The red trail led him to the cathedral.
The enormous building loomed before him, scratching the red clouds. For a moment, Jon had to stop and stare. The cathedral towered. Punishing. Crushing. A dark god, making Jon feel so small. The gargoyles leaned over the stone spouts, staring like vultures waiting for their victim to die.
But Jon had no time for terror. The trail of blood led inside.
He ran through the cathedral gates.
He raced down a dark nave. Columns stood all around, shaped as robed monks. Shrieks rose from ahead. Jon ran past the statues, kicking up dust, until he burst into a rotunda. Frescoes of demons and angels covered the round ceiling, circling an oculus.
A stone altar dominated the room. An enormous organ rose behind it, pipes soaring several stories tall.
Carter lay atop the altar like a sacrificial lamb, eyes closed. A figure hunched over him, clad in crimson robes.
The Red Cardinal?
Jon froze. He aimed his gun at the stooped figure.
"Step away from him!" he shouted. "And raise your hands!"
The figure straightened, and his red hood fell back.
Jon froze.
Fire and ice flowed through him.
His hands slipped from his rifle. The weapon dangled from its strap.
Jon's heart lurched. Cold sweat washed him.
"No," he whispered. "No, it can't be. You're dead. You're dead…"
But there he stood before him.
Paul.
"I'm alive, little brother!" Paul smiled. "I never died. I've been here all along. Waiting for you."
He took a step toward Jon, beaming, arms wide.
Tears dampened Jon's eyes.
Memories flooded him. Playing with Paul in their backyard, running around the three apple trees, pretending they were deep in a forest. Fishing with Paul at the river, catching little sunfish and bringing them home for their father to cook. Camping outside, roasting marshmallows, laughing as the little treats caught fire, then blowing them out and feasting. Playing music with Paul, keyboards and guitar weaving together as Kaelyn sang.
Paul. His older brother. His best friend. Here before him on this alien world.
"I saw your coffin," Jon whispered. "We buried you."
Paul shook his head. "No, Jon. That wasn't me. That body was burned so badly. Face melted off. Skull cracked. They thought it was me. But I survived. They abandoned me here on Bahay. You came for me! Put down your rifle, Jon. The war is over. Let's go home. Come closer. Come to me and give me a hug."
Jon took a step closer, then froze.
"Paul, you're bleeding from your mouth."
His brother wiped his lips. And Jon caught a glimpse. Just a split second. But the image seared itself into his mind. Sharp teeth behind the lips. Fangs. Vampiric and bloodstained.
Jon looked past his brother. Looked at Captain Carter, who still lay on the altar.
There were holes in his neck.
Jon looked back at his brother.
"Sing the overture to Falling Like the Rain," Jon said.
Paul frowned, took another step closer. "What?"
"The song I wrote!" Jon said. "Sing it! You remember it. We played that song a million times in the basement. With Kaelyn and George. Sing it for me, Paul!"
"I'm no singer." Paul laughed. "You know that. I—"
"You don't know the song, do you?" Jon said.
Paul's eyes narrowed. His lips peeled back, revealing the fangs.
"You should never have come here," he hissed, this creature in Paul's skin. "This is my world! Die now!"
The shapeshifter leaped toward Jon, robes fluttering, claws extended. It shrieked for blood.
Jon raised his rifle and fired.
A bullet slammed into the creature's chest.
It fell at Jon's feet. Bleeding. Shrieking. The illusion vanished. It was just an old man with thinning white hair, with beady black eyes, with sharp teeth and no lips.
"The Red Cardinal," Jon whispered. "Ruler of North Bahay."
The old man glared, blood flowing from his chest. He tried to rise, then fell again. He coughed blood.
A hoarse, choked voice moaned like wind from a deep cave.
"Jon…"
But it wasn't the cardinal speaking. The voice came from atop the altar.
Carter!
Jon ran toward his captain, leaving the wounded cardinal. He leaned over the altar.
He nearly fell backward.
Jon felt the blood draining from his face.
My God.
Carter seemed fifty years older, a hundred pounds lighter. He lay there, shriveled and wrinkled, almost desiccated. The holes in his neck were still bleeding.
The captain coughed. "He took everything from me, Jon." His voice was hoarse, barely audible. "My blood. My life. Even my soul. He took it all. Ernesto isn't in this city. But the devil is. I fought him, Jon. I fought the devil so hard. But he was too strong."
Jon tried to lift the captain. But as soon as he touched him, a bone snapped. Carter groaned.
His bones are like hollow reeds, Jon thought.
"Sir, I'll get a medic," he said. "I'll be right back, I—"
"It's too late, Jon," Carter whispered. "I can feel myself fading… Whatever remains of me… it's trickling away. Jon… lean closer. It's hard… to speak."
Jon leaned down. "I'm here, sir."
Carter looked up at him. His eyes were sunken. Eyes like water in deep wells.
"Take care of Lizzy, Jon," he rasped. "Tell her I love her. Tell her I'm sorry. And Jon…" He clasped Jon's hand. His fingers were like talons. "Let Ernesto go. Let the war go. Don't die like me. The best revenge is living well. Living well means knowing when to let go."
And then Carter's eyes closed, and he let go.
"Sir?" Jon said. "Sir! Carter!"
He shook his officer. He pounded his chest. But Captain Michael Carter was gone.
Jon lowered his head, mourning the loss of his leader.
"The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows," he said to his captain. "Herman Melville wrote that in Moby Dick. You were true, and you were sorrowful. I don't know if you lived well. But you died well. Godspeed, Captain."
For a moment, Jon just stood in silence, holding the body.
Then a low chuckle filled the church.
The Red Cardinal crawled toward the altar, leaving a trail of blood.
"You fool!" the old man hissed, blood dripping down his chin. "You don't know what you did. Only I keep them contained. Only I control their wrath. Now I will unleash the light of God!"
The cardinal managed to stand, though a hole gaped in his chest. He stumbled toward the altar, shaking, coughing, and grabbed the hilt of the stone sword.
Jon laid his fallen captain down. He raised his rifle, ready to fight.
But the cardinal was not aiming the sword at him. He held the hilt over his head. Only half the stone blade thrust out, ending in a jagged break. The obsidian shards still lay on the altar around the dead captain.
The cardinal cried out, voice echoing through the cathedral, "Behold his light and cower, mortals!"
The cardinal slammed the broken blade into the altar.
The altar, already cracked, split open like a walnut.
Every pipe in the cathedral organ blared. Every note rang out, pealing, filling the nave.
The broken halves of the altar crashed down, revealing a gaping hole. A shaft plunged deep into the cathedral. Into the ground. Into the very heart of Bahay.
"Here they come," the Red Cardinal whispered and licked his bloody lips.
The organ pipes lit up, blazing white, soaring toward the ceiling like naked oaks in a lightning storm. The light was so bright Jon winced, fell back a step. The music pounded him with pulsing waves of bass.
The church began to shake. A column cracked. A statue fell. Cracks raced along the floor. Stained-glass windows shattered, raining a million glittering shards, revealing the fiery sky.
&n
bsp; And from the broken altar, they emerged.
Sphere after sphere of glowing orbs. Furious. Blinding white. Some no larger than marbles. Others as big as a blazing furnace.
The Santelmos.
Jon turned and fled the crumbling cathedral.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Shattering Glass
Jon fled the black cathedral, and the furious alien lights followed.
He ran across the courtyard, heart thudding. When he glanced behind him, he saw them emerge from the cathedral. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
Santelmos.
Glowing balls of white light.
Aliens.
Everyone on Earth had heard of them. Some called them the wills-o-the-wisp. Others called them Saint Elmo's Fire. The Filipinos, ancestors of the Bahayan nation, called them Santelmos. For thousands of years, these effulgent aliens had monitored Earth.
And now here on distant Bahay their fury woke.
As they stormed from the cathedral, they slammed into walls, towers, buttresses. A gargoyle fell to the courtyard, breaking into chunks of gleaming obsidian. A flying buttress crumbled. The rose window, an enormous work of stone and stained glass, blew out in a rain of glimmering shards.
The entire cathedral was crumbling. The aliens, buried for centuries, were emerging.
And they were angry.
The aliens couldn't speak. They had no facial expressions—no faces at all. But anger was the universal language. And they were blazing their anger with blinding white vengeance.
Jon raced down a cobbled road, arms pumping.
From here on the mountaintop, he could see the rest of the city. Basilica draped over the mountainsides—a black labyrinth. The mountain was shaking. Towers and walls were falling. Across the city, the Human Defense Force was still busy fighting rebels. Tanks, armacars, and thousands of soldiers were moving along the cobbled streets. Soldiers pointed at the mountaintop. Cannons swiveled toward the light on the mountain.
As he ran, Jon looked over his shoulder. Basilica Cathedral still crumbled. The Santelmos were gushing out, each alien a drop in a fountain of white fury.
The volcano is erupting again, Jon thought. This time with alien fire.
He ran down a street, and he saw George and Etty, racing toward him. A few other soldiers from the Lions platoon stood farther back.
"What the hell did you do in there?" Etty shouted.
"Run!" Jon said.
"What?" George said. "Jon, what are those things?"
"Run!" Jon shouted. "Shut up and run!"
The friends turned to flee.
But a few soldiers, perhaps too brave for their own good, stood their ground, raised their rifles, and opened fire.
Bullets slammed into the horde of pursuing aliens.
The balls of light flashed brighter. A few Santelmos exploded like suns, bathing the city with searing beams. Walls collapsed. The ground cracked.
One Santelmo, barely larger than an apple, blazed forward and crashed through a soldier's chest. The glowing orb emerged from the man's back, leaving a trail of blood and light. The soldier collapsed.
Another Santelmo, this one the size of a basketball, plowed through another soldier. The poor corporal fell, a mangled mess, barely anything left of him.
All over the city, the aliens were swarming, flowing, leaving trails of light, driving into soldiers. With the labyrinth walls falling, Jon could see it all. The slaughter. A massacre. Some soldiers were fighting, firing on the aliens, desperate to hold them back. A few Santelmos exploded like supernovas. But most still lived, plowing through soldiers left and right, devastating platoons, even carving through tanks and armacars.
The heroes died this day. The brave fell. The cowards—or perhaps the wise—fled.
Jon and his friends were among those fleeing.
We cannot beat this enemy, he knew. We can kill humans. We can tear through Bahayans with our superior weaponry. But we can't stand up to these creatures.
"Where are we going?" Etty cried, running beside Jon.
"Out of the city!" he said. "Anywhere but here is good!"
"How about back to Earth?" George suggested, wheezing and panting. "Ideally, Hawaii."
"Enough banter and just run!" Jon said.
An officer was shouting somewhere through a megaphone. Fall back! Fall back! He hardly needed to. The Human Defense Force, which had so courageously fought into this city, was crumbling like the cathedral. It became a rout. Earth's mighty host—fleeing, dying in the light, their blood spilling over the black streets of Basilica.
Jon looked back to the mountaintop one more time.
The cathedral was gone. But he thought he saw a solitary figure. A man in red robes standing before the geyser of light. And then Santelmos raced toward Jon, blinding him, and he ran again. All around them, soldiers fell.
They were moving fast, approaching the city gates, and Jon was beginning to feel hopeful when that hope shattered against a wall.
Literally.
A building had fallen over, blocking the road. A wall of crumbled basalt lay across his path.
Jon skidded to a halt.
The barricade was too tall, too steep. He'd never be able to climb it.
"A dead end!" Etty cried.
Jon spun around, his back to the barricade.
They streamed forth. The Santelmos.
A storm of glowing balls, tearing through soldiers. Corpses lay beneath them, gouged with holes, burned with white fire.
"Jon, come on!" George shouted. The giant was trying to climb the barricade, only to fall. "Etty, push me!"
"Dammit, George!" she shouted. "I'll climb, you push, you big dumb hippo!" She looked at Jon. "Jon, hurry! They're coming!"
A few last soldiers stood farther down the street. They were firing, standing their ground. A last stand. The Santelmos mowed through them. One alien was the size of a pumpkin. He burst through a soldier's torso. The head and four limbs thumped down. The torso was gone.
The aliens were only a second or two away now.
George and Etty, still scrambling to climb the blockade, raised their guns.
"Wait!" Jon said. "Don't shoot."
He stood, rifle lowered, and raised his hands.
He faced the Santelmos.
The aliens slowed. They hovered before him. So close he could reach out and touch them. Dozens of them. Balls of glowing light. But they were not beings of pure energy. When Jon squinted, he could see vague shapes within the glowing spheres. They had physical bodies in there. He could detect little more than hints—round abdomens and long, skinny limbs, like a hundred spider legs stretching out from a central lobe.
"I know one of you," Jon said. "A young one named Crisanto."
The orbs glowed brighter. Jon squinted. George and Etty knelt behind him, covering their eyes.
"I know that you're kind," Jon said. "That you're looking after the Bahayans, your adopted people. Like Crisanto looks after Maria. Maria is my wife. If you care for her like Crisanto does, let me see her again. And let me share your story with my people."
The Santelmos floated closer.
One of them, a small being, no larger than a heart, swirled around Jon. It bobbed forward and bumped into him. It was the slightest of touches. Jon flinched, expecting searing pain. But he felt only warmth.
A few other Santelmos swirled around George and Etty, curious, tapping them.
"We're with him!" Etty said, pointing her thumb at Jon.
George nodded vehemently. "We're his best friends! He'd be devastated if aliens killed us."
The aliens circled the fireteam once more. Then one came to hover directly before Jon's face. It seemed to be staring. And through the glare, Jon could see its slender, thread-like limbs swaying inside the ball of light. It reminded him of a neuron emitting electricity. He wondered if the Santelmos formed a hive brain, whether Crisanto himself formed a part of this great consciousness, watching him now.
Jon heard words in his mind.
Let her go. You will bring her only sorrow.
"Do you mean Maria?" Jon said.
Never see her again. You bring tragedy, son of Earth. We are the children of light, and we are merciful. We will spare your life today. Spare her life tomorrow.
With that, the Santelmos swerved around the companions, leaving trails of light, and slammed into the barricade of stone. The wall shattered. Bricks flew every which way. The luminous aliens roared forth like a river through a crashed dam, drowning fleeing soldiers.
But they all flowed around Jon and his friends. Fireteam Symphonica stood like an island in the torrent.
And then the light died.
The last soldiers were fleeing to the foothills.
The Santelmos rose to hover above the city, forming a protective dome like glowing clouds.
Jon and his friends walked through the smashed barricade, down the streets, and toward the city gates. They passed through ruins. Toppled buildings. Fallen walls. And everywhere the dead—corpses of Bahayans and Earthlings alike. Mostly Earthlings. Corpses burnt and mangled.
At first, Jon knelt to take their dog tags. He collected a bundle, mementos of the dead. Finally Etty placed a hand on his shoulder, looked at him sadly. And Jon nodded. He understood.
There were too many dead.
They walked on by. They left them behind. Perhaps, if the Santelmos left the sky, the army would send in teams to collect the corpses. Perhaps the dead would remain here forever, ghosts in the labyrinth.
And you will remain, Carter, Jon thought, looking back at the mountaintop.
The cathedral was gone, burying Captain Carter's body. But even from here, Jon thought he saw movement among those distant ruins. A flutter of red cloth. He could feel a dark presence.
You're still alive, Red Cardinal. Jon balled his fists. You lost your cathedral. But you won this battle. This is not over yet. Someday we'll meet again.
Jon turned away and left the city.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Blood of Lindenville
Kaelyn walked through Lindenville, New Jersey, grieving for her beloved town.
Stars hung in the windows of houses. Golden stars for soldiers serving on Bahay. Purple stars for soldiers fallen. Every home—with stars. With children killing or dying. This town was affluent. The colonial houses were lovingly maintained, many predating the Alien Wars. Pumpkins rested on patios, their carved faces mocking. Red and gold leaves rustled on elms and birches, and apple pies were cooling on windowsills, filling the streets with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. American flags fluttered on whitewashed porches. A beautiful town. But there was no more happiness in Lindenville. It was a broken place.
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