Darkness Calls (14 page)

Old mother
was Zee’s name for the Hunters who had come before. Blood for blood was a call of revenge, and the mention of a debt meant there would be no argument about it. I would not be able to stop them from taking what was theirs.

“When did you know him?” I whispered to Zee. “Did he try to hurt Mom?”

He shook his head, pressing the tips of his claws into the stone floors. “Not him, but one just like. Same heart. Gotta pay the debt. Gotta bleed.”

I had no time to prod him for a better explanation. I placed a gentle hand on Zee’s warm shoulder. “Business first, then do what you must. But not before Grant is safe.”

“Big man first,” he agreed, and searched my face with a gravity and concern that touched me to the quick. “Walk light in shadows, sweet Maxine. Walk with wings.”

He had never said such a thing to me, but he placed his sharp hand over his heart as he spoke, and I bent close to kiss his brow.

“My little boy,” I whispered. “My best friend.”

“Until the end,” he agreed softly, and faded into the shadows.

I still heard voices. I peered around the edge of the recess and was momentarily distracted by architecture: vaulted ceilings with carved spines that filled my vision like the frozen bones of bat wings; and columns that rose like bound silver trees made of stone. I imagined heartbeats inside the walls, as though the ghosts of prayers still lingered, and while the air felt as if it would collapse with shadows, I imagined strength, as well—quiet, solid, and enduring.

You should be like this,
I told myself.
Be this.

Instead of feeling as though the core of me was a butterfly, flitting from one flesh-eating flower to the next. No direction, no clue. Just hopping into the mouth of danger, because that was what butterflies did.

I did not want to be that stupid. No one in this world could afford for me to be so dumb.

The front of the cathedral felt very far away, but I saw three men standing beneath a few scattered lights, and one of them leaned on a cane. I debated my entrance—whether I should make myself known at all—but I heard Cribari use a sharp tone, and I gave up. I left the shadows and walked down the side aisle of the cathedral. The heels of my cowboy boots clicked like tiny gunshots. I felt watched, and tilted my head just enough to see movement on the balcony far above and behind, at the back of the church.

Ahead of me, the men turned. I was too far, and it was too dark, for me to be seen properly—but I glimpsed Grant’s small smile. The sounds of my footsteps, he had told me, looked like licorice spitting sparks of quicksilver, and I thought of that as I walked, and put a bounce in my step as Dek and Mal bled close against me. They were coiled over my shoulders, but growing ever lighter—using the shadows beneath my hair to fade, and hide their mass from sight. Interdimensional trickery; like a bottomless bag they could rest within, emerging only when needed. Their tongues rasped against my ear.

I was grateful for their soft touch. Father Cribari looked like he wanted to eat some kittens when he finally saw me.
Sharp man,
echoed Zee’s voice in my head, and it was true. The priest suddenly reminded me of a new nail: functional, capable of causing damage, but not much good without someone to use him.

I wondered when I would meet the one holding the hammer.

Father Cribari started walking down the aisle as soon as he recognized my face, and was practically running by the time he reached me.
Surprise, surprise,
I thought.
You son of a bitch.

Sweat glistened on his brow, and his cheeks were pink. His gaze roved down my body, pricking my skin—and I felt a wave of distaste ride over me like a hard fever.

“How unexpected,” he murmured, a trace of actual confusion and unease flickering through his eyes, before being swallowed up by that frigid mask. I realized suddenly that he had not been in communication with anyone related to my kidnapping. He did not know they had failed; or, if he suspected, he had not expected me to be here. Not so soon, if at all. Which meant this really was a shock.

“Oh,” I said. “It’s only going to get better.”

CHAPTER 9

F
ATHER Cribari’s eyes narrowed, his skin slick enough to grease a pan.
Dark Mother,
I thought, and wanted to hear him say those words again, as though it might loosen something inside me. I wished Jack were here, too.

Grant reached us. His bad leg slowed him down, and he was breathing a little harder than normal. Still dressed in the same clothes I had last seen him in. He looked rumpled, unshaven, though his eyes were bright and sharp. His flute case hung from the strap around his chest. He had brought the gold Muramatsu, and I caught the gleam of it, just over his shoulder. Like a sword, or a single golden arrow waiting in its quiver. Relief swept through me, something close to giddiness. As though I stood in the storm of a small miracle.

“Darling,” he said. “What
ever
are you doing here?”

“I decided to take a walk,” I replied, loving the fierce, hot light in his eyes, “and ended up in China. What a remarkable coincidence.”

Father Cribari looked ill. I heard feet shuffling, a faint cough, and the third man who had been present near the pulpit appeared from behind Grant. Another priest, dressed in black slacks and simple shirt. I noticed his hands first because they were clutched so tightly across his soft stomach. He had round cheeks, deep brown skin, and black curly hair cropped close to his skull. Large drowning eyes stared into mine.

He recognized me. I was sure of it. And then he glanced down, sideways—to Grant, Cribari, anything but me.

“She cannot be here,” he said urgently. “She was not approved by our government liaison. If he returns . . .”

“Access to the cathedral is regulated by the Chinese government,” Grant rumbled. “We had to have special permission for tonight. Our chaperone went outside to wait.”

Father Cribari wiped the back of his hand across his brow, his fingers trembling slightly. “You must have jumped the fence to escape his notice. Or found some other . . . unnatural means of entrance.”

The other priest gave him a stern look, but Cribari did not seem to care or notice. He was trying to act like a different man in this place, outwardly confident, less sickly in his appearance. Like a cat with one paw in the cream—and another on the corpse of a warm mouse.

But Grant had been right. I made him nervous. I scared him. Especially now.

Pretend,
I told myself.
Pretend you don’t know he had anything to do with hurting you.

Grant stepped in and took my hand. His grip was strong, warm. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

The other priest flinched. “No.”

Father Cribari touched his shoulder. “It is allowed, Brother Lawrence.”

He said the words like his tongue was gilded with steel. Father Lawrence gave him a hard look, but kept his mouth shut. Barely. He made a small gurgling sound as Grant led me back down the aisle—but not toward the pulpit. Instead, he walked with me toward the rear of the cathedral and the large wooden doors. His cane and my cowboy boots struck the floor in a quick, easy rhythm.

But as soon as his back was turned from the other two men, his face changed; calm levity draining into a stone-cold mask.

“The murders didn’t happened here,” he whispered to me. “And they won’t let me see Father Ross. They insisted on this tour—a tour at
midnight
—and won’t talk about anything but Gothic architecture.”

“They’re playing you,” I said softly. “And you’re playing along. Why?”

“Instinct,” he said. “And because they’re both hiding something big. Might be the same thing; could be different. I can see that Father Lawrence is a good man, but it’s also clear he knows what Antony is doing. I don’t understand that connection. Or why he recognized you, too.”

“I’m a popular girl,” I muttered, noticing for the first time how Grant refused to call Father Cribari by his proper title. It was always Antony. A small act of defiance. Refusing to give the man respect.

“You okay?” I asked him.

“Better now,” he told me, but his voice was slightly hoarse, and for a moment all he did was stare at me. I could not look away. It was good to see Grant’s face. So damn good.

“You made it,” he said.

“Of course,” I replied, though I suffered, for one moment, the memories of what had led me here, and what I knew.

Grant’s gaze flickered to the crown of my head. “Maxine.”

“Cribari tried to have me killed,” I breathed. “Twice. I think he’s getting his orders from an Avatar. All of this has been contrived. I just don’t know why. I don’t even understand why they haven’t tried to kidnap you yet. They’ve had all the time in the world.”

Grant froze. I caught him before he could turn around—squeezing his hand so hard he winced. I forced him to keep moving, but he stumbled, and the sounds of his cane hitting the stone floor sounded like gunshots.

“Don’t let on you know,” I told him urgently. “We’ll find your friend—if he’s really here—and then we get the hell out.”

“First job is to get out of this cathedral,” he whispered hoarsely, his fingers tight around mine. “Dear God. I’m going to kick Antony’s rear end.”

We passed through the massive open doorway into a still, cool night. Ahead of us, the iron gateway, and the guardhouse was there. The men were standing outside now, conferring quietly. Men who could make my life very difficult, in ways that had nothing to do with the supernatural.

I hated the intensity of their watchfulness. I hated my sudden sense of helplessness. I was supposed to be one of the most powerful people in the world, but I felt like a charlatan with a tin sword compared to human laws and bureaucracy—and the enormity of everything else I was responsible for. I was meant to save the world. I had been born to save lives. I could barely save myself.

“I miss zombies,” I muttered under my breath. “I miss the goddamn demons. What the hell happened to me?”

“Your world got bigger,” Grant murmured, and in a much louder, surprisingly inane voice said, “The Jesuits built this place. Nineteen-ten, I think, but the order’s had a presence here since 1608. The land was given to them by a high-ranking Ming Dynasty official, who converted to Catholicism.”

“Really,” I said stiffly. “Do tell.”

He continued leading me toward the gate as though I belonged there, and that this was part of some grand tour. Every step wrought a deeper transformation; arrogance rolled off him, entitlement, privilege; until a completely different man limped at my side, the kind who fit the stereotype of the filthy rich and handsome: an intolerable bore.

“The cathedral,” he continued unashamedly, when we were almost at the gate, “was used to store grain during the Cultural Revolution. The nuns were kept under house arrest. See that building across the street? That’s where they lived. Now it’s a steak restaurant.”

“Fascinating,” I replied, but I would have said the same if he told me he liked to dress up as a chipmunk and juggle acorns. I hadn’t heard a word he said. Father Cribari and Father Lawrence were behind us, and my focus was split between them and the men standing still by the guardhouse door, dressed conservatively in plain black slacks and short-sleeved dress shirts. Their eyes were cold, assessing. Especially when they looked at me.

I tried to put on my best face. I had never spent much time in front of a mirror, so I didn’t know what that was, but I looked the men straight in the eye and tried not to appear guilty. Just confident. A girl on tour with her guy. Nothing worth spending time on—not at this hour, not at their pay grade.

“This,” said one of the men, in faintly accented English, “was not part of the agreement.”

Surprise and a hint of outrage filled Grant’s face. “Mr. Shu, I know that Father Cribari and Father Lawrence arranged this tour at the last minute, but I was absolutely certain they told you my wife was coming along, as well.”

Father Lawrence made a small choking sound. I got a cheap thrill. Mr. Shu narrowed his eyes and glanced at his companion—who looked me up and down with all the emotion of a rock. I had the distinct impression he was adding up all the parts of me—appearance, manner, the way I clutched Grant’s hand—and coming up with a narrative that did not satisfy him in the slightest.

“I did not see you go in,” said the man, and there was a wary tenseness to his voice that belonged to any man forced to do his job at an ungodly hour: tired, and a bit exasperated. I liked him. I wanted to give him an easy way out.

“I was running late,” I replied, wondering if a person could look young and innocent simply by trying—suspecting I had about as much luck of accomplishing that as a crocodile would have of turning vegetarian.

The other official plucked a toothpick out of his pocket and jammed it in his mouth. “Passport.”

“Ah,” I replied. “I believe I left that at the hotel.”

Or an apartment more than six thousand miles away. Since it was night here, then it was daylight in Seattle. None of the boys would be able to flash home to retrieve my passport. I saw Zee, Raw, and Aaz hunched around the gargoyles decorating the cathedral. Watching us, red eyes glowing softly. The irony of the situation was going to kill me faster than any well-timed bullet.

“I’m sorry,” I added, and meant it. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just wanted to be with him.” I patted Grant’s upper arm when I said that, then replaced my hand with my cheek. Grant reached back to touch my hair, his fingers light and warm.

Both men stared. Grant put one hand on the gate. “Father Lawrence. Handle this. We’re late for an appointment.”

An appointment at midnight. Father Lawrence seemed ready to melt into the ground. Father Cribari folded his arms over his chest, but that was all. He showed nothing on his face.

Grant pushed me backward, through the open gate. No one stopped us, but I heard some rather sharp tones behind me, a mixture of Chinese and English. Limping fast, Grant led me away, and we walked left along the wall toward a quiet street.