recognized—Latin—but again she could not understand. The old king had known John immediately, not needing the shapechange that his soldier had, and to Allison’s incredible surprise, attempted to kneel before him. But Courage wouldn’t have it, looking around at Allison with an almost annoyed glance, muttering something to the king.

  Finally, the old warrior’s eyes rested on her, and then he smiled benevolently and took the few steps toward her. One hand on the pommel of the sword hanging at his side, he made a deep, regal bow and then looked at John Courage for assistance.

  “Your Majesty,” John said in English, “it is my pleasure to present Allison Vigeant.”

  “Allison,” he said, finally turning his attention back to her. “I’d like you to meet Carolus Magnus, whom some have called the father of Europe. Better known to you, of course, as Charlemagne.”

  And behind them, an army began to rise.

  9

  Salzburg, Austria, European Unson.

  Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 5:01 A.M.:

  Hannibal was many things, but foolish was not among them. He was perfectly aware that every ranking officer, and probably most of their subordinates, involved with Operation: Jericho suspected him of duplicity. When they separated, he had earned several suspicious and even fearful glances, and certainly every member of Commander Jimenez’s strike team had been prepped for his possible betrayal.

  No, Hannibal was no fool, but he suspected those around him, human and vampire alike, were fools indeed. Did they actually believe he would side with Mulkerrin? Such a concept was ridiculous. However, Mulkerrin’s presence did provide Hannibal’s own plans with a perfect diversion. If the sorcerer managed to defeat the forces arrayed against him, then Hannibal would step in and finish the job. In the meantime, he would use the opportunity to set his plans in motion. Hannibal was crafting a new future for the world, and though some might disagree with him, he vowed to become the savior of his people. One day, they would revere his name.

  For the moment, Hannibal sat calmly in the back of a troop carrier, along with his deputy, Rolf Sechs, six other shadows, and a crowd of human soldiers including UNSF Commander Roberto Jimenez. Jimenez was making inquiries and delivering orders over a complicated communications system that each member of the United Nations security force carried in the collar of his or her uniform. Even the agents and marshals of the Shadow Justice System had been given uniforms with these collarcomms for Operation: Jericho. Though unadorned, the uniforms of each unit were different colors, all dark variants on green, blue and brown. The shadows wore gray, and the rest of Jimenez’s strike team wore black.

  The collarcomms interested Hannibal only in that he was privy to every conversation among the UN commanders. Each unit’s leader, in this case each commander had two channels, one on either side of the head. The left side was for general communication within the commander’s own unit, the right for communication with the other commanders and with Jimenez himself. Some of the seconds, including Rolf, had both channels as well, but Hannibal was not concerned. Rolf could listen, but not speak. And Hannibal had a third channel, which he could switch to whenever he wished by depressing a button on his collar, and which cut off communication to all SJS agents who were not on his handpicked team.

  “All units have reported arriving at preliminary rendezvous, Chief Marshal,” Roberto Jimenez said. “We are the last to reach our position. Everything proceeds on schedule.”

  These were the first words the UNSF commander had spoken to him, or any of the shadows, since they had departed Munich. He had not even spoken to Rolf, whom Hannibal thought Jimenez might actually trust.

  “I have ears, Commander,” Hannibal said, having indeed listened quite closely as the other commanders made their reports to Jimenez. “We are not that different.”

  Hannibal turned to Rolf then.

  “And so thus far, Commander Thomas is safe and sound. An admirable woman, don’t you think?” he asked his subordinate.

  Rolf glared at Hannibal, but did not bother pulling the voice-pad from his belt. Roberto Jimenez raised his eyebrows but said nothing, and the other soldiers on the strike team, shadows included, were intelligent enough to look only at their feet.

  Hannibal chuckled to himself as Rolf looked away. Did the fool really think he was not spied upon? Did he truly expect Hannibal to miss something as monumental as the coupling of the American commander and the deputy marshal of the Shadow Justice System? Ah, well, sex will do that, Ha
nnibal thought. He mourned once again Rolf’s unflagging loyalty to his dead mentor’s clan, to Gallagher, Nueva and Cody. The mute would have been an asset, no question, to Hannibal’s plans, especially considering his new involvement with Commander Thomas.

  The lingering smirk on Hannibal’s face finally drove Rolf to reply. He took out his voice-pad and wrote: “None of us is safe while Mulkerrin lives.”

  Hannibal only nodded, with a slight shrug and an innocent look on his face. Oh, Rolf certainly knew something was up. In fact, Hannibal took a particular pleasure in confusing his deputy. For instance, he had allowed Rolf to handpick the six shadows who would accompany Jimenez’s strike team. Rolf could then be certain Hannibal’s accomplices would not be among them, or so he thought. Hannibal had enjoyed the surprise on Rolf’s face when he had not argued the choices, and in his frustration, Rolf had changed the lineup several times, finally giving up when Hannibal still did not respond.

  The truck rolled along the bundestrasse, Route 155 according to the signs, and out the back they were able to see the traffic leaving the city, the broken-down vehicles, and . . . Ah, there we are, Hannibal thought, a stray! As the truck carrying the strike team passed, Austrian soldiers emptied automatic weapons into the still moving body of a demon-creature who had strayed too far from the city. There would be many who wandered away from Salzburg without being killed, Hannibal knew, and he made a mental note to try and round those up when all of this was over. It was likely they could be put to good use.

  The strike team did not stop to help the Austrian troops, who may or may not have succeeded. Hannibal looked over at Jimenez, but his face was a mask of meditation, as were those of the rest of the soldiers. Only Hannibal seemed above the grave atmosphere in the truck, and he knew his levity was unappreciated. He glanced at Rolf and saw that, though also serious, the mute was concentrating on something other than Operation: Jericho. He was staring at Hannibal with open suspicion and dislike, even hate.