by L. A. Banks
Father Patrick nodded as Carlos backed away from Asula and relaxed.
“This is why we need your help. She doesn’t even have uplifting music in her heart—which is the core of her gift. Without her spoken word, without her ability to touch others through this medium . . . her spirit will further wither.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” Carlos gave them his back to consider in frustration as he walked a few paces deeper into the cave. “She hates all that I am, all that I stood for in life—and hates what I am now. No wonder she went blind.”
Profound guilt claimed him and tore at him like a fresh wound. “I can’t even trust myself in her presence.” Carlos found his vision blurring once more as he kept his face turned away from the misguided clerics. “I never want to see that look in her eyes again,” he finally said, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. “Never.”
“Our ranks are thinning,” Asula said. “Hers are battered, exhausted, a few may be on the run trying to reestablish another safe house. The vibrations Father Pat has picked up say the group is splintering, looking to go their separate ways.”
“Where is she now?”
“When the Neteru and her guardians came up from the tunnels, they immediately sought hallowed ground,” Lin replied.
“They’ve been moving from those places in a crisscross pattern through LA, trying to get back to the compound for the last few days,” Father Patrick said in a quiet voice. “The first night after the concert, the streets were crawling. They had to seek immediate shelter in the cathedral closest to the stadium. The next morning, human vampire helpers worked through the police to have them briefly detained for questioning after the concert on the ruse of needing information about the young people that had been victimized at the events. This ate up precious daylight for them to move within. But a man named Berkfield worked behind the scenes to have them quickly released before nightfall.”
Carlos stared at Father Patrick.
“You know this man?” the older cleric asked, stepping forward.
“I did him a favor, guess he did me one without even knowing it. Yeah . . . I know him. He’s marked by me as off-limits.”
All the clerics glanced at each other. Shoulders relaxed. Weary expressions gave way to what Carlos could only interpret as hope.
“They were released and had to find a safe place to wait out the second night,” Father Patrick said, his voice now more urgent. “On this third night, we’ve lost her trail, because she went completely blind. Her team seer is nearly blind. The guardians have broken the cord to the Light, and even I can’t get a clear vision on them, the loss of hope in them is so great. That is the other reason we sought you.”
Carlos sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What was the first reason? And how did you find me?”
“There is still the unresolved matter of your redemption,” Father Patrick said wearily. “I am a seer, and I was led by the same thing that saved you from being staked. Hope. Faith. It was my only beacon to find you. Your hope for her was bright; hers for you is so dim, I cannot sense it to locate her. When you, a vampire, asked God to spare her—you called on the Almighty, then I could clearly see you.” He nodded toward the young cleric, Padre Lopez. “He also helped immensely. For some reason, he, even more so than I, could get a direct lock on you—and he knew the region.”
Carlos turned around and folded his arms over his chest, closely watching his odd benefactors. “My possible parole, which you call redemption, saved my life in the tunnels?”
All of the clerics except the young one shook their heads no. The one named Manuel just stood there with his mouth slightly agape.
“The Neteru’s brand saved you,” Father Patrick stated, nodding at Carlos’s chest. “See for yourself. You owe her.”
Carlos looked down at his bare chest. A full-scale imprint of a woman’s fist with a dagger clutched in it, and part of a slender forearm was now a slightly darker bronzed-tone, a raised keloid burn scar that covered his heart. He reverently touched the strange marking on his flesh with the tips of his fingers.
“From when you carried her in the silver suit she wore in the tunnels,” the older man stated calmly.
In snatches of memory Carlos remembered holding Damali in his arms. He’d cradled her against him like a baby, and it had nearly torched him. Yes, he remembered the smell of her hair, even while his own skin slowly burned. No question he remembered the scent of her ripening, and he’d never forget the way his desire for her had blunted even the pain of silver searing against his flesh.
“When Nuit’s forces attacked you, her brand kept their stakes from entering what she’d sealed. She even prayed in your arms in the middle of Hell—as a fully ripened Neteru—which you didn’t violate.” The old priest shook his head and addressed his colleagues. “You are very much harder to kill now. As long as the Neteru’s seal is upon you, you cannot perish from the stake. She covers your heart. But you can still be beheaded . . . Think fully with your heart on this situation—not just your mind.”
Deep. Carlos laughed. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious.” The old priest arched an eyebrow. “Help us find her. Our Covenant trackers perished, my sight is useless. No one is answering the phones at the compound. She doesn’t want to be found. My two colleagues are hearing and tactile sensors, but they are out of range. Help us find her and restore her hope. Time is of the essence.”
Carlos shook his head. “You’re men of the cloth; you must have words of strength, prayers for her. But if not, I can find her . . . dead or alive.”
The clerics looked at each other and then at Carlos. For a moment no one said a word.
“Then replenish yourself with the rest of what’s in the trunk,” Father Patrick finally said. “We have a safe house just over the border in the Santa Monica Mountains. Project yourself there. We will need a day to fly in the traditional way via airlines to subsequently meet you. The lair is protected by prayers. Don’t worry,” he said when he saw Carlos stiffen. “You will be able to pass through them. The refrigerators are well-stocked with donated blood. Your chambers are the lower level. We hope you’ll find it comfortable. A reinforced steel door locks it from the inside. The place is also externally fortified against intrusion.”
For a while Carlos leaned against the cave wall and looked off into the distance, thinking. “I don’t know if I have enough energy to project myself that far and the tunnels are too dangerous. I might have to travel with you all tonight.”
“So be it. We cannot wait here another night, but we can possibly do this like it was once done in the old days . . . as unsavory as that may be to you.”
“The old days?”
“In Dracula’s era, a master vampire was couriered during daylight inside a coffin surrounded by the earth of his lair.”
“No way!” Carlos pushed himself away from the wall. “I’ll stay here for a night or so, get stronger, then leave on my own.”
“Your choice. But every night you stay here alone, you run the risk of your enemies picking up your trail. Our prayers at the safe house will keep you hidden from them. We have opened the boundaries to you only.”
That reality gave Carlos pause, and he let his breath out hard in frustration. He was not going out like that again. Yet the last thing he wanted to risk was an airport search where some stupid security guard might open his coffin and fry him in broad daylight.
The elder cleric nodded. “You’ll have to trust us. No one will open the coffin if priests are accompanying it. There are some protocols afforded our calling.”
“Seems you guys have thought of everything,” Carlos said slowly, still not fully trusting them. “How do I know it’s not a trap?”
Father Patrick stepped dangerously close to Carlos. “I give you permission to use your telepathy to see the location and to sense through me whether or not there is a trap.”
Carlos studied him carefully. “You got a lotta faith, Father. Might be foolish. You
know, I could reach out and snap your neck. I’d get a real kick from the adrenaline rushing through your blood. The bagged stuff is much weaker and it takes more to produce a buzz, feel me?” Carlos smiled a half smile as the other men bristled. But he had to respect the old dude when he didn’t even flinch.
“That’s not what you’re going to do, however.”
“Why not?” Carlos asked, seriously mulling over the possibility.
“Because you still have a chance to save your soul, which is something you now want almost as much as you want Damali back in your arms.”
The response gave him pause.
“I opened my mind,” Father Patrick said, “and to read me, you have to open yours. We both know how a mind lock works, and are too wise for games. Fair exchange is no robbery, Carlos. I believe that is a favorite saying where you’re from.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Is it?”
“I’m out.”
“You know, redemption requires a period of atonement.” The priest casually studied his nails as Carlos moved even closer to him. “I’m old,” he added. “I’ve lived my life, done what I was supposed to do. Kill me and I ascend and will have nothing more to do with this foul earth. But, you, my friend, have a long road before you. You might want some guidance along the way. But, again, as always, it’s your choice.”
Carlos frowned. He felt trapped, and hated it. “I find her for you, secretly guard her while you—”
“No secrets,” the old man said evenly. “We have four men here—”
“Four?” Padre Lopez’s glance shot around the small cavern. “I am not—”
“We pleaded with you to stay outside the cave,” Asula said, cutting him off.
“Can you go back to pretending that incarnate evil does not exist, now?” Monk Lin asked, staring at him hard.
“Once you have seen this, life as you’ve known it has ceased to exist. This is why we gave you a choice, Padre. Now you have just been inducted into the Covenant.”
“Seems like homeboy just got jacked, if you ask me,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “He could pose a risk.”
“All of us pose a risk.” Father Patrick sighed. “We all have free will. Padre Lopez can go back to his parish and tend weddings and funerals, and do what a good shepherd does. Or, he can be a part of something larger. It will always be his choice. But that can be decided later.”
“Get back to the part about this protection squad,” Carlos said, tiring of the conversation. He wanted to get to Damali. He needed to see her, even if he couldn’t be near her. He needed to know what was expected of him, and what his atonement sentence was all about. The approaching dawn was also a threat, and he needed rest and to feed some more.
“Damali Richards and her team make eight additional members, added with our four, less one, to bring the total to eleven . . . we are missing one for the holy number of twelve. It is Canon Law—twelve. Always twelve.” The cleric pointed at Carlos. “You’re number twelve.”
“You must be high.” Carlos brushed past the four men and headed toward the cave’s entrance. He’d project himself far away from all of this madness even if it took the last of his strength. “Join a human team to fight vampires and demons? Plus, your math is off! You said you’re four—less one?”
“Me. I’m the one who cannot go on the last leg on this mission,” Father Patrick said.
“Why not?” Carlos stared at the man hard. “You a punk, now, or something?”
“Hardly. But I am a seer and this is not my destiny. I would only add an additional risk.”
The concept disturbed him. He’d seen the old cleric fight valiantly, with honor. Had to give credit where credit was due. Plus, he’d just saved his life. Aw’ight, he’d let his argument rest. “Okay, respect. My bad. But since y’all are into this destiny vibe, then what’s my destiny?”
“You were supposed to be a guardian,” the old man coolly remarked. “You strayed from the path and caused much heartache and destruction in the world, even before you became a vampire. The law of our realm requires guardian service. Think of it like community service, in exchange for this misused time. Seven years. You began hard dealing and took a life at sixteen—you were turned at twenty-three, we want your seven dark years back . . . and you’d better be thankful that threefold the time was not exacted. By rights, we could have asked for twenty-one years, but your atonement time has been reduced, given the nature of your assignment, and the lives you saved when it counted most. And . . . it may be seven years, but it will feel like twenty-one when you’re done. Trust me.”
“Fuck that!” Carlos said angrily. “Seven years of being a guardian, seven years of going into battle like the one I just narrowly escaped?”
“Protecting the Neteru, yes.” Father Patrick folded his arms over his chest. “For every person you killed, you must save three. For every life you altered by your negative energies, you must restore threefold. For every family you hurt by the sale of drugs, you must restore three. Our sentence is light. You’ve already been to Hell and have seen the alternative.”
Carlos closed his eyes and felt his shoulders slump in defeat. Seven years of invisibly moving throughout the earth to save lives, seven years of being a spiritual cop . . . seven years to possibly watch his woman fall in love with a human male, make love, live life, possibly marry and have kids . . . seven years to walk the planet as a shadow, her shadow, loving her like he did from inside a prison without bars . . . and never able to be with her, because when she ripened to Neteru fertility again, together they could start a line of daywalkers—and if she had a man and children, those she loved would be at risk.
It was too much to ask; nothing on the planet could stop a master vampire from going for a fertile Neteru. He’d kill whatever was in his path to get to her, even these kindhearted, misguided clerics. He’d learned that much about himself while in Hell. Yeah, just as he was finishing his sentence, the way his luck was running, she’d ripen and they’d smoke him. But that was the future and right now she was at risk from his kind.
There were four other master vampires topside, one for each point on the council pentagram, and Nuit had just been dusted. Carlos studied the odds. Those guys were probably too busy defending their borders right now, and wouldn’t immediately risk coming into Nuit’s old zones. They wouldn’t cross borders, anyway, without council sanction. But soon one of them might get bold and try a power grab.
Carlos closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the world map from Hell’s perspective. The sixth point was for the crest—the council—the sixth continent where they drew their food down from transporter bats. The seventh continent was laid fallow in wait for the coming Armageddon. The bullshit was supposed to go down right in the old Biblical lands. Oh, yeah, the priest was right. They were coming for his baby—one side or the other—eager topside masters or council. That was unacceptable.
“My mom, and my grandmom . . . Juanita . . . will be safe?” Carlos asked, distracting himself from torturous thoughts.
“They have been put in the federal witness protection program, courtesy of the police officer you saved and gave information to regarding your former drug connections. They live well, Carlos. He’s a man of his word—honorable,” Monk Lin said with compassion. “Your assets have been liquidated and transferred to them. Our prayers also protect them.”
Carlos could only nod. Everything the blue-robed priest said made sense. Even in his former life, the deal was a body for a body. It went down like that in the vampire nations, too. As above, so below. He owed, big time. He’d been given a second chance, something many a dying man would covet. But why did it feel like such a hollow bargain? Here he was a man that had lost his whole world and had to seek shelter in a coffin in order to get on a flight to LAX. This situation was beyond fucked up.
“Aw’ight.” Carlos sighed. “But only on one condition.”
“You’re not in a position to cut any further deals, Carlos,” Father Patrick said i
n warning. “Have you any idea what intercessory prayers had to be heard to even get this case plea bargained at the highest realms? Do you know what we each have put on the line if this mission fails? And have you any idea how all of us are in the same proverbial boat should you kill an innocent? We have stepped out on pure faith for you. We put your case to the highest levels of mercy, and were given the message of atonement I gave you. Do not trifle with this opportunity—or I will exterminate you myself. That is also my job.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Carlos nodded. The old man relaxed.
“If I were to hear your appeal, however,” the priest said, “what would that one condition be?”
Again Carlos’s gaze sought a distant place within the cave’s blackness. “I don’t want her to see me, if it can be avoided. I’ll find her, will protect her, but don’t want her to see me . . . at least until I know I can take it.”
The small group of clerics shared concerned glances.
“If it can be avoided . . . That’s fair. It doesn’t violate any of the rules of engagement—but she must know of your existence. We will not have secrets, or risk her team inadvertently taking aim at you as a predator. Unless you become one.” The old man looked at Carlos hard, but his eyes also held empathy. “The first assignment is an anathema to us, and we need a full team. There have been a strange series of deaths in the mountains in Brazil—none resemble vampire bites, or demon possessions. We don’t know what it is.”
“Let me investigate it alone,” Carlos said fast. “I don’t want her or her team near it—forget that full team shit. Damali almost got wasted, and if one of her family gets snuffed, there’ll be no way for any of us to help her deal with that.” He looked at the clerics hard. “That is non-negotiable.”
To his surprise, the clerics simply nodded and didn’t argue. He relaxed a bit.
“Then let’s do this clean and simple,” Carlos muttered, waving his hand to fully clothe himself with the illusion of a black tailored suit, white silk shirt with a bandit collar, closed by an onyx stud that matched his cuff links. He looked down and willed a pair of black leather slip-ons, and straightened a hint of white handkerchief in his breast pocket.