Vanquished. Part 12

Holgar froze. Lucifer was Antonio's grandsire.

"Vampire Kingdom," the man said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Spare the werewolves."

"For helvede!" Holgar cried as he dropped the man and raced back into the forest separating the river from the safe house where Antonio and Jenn were. In his mind's eye he saw a pack of werewolves and human collaborators breaking down the door, murdering Jenn and staking Antonio. He whined; then he felt himself begin to change. Hair covered his hands; his fingers began to extend.

He threw back his head and howled.

Then everything reversed and he was human again. Just human, running as fast as he could, bursting out of the copse of trees, across a narrow road, into the warren of structures, to their front door.

"Hey!" he shouted, because he shouldn't call out their names. "Hey!"

There was no answer. He tried the latch. It was locked. He pounded once, then threw himself against the door as hard as he could. No good; he tried again. This time it gave.

He burst across the threshold to find Antonio with his fangs sunk into Jenn's neck. She was struggling against him, but he had both her hands in one of his, stretched above her head.

So much blood. Dear G.o.d, Jenn- With a roar he tackled Antonio, and they rolled together away from Jenn. Holgar hit Antonio in the face as hard as he could, then whirled around, scooped up Jenn in his arms, and bolted for the doorway into the sunlight. The blessed sunlight.

His clothes were streaked with blood. It terrified him how much blood there was.

Then he saw two men in dark robes rus.h.i.+ng toward him. Each had a cross extended.

"Saint Andrew," one said, in heavily accented English. "What's happened?"

"Antonio is in there; he's gone bad," Holgar said frantically, struggling to convey his meaning in English. "Where can I take her?"

"We have a vehicle."

The man turned and pointed to the opposite end of the alley, where a dark gray van sat idling. A man behind the wheel gestured to Holgar.

Behind Holgar, Antonio's voice rose in anguish.

"Jenn! What have I done? What have I done?"

"We'll deal with him," the man said to Holgar. "Take care of her."

"It's light out," Holgar reminded him. "If you take him out in the sun-"

The man looked at him with a deadly serious expression. "We know."

BOOK TWO.

ANKOU.

I remained, lost in oblivion.

My face I reclined on the Beloved.

-St. John of the Cross.

sixteenth-century mystic of Salamanca.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

It's true; you can't trust anyone when you're a hunter. It's the hardest, most terrible truth that can ever be learned. How do you fight when those who are supposed to be on your side can turn on you in a moment? Even those who love you?

I wish I had never gone to Salamanca. I wish I had lived my life in ignorance. But then I could have ended up just like Brooke. Or Heather. I don't know which is worse. Death or conversion?

I'm not sure how much more I can take.

-from the diary of Jenn Leitner,

retrieved from the ruins

LAKE COMO, ITALY.

HEATHER.

She was hungry. Or thirsty. She didn't know what to call it. All she knew was that it burned, hotter than anything she had ever known.

Which was ironic, because her skin was cold as ice.

Which was terrible, because there was nothing she could do to warm it. Not that she felt cold or warmth, not in any real way.

Heather walked across the marble floor, then her toes curled as they sank into a thick circular carpet.

She didn't remember where she'd lost her shoes. It didn't really matter. Her skin was practically impervious to everything now. Even when she'd stepped on some broken gla.s.s, her cut had healed the moment she plucked the shard from between her toes. The pain had been nothing, more like the whisper of a touch to let her know that something was different. Wrong.

Everything about her was wrong. And tired. And cold.

And so very hungry.

She thought she might have eaten someone a while back. She wasn't sure. It sort of all blurred together.

A rabbit.

She knew she'd eaten a rabbit at some point.

Bugs Bunny.

Thumper.

White Rabbit.

Brer Rabbit.

Peter Cottontail.

Yes, she had eaten someone named Peter. But he wasn't a rabbit.

She'd give anything right now for a rabbit.

Something moved in the dark, and she dropped behind a couch to the plush white carpet, fluffy like a bunny. She balled her fists into the velvety twists and listened.

She was in a palace. Lucifer owned it. She'd heard others talking about him. They were scared of him.

She'd never believed in the Devil. Now she was a devil. But not for long. Because she was going to kill Aurora and then- She wouldn't let herself think about "then." Couldn't. All she could think about, all she must think about, was Aurora. She mustn't eat until she ripped the woman's throat out and drank of her blood.

Like she drank mine. Drank it all up.

d.a.m.n, she was thirsty.

She listened as she heard the voices of two vampires. One had a strong Russian accent. She felt like she should hold her breath so they couldn't hear her.

But she didn't breathe.

Not anymore.

One more reason to kill Aurora.

"We'll be leaving within the hour. Are all the preparations made to transport my matroyshkas?"

"Yes, sir. They've been readied for the journey."

"Good. And the other thing?"

"Taken care of."

What other thing?

Her curiosity pa.s.sed. It wasn't important. All that was important was killing Aurora.

"Good. Lucifer, Aurora, and I leave tonight for Transylvania."

The other vampire started to snicker and then quickly stopped.

"And no one must know of my plans." The Russian's voice was hard, and she knew what was coming next.

"You can trust me," the stupid vampire who hadn't figured it out said.

There was a slight noise and then a gurgling sound. The scent of blood filled the air, and a moment later a body hit the ground with a thud. She could see ash swirl in the air as it disintegrated.

"I can trust you now," the Russian said.

She listened as he walked out of the room. Then Heather scrambled out from behind the couch and ran toward the pile of ash on the floor, but the blood had already turned. She picked up the ashes in her hands, whimpering, tasting it.

The blood was all gone, but she had smelled it.

She started to cry, and blood tears streaked down her cheeks. She wiped them with her fingers and then sucked the drops from her skin, shaking with desire.

Soon she would have to feed.

SOUTHERN FRANCE.

FATHER JUAN AND ESTHER LEITNER.

They were in the middle of nowhere. Father Juan pushed his way through the thicket, feeling dozens of branches from the different shrubs catching at his clothes. Behind him Esther trudged, silent, a trooper who didn't complain about the cold or the scratches or the seemingly endless wandering around.

At her insistence he had put aside the clothes that would mark him as a priest and wore camouflage clothes he had packed in a duffel. Although they helped him blend into his surroundings, they itched.

They were fugitives. Outlaws.

Condemned by the Church, hunted by the Cursed Ones. It was hard to draw breath, because it seemed their cause was such a hopeless one.