by Amy Corwin
“Pressure from the south?” Kethan stared at him, his mind whirring uselessly as he tried to evaluate the implications of the Cardinal’s words.
“He didn’t have details, or at least none he shared with me. However, a Spanish-speaking vampire was apprehended recently by another priest. The creature refused to speak and died shortly thereafter.”
Meaning the priest had questioned him vigorously and the vampire had died before divulging anything of import, Kethan thought bitterly. Quicksilver was wrong if she thought the Church always approached the issue of vampires with open hands, an open heart, and soft words.
Most members of the Church adamantly refused to believe vampires existed at all, and the highest authorities fostered that notion. Of those few who knew the truth, many remained convinced that any negotiation with vampires was the work of the devil. The Cardinal officially supported the side that said demons, possession, and the undead did not exist. However, in private, he at least listened to Father Donatello and Kethan.
“Unfortunately,” the Cardinal continued, “there is little beyond what we have just divulged to you. Those are the rumors that Father Donatello was investigating concerning a new clan. If the reports are true and this foreign clan is putting the pressure on Sutton’s group, then perhaps Martyn Sutton panicked, feeling crushed between this southern clan and hunters like that woman you are protecting. Have you considered that he may have contacted us for those reasons? If he’s caught between the two enemies, then we have a dangerous situation. Trapped animals behave irrationally and violently.”
“You believe that rumor is true, then? Do you believe this other group of vampires is responsible for Father Donatello’s disappearance?”
“It is possible,” the Cardinal answered reluctantly. “Or it may be that Sutton, himself, feels frustrated by the process and is trying to expedite matters. In any event, we shall call the authorities and see if they can find Father Donatello before it is too late.”
Calling anyone would be a disaster. Most humans refused to believe in the undead and bringing strangers into the mix would be more likely to cause Joe’s death than save him.
“Please, let me investigate,” Kethan said. “Give me a chance before you call anyone else.”
This time, the Cardinal made no effort to hide the dislike hardening his face. “It’s more complex than you understand or ever understood.” He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “You have placed us in a difficult position. You left the orders and then instituted this impossible scheme. How can we trust you? You may have decided the church is no longer important to you and reacquainted yourself with your old friends. Vampires are the enemies of humans and always will be.” He held up a hand when Kethan stiffened, furious at the implication that he would deliberately betray Joe. “You may have compromised the negotiations or initiated the events that have resulted in Father Donatello’s absence.”
“I would never betray the Church or Father Donatello.” Kethan worked to keep his voice low and calm. “He trusted me—”
“He was a trusting man. Some thought, too trusting.”
“I’d never betray him, or you.” Kethan’s face was so stiff with anger he could barely speak.
“I haven’t spoken of these matters outside this room,” the Cardinal said, his voice cold and unyielding, “and as I promised, I will not. However, silence doesn’t change the fact that you were a vampire for over four hundred years. You may have saved Father Donatello and regained your soul, but that doesn’t change the facts. Despite common sense, your actions may have prejudiced Father Donatello in your favor and convinced him to participate in these negotiations with you as the facilitator.
“I am not as enthusiastic or so easily persuaded as Father Donatello. I told him I opposed not only the talks, but to your role in them, as well. One can be too close to the issue to mediate successfully, and your reasons for leaving the priesthood were vague, much too vague to reassure me.”
Kethan shifted uncomfortably, his chest tight, waiting for the bad news he knew was coming. “If you don’t trust me, why call me when he went missing?”
“Because you may still be willing to help Father Donatello, in spite of your perverse sympathies.”
“Well, you are right there. I would do anything to help him.” The tense muscles in Kethan’s jaw compressed his words into bricks. His fury almost made him forget the importance of the man sitting across from him, judging him, and waiting for him to prove that he was untrustworthy and sided with the undead.
Would he ever find forgiveness for that one mistake? While he had been a vampire for four hundred years, he’d spent the time rebellious and bitter after realizing the emptiness of his shadow life. When the opportunity arose, he’d been glad, almost relieved, to give his life to save a human, particularly one as kind as Father Donatello.
The act had resulted in an unexpected and initially unwanted chance to reclaim his immortal soul, and in that moment of grace he realized one thing: he had to give others that same opportunity.
Only Father Donatello, the man who had listened to and accepted Kethan’s confession, understood the reason behind Kethan’s drive to find a way to live with vampires in peace.
“Give us a reason to trust you. You’re a recidivist who chose to leave the church,” the Cardinal said.
“I didn’t abandon the church. I lacked the vocation.” He focused on breathing evenly and keeping his voice reasonable.
Recidivist. The appellation burned more than the Cardinal’s mistrust. The Cardinal used the term for men who gave up their immortal, vampiric life to become mortal again, like ravening wolves changing back into sheep.
Kethan was sure the Cardinal had deliberately chosen a term laden with negative connotations because he did not believe anyone could truly repent or change: an unforgiving attitude for someone in such a high position in a church that promised divine forgiveness if one confessed his sins and repented. Although to be fair, Kethan was almost positive that he was the only “recidivist” the Cardinal knew, or knew of. Most likely, the Cardinal thought he was an anomaly and that such a thing would never happen again.
The Cardinal glanced away as if bored. “Nonetheless, those creatures are your friends.”
“No. I was never a member of the Lost Colonist clan.” The Lost Colonists, a group of men and women who’d disappeared at Roanoke, Virginia, sometime between their initial landing in 1587 and White’s return to the colony in 1590.
The unfortunate group formed the core of Sutton’s clan, and Martyn Sutton had been one of the colonists. He’d endured the hardships of the journey to the new world only to be attacked and converted by a master vampire. Then, a few months ago, the clan’s leader had died at the hand of another recidivist, leaving Sutton to claim the title of master.
The Cardinal waved a hand to cut off Kethan’s protests. “Your actions will determine if we continue these negotiations. Find Father Donatello. Then determine if there is truth to the rumors of a southern clan.” His eyes glittered with anticipation, delighting in the prospect of ending the talks and Kethan’s interference in Church matters. The Cardinal could finally go back to the Church’s official position that the undead did not exist and rest easy. “If you betray us, Mr. Sutton would be well advised to leave this area with his clan. I will resume my cleansing activities. Some of our priests may be experts at debate, but they also have training in the use of the sword and the stake, and they aren’t recidivists.”
“I thought they believed the undead don’t exist.”
“Precisely. We don’t, and we will make sure the undead don’t exist.”
“I understand.” Kethan rose, eager to escape the poisonous atmosphere of disapproval and unspoken threats.
The Cardinal made the sign of the cross when Kethan caught his gaze. Kethan nodded wryly and turned on his heel, leaving quickly.
In the hallway, Father Connolly awaited him and led him back to Quicksilver. She sat curled up in a chair set a few yards
away from a blaring television. Some chirpy blonde reported that the major roads were clear and traffic was moving smoothly for those leaving early for work.
Quicksilver’s chin was propped up on her hand, and she was sound asleep.
Thank God the Cardinal had not permitted her inside his study to hear what he had to say about Kethan’s past.
Recidivist. How would she have reacted to the news that he was once a vampire and had reverted back to human?
As he shook her shoulder, a surge of desire hit him to drag her away and start a new life elsewhere where they could forget all of the pain and complexities they now faced.
“What happened?” She yawned and stretched her arms above her head. Her face looked pink and defenseless, her expression softened by sleep.
“Father Donatello really is gone. Come on. Let’s get something to eat and see if we can find him.”
She trotted after him, scanning left and right, her hands hidden behind her back. “Are they sure? Maybe he’s in the bathroom, taking a shower or something.”
“No. They’re sure. He’s gone.”
They walked through the doors into the clear morning light, brilliant and blinding. The previous night’s rain had stripped the last leaves off the trees, their black branches twisted outward from the thick trunks like aged arthritic fingers reaching out to grasp the last threads of life.
“I’m sorry about Father Donatello. I like him.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “I didn’t think you liked anyone.”
“I’m getting soft. Must be old age.” She studied him, her eyes a little too discerning in the golden sunshine as they climbed into his car. “You’re worried. It’s more than just Father Donatello, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
She touched his arm as he shifted into reverse. “You were in there a long time. What did they say?”
He repeated what the Cardinal had told him, leaving out the personal information about his past. The last thing he wanted was to have her sneak up on him and decapitate him because she had decided he remained a vampire at heart.
As he drove, he flicked several glances at her, thinking about the possibility of a southern clan. No wonder Sutton was nervous. Fate held the honed, triple points of a trident a few inches from his face: humans, a southern clan of vampires, and his own clan; a triad of violent death.
“There’s something else, Quicksilver.”
“Nothing good ever comes after that statement.” Her light voice quavered. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“I didn’t like it.” He smiled to reassure her and make the information sound less horrifying. “There might be a southern clan trying to force Martyn Sutton out of this territory.”
She inhaled sharply as her face drained of color. Then she turned away and stared through the window at his house as he pulled up to the curb. “A southern clan? What do you mean? Some good old Georgia boys?” She tried to laugh. “Or a bunch of Confederate soldiers too ornery to die?”
“No. I don’t think so.” He sensed her panic and considered his own doubts. He guessed the “wrong people” she’d met in Mexico were vampires, given the scars on her neck. Had they escaped her vengeance and grown stronger in the interim? Had they followed her here? He reached over and squeezed her arm before getting out of the vehicle and circling around to open her door. “But I don’t really know. Clans are widely spaced. I don’t think there’s another one on the east coast. Before Sutton, the only other master vampire was on the west coast, in Oregon.”
“That’s not southern. Oregon isn’t in the South. You meant southern United States, right?” Her voice sounded as if she were having difficulty concentrating. He caught her arm when she tripped on the curb getting out of the car.
Her creamy, translucent skin glowed in the early morning light. Her profile seemed etched as cleanly against the pale blue and pink sky as a cameo, devastatingly fragile and vulnerable.
She squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into the nap of her neck, massaging the muscles with tense desperation.
“No. It’s possible they’re from Mexico,” he said. She stiffened but remained silent. Her fingers shook as she grabbed the railing to climb the few steps to his front door. He hesitated, and finally continued, “The death of Sutton’s master destabilized the situation. It’s possible a South American clan wants to expand northward and views Sutton as weak enough to be vulnerable.”
She blinked rapidly in the misty sunlight and stumbled again on the threshold. “We have to kill them. Now. All of them. This whole situation is for crap. It can’t wait anymore. We don’t have a choice.”
“No. That would only escalate into more bloodshed. If we destroy Sutton’s clan, it’ll only encourage other vampires to fill the void.”
“Then we kill them, too!” She whirled around, her eyes silver and wild. “There must be men who can kill a vampire, not just talk them to death. There must be someone who can help me and Father Donatello.”
“I’m trying to help you both.”
“Right!” she snapped. “You took away my weapons, that was a lot of help, wasn’t it? And you’re trying to make a deal with the devil. Are you sure you didn’t have something to do with Father Donatello’s disappearance?” Her voice rose higher. “Maybe you thought you could blackmail me into good behavior. That’s it, isn’t it? You thought I’d sit back and do nothing if you told me it would save his life. You thought I’d obey like a nice little girl if Father Donatello were held hostage to ensure my compliance.”
He threw open the door and thrust her forward. She brushed past him, her elbow “accidentally” hitting him in the solar plexus.
When he was able to catch his breath, he followed her. “You know I didn’t.”
She looked away from him, a mulish set to her jaw. He clasped her hand and held it until she looked at him. The disdain in her eyes tightened the already-stripped screws on his temper.
“I had nothing to do with Father Donatello’s disappearance! You know that. You’ve been with me for two days.” Her hand twisted within his, the flesh cold with fear as she tried to pull away.
His gaze fell to the scars on her neck. “Are you sure you killed the vampires in Mexico?”
“Yes, I’m positive.” She nodded, prying at his fingers with her free hand.
“Do you think their clan might want revenge, then?” he asked.
Finally tearing herself out of his grip, she ran into the living room ahead of him. “No! And I’m not afraid of them, or any vampire. But even you must see now—we need to destroy all of them!”
“You are afraid. What really happened to you?”
“Nothing! I told you everything! It’s all in the past—over. Done.”
“But—”
“No one’s after me for revenge or anything else. Anyway, if a vampire really wanted to kill me, I’d be dead by now. You know that. And besides, I’d know if they were hunting me.” She rubbed her hands against her hips before plunging them into her pockets. In a voice low with despair, she whispered, “Why won’t you give me back my whips?”
Kethan stared into her tortured, wild eyes, knowing she no longer saw him. Her gaze was focused inward on something impossible to imagine: the horrors of her past.
Gently cradling her against him, he put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her until the stiff resistance in her body trickled away with her tears. She crumpled and buried her face against his jacket. After the muffled rasp of a strangled cry, she tensed again and tried to thrust him away, however, he maintained his embrace until she stopped struggling. A long minute later, she gave up and gingerly rested her cheek against his neck, her forearms braced against his chest like a fragile shield of bone and sinew.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“I don’t need confession.” Her voice was barely audible, muffled by his collar, although he felt the warm breath of her words tremble past his throat.
“We all need the relief of
confession.”
She glanced up at him, her lashes dark and beaded with tears. “I already told you everything. Everything that’s important. It was…stupid. I was stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, just human like the rest of us.”
“Human.” She laughed, the sound bitter and raw. “Isn’t ‘human’ just a nice synonym for ‘idiot’?”
Ignoring her remark, Kethan led her to the loveseat and made her sit next to him, his arm draped over her bowed shoulders. She felt so slight, so small, her body unbelievably fragile. Her shoulders curved inward even more as if the weight of his arm were too much to bear.
She shivered and clutched her forearms, her gaze fixed on the empty fireplace. When she remained silent, he moved his arm to the back of the seat, although he kept his hand on her shoulder. She needed the reassurance and support of human touch, and he refused to abandon her to her terrifying memories.
“It was stupid,” she repeated. She licked her lips as if unsure how to start. “I-um, I told you my parents were archeologists?”
He nodded.
“They were thrilled to find a new dig site in Mexico. I remember how excited they were when they left. I was about twelve…well, that’s not important.” She waved a shaky hand. “Anyway, they talked about nothing else except this opportunity—their big chance. I remember those exact words, ‘this is our big chance.’ So they packed up and sent me to live with my grandmother.”
She straightened a little and rubbed the back of her left hand. “That was fine—okay. I was in school so they couldn’t drag me with them. And they wrote for a while, but it was hard for them, I could tell. They were probably in a very remote camp, and it couldn’t have been easy to get letters carried to a town where they could get mailed. So of course, the letters tapered off.”
The excuses she gave for her parents’ callous behavior couldn’t excuse the pain they caused—were still causing to—her.
It made it difficult for Kethan to listen without breaking into a rant about irresponsibility and selfishness. He clenched his jaw and managed to ask, “Do you remember where they went?”