As I watched, they pulled themselves together. Shoulders squared, tears dried, resolve hardened. They all, in their own way, did exactly what I told them to do. Some pushed their pain away so they could carry on. Some embraced it, drawing it close to act as fuel.
“Okay. We’re two people down and they were our best researchers. Now we have to figure out how we’re going to find these damn witches.”
Boothe raised his hand. “Larson?”
My voice sounded cold and hard in my own ears. “Larson’s never coming back.” No one else said anything. “Any suggestions?”
Movement in the corner of the room drew my eye. Sophia was trying to hold her son, but he had squirmed free and now was walking my way on his little bowed legs. She started after him but stopped and sat back down when I held up my hand. The child kept walking until he stood in front of me. His shirt was blue and made the one blue eye he had surge out of his chubby-cheeked face. Samson.
I knelt down so that he and I were nose to nose. “What is it, Sammy?”
“I can help you find my brothers, Unca Deacon.”
My scalp started to tingle. “How can you do that, little buddy?”
He closed his eyes. A tiny line formed between his brows, a crease of concentration. His chubby hand lifted up. It hovered in front of my face. I watched it only an inch or two away from my skin. A tiny gold spark flickered across his fingertips. My lips went numb.
That tiny hand descended, four chubby fingers warm on my face. A spark zinged through my skin, racing along my optic nerve like a ragged fingernail down a chalkboard. My mind’s eye blinked to life and I was somewhere else in my head.
The connection was dim, the edges fuzzy like a bad movie effect, like someone had smeared Vaseline around the lens of my mind.
Dark. Lights flickering. Yellow. Fire. Thin bars of my cage cutting between pads of my feet. Muzzle full of dead blood long dried. Soaked into wood of floor. It stinks with it. Figures move in front of me. Raised up. The ones who took me. And brother. Two women move around, pointing at things. Big hairy monkey stole us carrying things. Sounds are funny. Everything muffled by thick gray stuff coats almost everything. Air is weird. Hurts.
I reeled back to reality. My head spun, knocking me on my ass. Samson stared at me, both mismatched eyes lit with a slight gold light. His chubby chin dipped and he looked at me under wispy thin eyebrows. “You see, Unca Deacon?”
I nodded, mouth dry as sand. I swallowed just to be able to talk. “I see.”
“Bring us back together, Unca Deacon.”
“Will do, kid.”
The boy nodded once, turned, and toddled back to his mother. I stood up. I knew what the witches had planned. I knew where they were and I had been there before. I should have made the connection sooner.
“Father Mulcahy.”
The priest looked up at me.
“I’m gonna need to get inside the vault.”
45
Sister Mary Polycarp’s hands wrapped around the thick handles of the wheel lock. She paused, not moving.
“Are you sure about this, Father? We aren’t supposed to open the vault without direct permission from the Holy See.”
“We have the dispensation of discernment, child. We’re charged with the care and keeping of the items inside. It is a duty laid upon our immortal souls. It’s why we were appointed here. You are going to have to learn this. One day it will be your responsibility to decide.” The priest adjusted himself on his crutch. “One day, but not to-day. If the Holy Father has a problem with my decision, he can call me tomorrow. Now, open the vault, child.”
She began to spin the wheel, leaning back and pulling hard to get it started.
It was hard to hold back from stepping up to help, but I’d been firmly instructed that I could not be part of opening the vault. It was something only clergy and the “professed religious” could take part of.
I know from Father Mulcahy that what I do is Vatican approved, but I am still just a normal Catholic like everyone else.
Okay, not normal, but when it comes to matters of the Church, I am no different, no better than any other Catholic son.
So I didn’t help as Sister Mary Polycarp yanked on the handle. I let her struggle. It took minutes of work to break the wheel free. Once started, it spun in a circle of silver making small clicking noises until it clanged to a stop.
Sister Mary reached out and tugged, pulling the door forward on oiled hinges out into the hallway. It was massive, a foot thick. Father Mulcahy crossed himself and stepped inside, using the crutch. I followed, pausing to cross myself like he had before stepping over the threshold.
My foot hit the floor.
My power ripped me open, spilling out.
It was like being gutted with a lightning bolt. The world went black and empty, everything wiped away in one supernova flash. I was drowning, choking, sensations crashing into me like a tidal wave. I fought my power, yanking, pulling, wrestling it back inside me. It fought me like a live thing, writhing and whipping through my body.
My mind’s eye opened and I saw my power. A dragon of energy clawed its way out of me. I grabbed it by the tail as it passed. Rough, horned scale sliced my palms, cutting into my skin like a pattern of broken glass. I yanked, pulling the dragon back in.
It turned, snarling at me. I shook it. It was my power, by God. My will slammed into it like an iron hammer, beating it down. Hand over hand, I hauled it inside me and shoved it down, locking it away.
My vision came back a laser, burning into my retinas. Everything too bright, too sharp, hard edged. A headache blossomed in the back of my skull. I blinked, my eyes beginning to dull, pupils constricting so that light wasn’t an acid bath on my corneas.
Father Mulcahy had only taken one step.
All of that had happened in a blink, in a split second. I shook my head. I should have known. I’ve had this power inside me for five years now, living in my blood since that Angel of the Lord had resurrected me. I knew that it was triggered by all things occult.
What the hell did I think would happen when I walked into a vault full of the most dangerous occult objects on the continent?
I should have been prepared. Sonnuvabitch I was off my game. I had been all damn night.
In that moment I knew I had to get my shit together. That was a rookie mistake. A mistake that would have been made by past Deacon who had first started hunting monsters. A mistake that could get me killed or worse, could cost me the life of someone else I loved.
Tiff. Father Mulcahy. Ronnie.
Fuck that. The only people dying from this moment on were the people I was going to kill.
Father Mulcahy was talking. I shook my head to clear it and paid attention. His eyebrows were pulled together.
“Are you all right, son?”
“I’m fine. Just needed to adjust to the atmosphere for a second.”
Father Mulcahy knows how my power works. I looked around. The inside of the vault was brightly lit with the flickery cold-white light you only get from florescent tubing. It looked like the bank vault it was originally planned to be.
The walls on each side were filled with steel security boxes like a bank’s safety deposit box system. Even with my power shoved down as far as I could shove it, there was a dark, prickly energy coming from the left-hand side of the room.
The symbology wasn’t lost on me.
On the back wall sat an ancient book on a wooden stand. A raven feather quill stood beside it next to a sealed ink pot. The book was huge, too big for a grown man to hold in both arms. The paper looked like thin sheepskin, aged a yellow that was almost brown.
Stepping up to it, I was hit with a waft of book. Before my life went to shit, I was a reader. One of my favorite things about reading and owning books was the smell of them, the older the book the better. It’s a scent you can’t really describe other than saying it’s the scent of story and paper. Book.
“Do you know what you are needing tonight, son?”
“You tell me. I need the most powerful weapon I can use.”
He limped over to the book, crutch making a small squeak on the cold marble tile of the floor. I thought he was going to flip through it, search the listings, and find a weapon.
Instead, he used his free hand to reach under the edge of the book. The top of the table it sat on hinged up silently, revealing a hollow spot under the book. He lifted out a ring of keys. They jangled against each other as he hobbled over to the middle section of the wall on the right.
Bending, he studied the fronts of the drawers. Stepping closer, I saw that writing was engraved roughly on the front of it. It looked like it might have been done with an awl instead of any kind of modern implement.
Gladium Paladinus Caroli.
The words were Latin. I knew enough from Mass to recognize the language, but not enough to translate. Father Mulcahy studied the keys, selecting one, and inserting it in the lock.
He left the keys to dangle. “Kneel.”
I listened to my priest, lowering myself to the ground on my knees. I bowed my head. I felt his hand move over me, carving the sign of the Cross from the air. His voice fell heavily as he prayed.
“More than ever we feel the need of having Thee close to us. At any moment we may find ourselves in battle. However rigorous the task that awaits your servant Deacon Chalk, may he fulfill his duty with courage. If death should overtake him on that field, grant that he die in the state of grace. Forgive him all his sins, those he may have forgotten and those he may recall now. Grant him the grace of perfect contrition.”
I knelt there under his hand and felt that weightless presence that I know is God, Him giving His acknowledgment. I never know what it means, if He approves or disapproves, I just feel that He hears me. That’s the faith part. The not knowing, just moving on, acting as if.
“All right, son, get up. You have work to do.”
I stood. Father Mulcahy looked at me, something in his eyes. “I’m proud of you.” He said it, turning to the drawer and opening it with a twist of the key before I could say anything.
The drawer slid out silently, extending almost four feet. Inside lay a sword on a bed of blue-black velvet.
It was breathtaking.
The blade was double-edged, about two fingers wide, and the polished steel gleamed in the light. The handle was gold, intricately wrought into a basket of vines and flowers. A clear glass dome nestled in them, inset in the crossbar. It was filled with a dry brown powder that looked like rust.
The rest of the hilt was wrapped in a blue cloth, a net of fine black strands knit around it. The hilt was lacquered with a dull sheen. The pommel was a round bulb of steel with a small, misshapen square of ivory inlaid in the center. Father Mulcahy crossed himself.
I did it since he had.
“Is that Excalibur?”
A look crossed his face. “Oh ho, you think you’re King Arthur now, do ya?” He chuckled. “Why would Excalibur be in America?”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot that we had broadswords here in America. This one must have belonged to George Washington. Or was this one Benjamin Franklin’s?” We both shared a small laugh. It bounced off the hollow bubble inside me from Kat’s death.
“That is Durendal. The Peerless Sword of Roland, given to him by Charlemagne.”
I looked at the sword, then looked back at him. “I don’t have any idea what that’s supposed to mean. I haven’t had a World History class since high school.”
“It’s a holy sword, said to be indestructible. The hilt contains the blood of St. Basil, the hair of St. Denis, a tooth of St. Peter, and a piece of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s raiment.” He crossed himself again.
“You couldn’t get Excalibur?”
“Excalibur is in the Holy See.”
“America always gets the damn leftovers.”
He indicated the sword with a wave. I reached out, slipping my hand around the hilt. The second my fingers closed my power began to bubble deep in my blood. The Angel blood in my veins called to the holy sword.
I took a deep breath, centering myself, and lifted the sword out of the drawer. It was lighter than I thought it would be, balanced in my hand. The blade was springy, like a tai chi sword instead of a broadsword. The handle was tight in my grip, the cross hilt and the pommel pressing in against the sides of my palm. Stepping back, I swung the sword in a quick arc. As it crossed me it tugged toward the left-hand wall, the blade pulling slightly. I tested it, swinging that way again. The blade tugged toward the wall where evil artifacts were stored.
Interesting.
Father Mulcahy had lifted the velvet, pulling out a brown leather scabbard and sword belt. They looked ancient and well-worn but still whole and serviceable. He held them out to me. “You’ll need this to carry the blade, son.”
I nodded, my fingers sliding along the hilt in my hand. My fingertip rubbed the smooth enamel square. This is from the mouth of the first Pope. A shiver went up my spine. My mind tripped on a memory of teeth. I looked at Father Mulcahy.
“There’s one more thing I need from in here.”
46
“You are staying here, dammit. I don’t have time to argue.” I stood up from securing Durendal in the front seat of the Comet. Tiff helped me click the lap belt in place around it. The holy sword was sheathed, ready for me to belt it on. It leaned across the seat, point toward the floorboard.
“You aren’t leaving me behind.”
My fist slammed into the roof of the car with a loud BANG! I turned, anger sparked deep in my chest. I stuck my finger in her face, words coming out between clenched teeth. “You are not going. That. Is. Final.”
She blinked at me with mismatched eyes. “It’s my sons.”
“Sophia, get your ass back inside. I know you want to save your boys, but I’ve got this.” I indicated the car full of people. “We’ve got this. Let us work.”
Her face thinned with anger, paring down to skin and planes of bone. Blue and brown eyes bright and feral. “Those witches have to pay for ever touching my children. The flesh must be torn from their bones and their bones must be cracked open so the marrow may be sucked out.”
Lycanthropes always get formal when their children are in danger. The animal part of their brain kicks in, tapping into the hereditary, genetic memory of whatever species they are.
“Stay with Samson, with your son that is here.” I grabbed her arm, making her look at me. “I saved your children before they were ever born. I’ll do it again now.” I gave her a little shake, just enough to get her attention. “Trust me.”
She stared at me for a long moment, not blinking. It was a predator stare. Her head moved in a quick nod of assent. She turned and walked away, stepping between Sister Mary Polycarp and Josh. She took her human son and went through the door of the church without a backward glance. Samson waved a chubby hand at me before disappearing in his momma’s wake.
“Well, that was awkward.” Father Mulcahy lit a new cigarette from the still-burning stub of the one he had just finished.
“I’m not going to have the same problem with you, am I?”
“Not tonight. I’d just slow you down.” He shifted on his crutch. “You’ve no use for a crippled old man tonight.”
“Don’t say that.” My chest was tight. “You can still kick my ass, even with a busted leg.”
His mouth opened, hesitated, then closed. He glanced over his shoulder at Josh and Sister Mary. Turning back, his mouth opened again to speak. He stopped himself. The tightness in my chest made it hard to breath, an iron clamp around my lungs. After a second, he cleared his throat.
“Remember that Durendal works best when you don’t doubt yourself. God’s very hand is on you tonight, son. You’re doing His work, so stay strong.” He flicked the ash off the end of his cancerstick. “And be sure to bring it back. I don’t want to fill out the paperwork if you don’t.”
I smiled. I had a snappy comeback prepared. It was on the tip of my tongue. A re
al smartass comment that would have kept the mood upbeat until I could get in the Comet and go.
It was right there, waiting to be said.
And that was the very second a vampire stepped out of the bushes.
47
I yanked the MAC-10 up, swinging the barrel away from Father Mulcahy and toward the bloodsucker. Tiff boiled out of the passenger seat, racking the slide of the shotgun in her hands. Boothe and Special Agent Heck were a step behind coming from the backseat. Both men showed their similar training, guns up and pointing forward. Ronnie stayed in the car, spinning to look out the back window. Four of her spiders popped up on the roof of the Comet.
Blair stood ten feet away, head down, honey-blond hair fallen around her face. Her hands were up and empty in the air. The only movement from her was a slight shifting from one foot to the other. Tiny curls of smoke rose around her toes as each foot touched the consecrated ground. Her face tilted up, wide blue eyes meeting mine. The marks on her throat pulsed crimson, red-lighting the bottom of her jawline, and I could feel her.
It was different than it normally was with a vampire. Hell, it was different than it had been with Blair before. The connection between us was alive and electric. She still felt like a vampire, all cool and prickly, the smell of snakeskin and the itch of shedding, but the connection was like a hundred thin strings tying me to her. Strings I could pull. Strings I could control. I dropped the submachine gun to my side.
That’s when Boothe pulled the trigger on his pistol. Blair was a blur, moving so fast she almost blinked out of existence for a split second. She fell to the ground, the bullet splitting the air where her head had been. She fell flat, every inch of skin that touched the consecrated ground began to sizzle and smoke.
She bounced up inhumanly fast, face knotted in a snarl as a scream ripped out of her. Fangs burst out of her mouth, and talons peeled back the tips of her fingers. She sliced through the air in front of me, flying at Boothe like she was on wires, moving too fast for him to get off another shot.
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