“What we do at work . . . It’s a database.” Her father dropped his voice to a whisper. “Of . . . undesirables. And I guess there was someone on it Tom was trying to protect. And they found out and . . .” He buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe it. If they did that to him, then no one is safe.”
Now you know, she thought. Now you believe.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” She reached for him, but he didn’t see her. He drew in a deep breath and let it out in long, painful bursts.
Then he got up and sat beside her on the couch. His face was gray, and heavily lined, as if he had aged terribly in the last three minutes, or maybe he’d just grown up.
“So I’m going to meet them tonight.”
“Them?” she repeated.
He frowned slightly, as if he wanted her to figure out what he was trying to say so he wouldn’t have to.
“The group Tom was protecting,” he whispered. “Some people connected to the . . . situation. People who think that, ah . . . who don’t agree . . .” He locked gazes with her. “You know what I mean.”
Part of her was thrilled. Her father was getting involved, finally. He was going to take up where Che had left off. She could feel it.
But part of her was afraid for him. He wasn’t as strong as she was.
“Dad, no, they’ll be watched. The Cursed Ones—”
“Shh. I don’t want your mother to know. But if I don’t come back—”
“Dad, have you lost your mind?” Jenn asked in a low voice. “There’s no way you can do this. No. No, I won’t let you go.”
“I told Tom’s wife I would. Tom’s . . . widow.” Her father got up and began to pace. “I’ve been wrong, all along. I thought if we were helpful, if we gave them what they wanted, then they wouldn’t hurt us. But . . .”
He stopped pacing and went to the window, drawing back the curtain. “There’s about an hour and a half of daylight left. It’s only fifteen minutes by car. That gives me an hour to talk to them.”
“Then I’m going with you.” By the expression of relief on his face, Jenn realized that that was what he’d wanted but had been reluctant to ask. Father and daughter—united in common purpose. Now she had to step up, act like a hunter, serve as protector. There was no backup this time. She was the first—and last—line of defense.
“Thank you,” he said, giving her a hug. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Yes, Dad.” She licked her lips, torn by her conflicting emotions. Such intense pride in him. Even greater fear for him. And the realization that she could help protect him, keep him safe. And he knew it. He knew it. Years of anger burned away in an instant.
She said fiercely, “You can count on me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Salamanca Hunter’s Manual:
The Supreme Enemy
The vampire is cunning. Like the Fallen Angel himself, he will try to beguile you, to charm you. He will try to convince you that he is nothing more than a human being blessed with special gifts and talents. He will entice you with stories of endless life, and ridicule your belief in a judgment hereafter, where your soul hangs in the balance. Do not believe him. He is a demon, and a liar.
(translated from the Spanish)
SALAMANCA, SPAIN
SALAMANCAN HUNTERS: ANTONIO, HOLGAR, SKYE, ERIKO, AND JAMIE
Holgar was having a nightmare. He knew it was a nightmare, but he couldn’t pull himself out of it. He never could.
They were racing, playing, hunting rabbits. Holgar was twelve and in human form, running in a pair of shorts and nothing else. His bare feet flew across the rocks, impervious to their sharpness. His father loped alongside him in wolf form.
There was a sudden flash of orange in the trees. A hunter. The blond-haired man was sighting down his rifle at a deer. Wary, Holgar turned to change course, but his father didn’t turn with him or slow down. Instead he accelerated, body streaking through the trees as he targeted the man.
Holgar shouted. The man turned, and his father ripped out the hunter’s throat. Holgar ran forward, but it was too late. The man was dead, and his father was licking at the blood as it bubbled from his throat, whining with the pleasure of it.
“Nej!” Holgar shouted.
Holgar woke up with a howl, shook himself, and looked toward the door. Jamie was standing there, arms folded across his chest, wearing his perpetual scowl. Skye stood at his side, a hand on his arm as though ready to pull him back.
“Having one of those dog dreams?” Jamie taunted.
“Don’t,” Skye murmured.
Holgar shrugged and swung his legs over the side of his bed. His baggy sweatpants felt constrictive compared to the freedom of running in one’s own skin. Sweat beaded on his chest and shoulders. He pressed his fingers to his head, trying to reorient himself. Holgar hated morning; most wolves did. He glanced out his narrow window and could see nothing but inky blackness. It had to be early.
“Haven’t you heard it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie?” he growled.
“Love to, but Master calls,” Jamie answered.
“What’s wrong?” Holgar snapped awake. Father Juan never called for them this early. Since hunters needed to be nocturnal, classes at the academy hadn’t even started until ten a.m. most days. It was a schedule they had all stayed with upon graduation.
“We don’t know,” Skye said.
Holgar grabbed a shirt from his trunk and pulled it on with a grimace. It was two sizes too large, and he’d washed it dozens of times, but he still hated the feel of it against his skin. Where he was from, young wolves ran virtually naked until their fifth birthday. Then, as they were introduced to the rest of the world, they were forced to wear clothes when they walked among normal humans. Most of them spent the rest of their lives wishing they could have continued in their natural state.
“Let’s go,” Holgar said.
“We’re to meet in his office,” Skye said.
“What do werewolves dream of?” Jamie asked, not budging from the doorway.
Holgar couldn’t tell if the Irishman was actually curious or if he was just trying to bait him again. “Weresheep.”
Skye snickered, and Jamie continued to glower. “Let’s go see what he wants,” Holgar said, pushing past them and down the hallway.
The other two fell in behind him as they walked down the long corridor of the faculty dormitory. They passed rooms belonging to priests and instructors, including Father Juan’s room. Holgar breathed in deeply and could tell by the staleness of the scent that Father Juan hadn’t been in his room for hours. He whined deep in his throat, convinced that wasn’t a good sign.
After graduation the team had moved out of the student dormitory, making way for the incoming hopefuls. Holgar and Antonio had been the only two who hadn’t had to change rooms, since they had already been separated out from the other students.
Holgar hadn’t minded, realizing it was as much for his protection as for that of the other students. When he had arrived at the academy, only Father Juan had known he was a werewolf. After his unfortunate howling at the moon, word had spread quickly that there was a werewolf at the academy, and it wasn’t long before most of the students knew it was Holgar. Being able to point to one monster in their midst kept them from looking for others. Holgar had suspected there was something, though, about the soft-spoken Antonio that merited him living in the building with priests and faculty instead of students. One night he’d actually been downwind of Antonio on a training exercise and smelled the merest hint of death. That was when he knew why Antonio was also segregated.
Holgar had no great love for vampires, and he soon discovered that neither did Antonio. Holgar had kept Antonio’s secret. Clearly those running the academy knew what he was and wanted him alive. Holgar knew what it was like to live with a dark side that couldn’t be controlled, and he appreciated having Antonio as a sparring partner. Even in their human form werewolves were stronger than normal humans. In return for his discretion, the vampire helped him hone his
fighting skills. The rest of the students walked carefully around Holgar, but none had known what Antonio was until graduation night.
They passed Eriko’s room, everything neatly arranged, a brass Buddha sitting on her bureau. She was already gone, but her scent hung thick and heavy in the air. She had left within the last couple of minutes.
Each person’s scent was unique and made up of so many factors. It was a combination of shampoo, shaving cream, soap, toothpaste, laundry detergent, deodorant, even the fabric of a person’s clothes or the type of shoes they were wearing. Leather, plastic, canvas, rubber, each had a distinctive odor. Then there was a person’s diet. Certain types of foods, particularly garlic and onion, could be excreted by the skin for days or even weeks. No amount of mouthwash could take care of that. Illness, perspiration, and chemical changes in the body all had an impact. Subtle changes could be recognized and compensated for, but if you wanted to throw a werewolf off your scent, it was simple—switch your shampoo for one with a more pungent odor, change to a deodorant usually used by the opposite sex, and start adding garlic to your food. Or smoking like a chimney, like Jamie.
They left the dormitory and crossed a cobblestone courtyard lined with statues and crosses to one of the administrative buildings. Inside they found Father Juan pacing in his office. It was a beautiful room, with centuries-old wood paneling cut to look as if it had been folded, and an ebony desk inlaid with mother of pearl. The modern chrome and black-leather office chair was wildly out of place. A stained-glass window panel depicting St. John of the Cross communing with Jesus hung on the wall. Holgar had to agree with the majority that Father Juan, with his high cheekbones, sloping forehead, and large, slightly sunken eyes, resembled the saint very closely.
Regarding the gossip that he was the reincarnation of the man, Holgar was quite skeptical. But there was no denying that Father Juan was a strange one. He seemed to cultivate a persona of weirdness, at least by Holgar’s standards. On Father Juan’s desk sat a copy of Bernini’s statue of St. Theresa of Avila in mystical ecstasy, head thrown back, lips parted, as a chubby cupid of an angel grinned at her, preparing to stab her with the little burning spear in his hand. On other occasions Holgar, a modern, lusty Scandinavian, had inwardly chortled at the rampant sexuality of the piece. There was nothing mystical about what she was feeling. Catholics, as a group, were tremendously repressed, he thought. Look at Antonio.
But today Holgar knew something was going on, and no silent laughter burbled up from him.
Eriko and Antonio were sitting quietly, open curiosity on both their faces. Holgar, Jamie, and Skye took their seats. That left two chairs vacant, one for Father Juan and the one Jenn normally occupied. She was still in the States at her grandfather’s funeral. Holgar missed her. She had an interesting way of viewing the world, and he was certain she could be a great hunter if she just eased up on herself a bit.
Father Juan turned, surveyed the team briefly, and then sat down. He leaned across his desk, folding his hands together. “We have a problem.”
None of them said a word. If there hadn’t been a problem, the priest wouldn’t have awakened them.
“You already know there’s a team of scientists working on a weapon that will help our side in this war. I’ve had news about it.”
“Please tell us, sensei,” Eriko said, bobbing her head.
“Yeah, there isn’t much kills a Curser,” Jamie noted. “If we’ve got something new, that’d be six kinds of bloody great.”
“Is it an artificial sunlight weapon?” Skye asked.
“Or a poisonous gas like weaponized garlic essence?” Holgar suggested.
“I’d be happy with a bomb that exploded wooden shrapnel,” Jamie put in.
Father Juan almost smiled. “Actually, it’s a virus.”
“You mean like the flu?” Jamie snorted disbelievingly.
Father Juan’s expression did not waver. “Sí. I don’t have all the facts, but apparently the virus will attack blood cells of a certain kind.”
“Vampiric kind?” Skye asked.
“Yes.” Father Juan’s voice caught. “It must be injected.”
“Injected,” Jamie said. “As in . . . you give the Curser a jab?”
“How long does it take?” Eriko cut in.
“They’re not sure yet.” Father Juan looked at them. “It must be administered under the skin.”
Skye wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound like much of a weapon.”
“You could make a tranquilizer gun out of it, but that would only affect one vampire at a time, if you could hit them with the dart,” Holgar noted. “It’s not much better than staking them.”
Father Juan took a deep breath. “No, but if what they have actually works, then the next step is to figure out if there’s a way to infect vampires en masse as opposed to one at a time.”
Holgar glanced at Antonio. If that was true, then the virus could kill their vampire as well. The thought must have occurred to the others—Eriko and Skye exchanged uneasy glances, and Jamie grinned from ear to ear.
“They’d been moving the lab twice a week to keep from being found,” Father Juan continued. “But the most recent batch of virus—the most promising to date—was stolen two days ago, before it could be tested. Most of the scientists involved were killed in the attack.”
Jamie pounded a fist into the side of his chair, while Antonio solemnly made the sign of the cross. Skye looked down at the ground, and the muscle along Eriko’s jaw began to twitch. Holgar folded his arms across his chest. There had to be more, or the priest wouldn’t have woken them.
“So the Cursers have it,” Jamie noted. “They probably destroyed it, yeah?”
“We don’t know,” Father Juan said. He frowned slightly. “No one from the government wanted to tell me much of anything. But that much I did get. We know that los Malditos are not one cohesive, organized enemy. They’re fighting among themselves, just as we humans find ourselves divided. One group could refine the gas and use it against another group.”
“Fine, then, let’s leave ’em to it,” Jamie said.
“My son, think,” Father Juan reproved him. “And listen.”
They all leaned forward at the same time, and Holgar bit back a laugh. Even though they were constantly at odds with each other, they were a pack. For a group where everyone stoutly proclaimed their individuality, they all moved alike, fought alike, and often thought alike. They might not want to admit it, but each had a deep-seated need to belong—one that he shared. Holgar was just more aware of it, having an innate instinct to align himself and his actions with the group.
“The army thinks the Cursed Ones have plans to study the virus and develop a vaccine,” Father Juan said.
“Making them stronger,” Jamie mused. “It’s always like that. Your foe learns from fighting you.” He flashed a look at Eriko.
“So, Father, why are you telling us this now?” Skye asked.
“The Spanish army has intelligence about where the Cursed Ones have taken the virus,” Father Juan replied.
“And the government needs somebody to get it back?” Holgar guessed.
“What, us?” Jamie cried.
“Anno, sensei . . .” Eriko’s face clouded as she lapsed into Japanese, which she did whenever she was nervous. Holgar knew Eriko didn’t want to argue with Father Juan. “We’re not . . . James Bond types, Master. We hunt vampires. We don’t do things like this.” She bowed her head. “Please excuse me. I don’t wish to be rude, but . . .”
“She’s right,” Jamie said. “This isn’t what we do. We hunt.”
Father Juan inclined his head and leaned forward in his chair. Holgar was watching the interactions in the room with a close eye. Eriko might be the designated alpha of their pack, but Father Juan was their actual principal. Holgar had wondered, on occasion, if Eriko had been the proper choice to become the Hunter. Of course, everyone in the room except Father Juan thought they should have been given the elixir. They’d all come to th
e academy expecting to be chosen.
“You know there is talk in the Spanish military about shutting us down,” Father Juan ventured. “They fear our independence and what having us around might someday cost them. It’s the days of Francisco Franco all over again, when he did whatever he had to do to keep Spain out of World War Two. Spain never declared war against the Allies or the Germans. By officially remaining neutral, Franco saved thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of Spanish lives.”
“And he turned Spain into a ruthless dictatorship in the process,” Antonio murmured. “What kind of life was that?”
Father Juan’s somber expression softened. “You lived, Antonio. And you fought against Hitler with the Free French Forces.”
“And got converted for his thanks,” Skye reminded the priest. That was all they really knew—that Antonio had fought for the Allies, and that a vampire had attacked him while he was running from the Germans.
“Probably saved him from permanent slaughter,” Jamie said, grunting, as if the statement cost him dearly. “Dying, you know.” No doubt he wished that Antonio’s sire had left well enough alone.
“It’s World War Two all over again,” Antonio muttered. “Nations are bowing to the conqueror in order to spare their people. Our own government wants us to stop fighting its worst enemy. It didn’t work then. It won’t work now.”
“Just like England did to my folk,” Jamie said. “Toss us Irish to the . . . wolves.” He crossed his arms and shook his head. “No way, Father. If they don’t like us, let ’em get their own virus. We’re not their bleedin’ errand boys. This whole thing is bollocksed up.”
“Agreed, Jamie, but I don’t see that we have a choice,” Father Juan countered. “We need the military’s support. And this is a weapon that could win the war. If it works.”
“And if it doesn’t work?” Eriko asked.
“My guess is we won’t live long enough to care,” Holgar said.
“It’s not about the weapon,” Antonio said. “It’s about buying us more time with the military, no?”
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