F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (13 page)

 
          
Gregor
shook his head as he watched the ten form a rough circle around Olivia and him.
Considering recent events, he should have taken comfort in the number. That
didn't make them any less of an inconvenience. One or two get-guards at all
times were a nuisance, but four—he felt strangled. And Olivia with six tonight.
How did she manage?

 
          
"You've
come about Angelica, I suppose," he said in a low voice.

 
          
She
nodded. "You knew Franco would send someone."

 
          
Yes,
he had. Somehow, some way, someone had killed Angelica last night. Gregor—over
the objections of his get—had personally tracked down her remains before dawn
and had them removed to a place where they could be burned. Secretly burned. It
wouldn't do to let the cattle know that one of the undead elite had been
brought down while on the wing.

 
          
But
Angelica's death was no secret among the undead. Gregor had been expecting an
emissary from
New York
tonight, but Olivia of all people. Raw ambition from a rival get-line.
This would not do.

 
          
"It
could have been an accident, you know."

 
          
"I
doubt that," Olivia said. "Angelica was too experienced."

 
          
Angelica—Gregor
had never liked her, and hated her now. The old bitch had to go out and hunt
alone. Not that any of her get-guards could have accompanied her—none of them
had wings. No reason for Angelica to hunt. With her status she could have had
cattle brought to her every night.

 
          
Gregor
pressed his point. "It's not as if Angelica was shot down with a crossbow
or the like. She was pierced with a tree branch, one that was snapped off a
tree not a dozen feet from where we found her. It was quite evident that she
flew into the tree and—"

 
          
Olivia
smiled, showing her fangs. "I certainly don't believe that, Gregor. And
neither, I dare say, do you. The situation around here has been precarious for
some time, what with some sort of vigilante group running around killing your
serfs. How many dead now—four?"

 
          
Gregor
stiffened. "Where do you get your information?

 
          
"That's
not important. Franco is concerned that the situation is getting out of
hand."

 
          
"Nothing
of the sort." He was sure she was overstating Franco's concern.
"Everything is under control. As for these so-called vigilantes—"

 
          
"Four
serfs in four weeks, Gregor. Not just killed—their throats are slit and then
they're strung up for all to see. Bad enough. But now these vigilantes have
taken down Angelica."

 
          
"We
don't know if it was the same group."

 
          
"That's
the trouble. You don't know a thing about the perpetrators, do you."

 
          
Too
true. Whatever group was killing the serfs—an older term; Gregor had become
used to calling them cowboys—wasn't announcing itself. No fliers, no graffiti,
no name, no identity. Just a corpse twisting in the wind. They did their dirty
work and then faded away.

 
          
"Some
of the killings could be by copycats," Gregor offered.

 
          
"Even
worse! Our hold is fragile, Gregor. We need our serfs. We can't have the night
if they don't hold the day for us. The carrot-and-the-stick approach is usually
sufficient, but they're as loyal as cockroaches, and if someone else comes
along with a bigger stick, our carrot may not be enough."

 
          
"Scum,"
Gregor growled.

 
          
"Of
course they are. Who but scum would sell out their own kind? But they're our
scum. And we need them. Without them guarding our daysleep, we're vulnerable.
If we can't protect them, they won't protect us."

 
          
"I
hardly need a lecture on this, Olivia."

 
          
"Maybe
you do." She pointed a long-nailed finger at him. "Because if you
don't straighten this out, I'll have to do it for you."

 
          
Gregor
glared at her. He knew what that meant: he'd be sent back to
New York
where Franco would demote him to some sort
of low-level functionary.

 
          
He
was a veteran of the battle of the
Vatican
, damn it. No one could humiliate him like
that.

 
          
His
thoughts drifted back. What a week that had been.
Vatican City
was immune to the ferals because of the
plethora of crosses—crosses everywhere, on the walls, the ceilings, even the
floors. The priests and the Swiss Guard had fought valiantly against the serfs.
It was not until turned military commanders and soldiers began shelling the
buildings with tanks and artillery that they made any progress.
Vatican City
eventually was reduced to rubble. That was
the good news. The bad news was that the Pope had died in the shelling. It
would have been such a coup to turn him and make him an icon for the Catholic
undead.

 
          
Gregor
missed those good old days of head-on assault:
Prague
,
Berlin
,
Rome
,
Paris
,
London
. They'd all fallen in days. But that
approach had run into unforeseen problems. Franco was trying a new tack. Gregor
agreed that it made more sense, but it lacked the heady rush of the blitzkrieg.
And it allowed upstarts like Olivia to rise.

 
          
If
Olivia had her way and Gregor was called back to New York, she would remove all
his get—which now included the mayor, the councilwoman, the priest, and the
reverend among others—and install her own in their place. Olivia's domain would
expand while his would contract to near zero.

 
          
Gregor
would not allow that. These vigilantes would be found and run to ground if he
had to do it himself.

 
          
ZEV
. . .

 
          
After
a few hours their talk died of fatigue. Father Joe gave Zev the flashlight to
hold, then stretched out across a couple of crates to sleep. Zev tried to get
comfortable enough to doze but found sleep impossible. So he listened to his
friend snore in the dusty darkness of the cellar.

 
          
Poor
Joe. Such anger in the man. But more than that—hurt. He felt betrayed, wronged.
And with good reason. But with everything falling apart as it was, the wrong
done to him would never be righted. He should forget about it already and go on
with his life, but apparently he couldn't. Such a shame. He needed something to
pull him out of his funk. Zev had thought news of what had happened to his old
parish might rouse him, but it seemed only to make him want to drink more.
Father Joseph Cahill, he feared, was a hopeless case.

 
          
Zev
closed his eyes and tried to rest. He found it hard to get comfortable with the
cross dangling in front of him so he took it off but laid it within easy reach.
He was drifting toward a doze when he heard a noise outside. By the dumpster.
Metal on metal.

 
          
My
bicycle!

 
          
He
slipped to the floor and tiptoed over to where Joe slept. He shook his shoulder
and whispered.

 
          
"Someone's
found my bike!"

 
          
The
priest snorted but remained sleeping. A louder clatter outside made Zev turn,
and as he moved his elbow struck a bottle. He grabbed for it in the darkness
but missed. The sound of smashing glass echoed through the basement like a
cannon shot. As the odor of Scotch whiskey replaced the musty ambiance, Zev
listened for further sounds from outside. None came.

 
          
Maybe
it had been an animal. He remembered how raccoons used to raid his garbage at
home... when he'd had a home ... when he'd had garbage ...

 
          
Zev
stepped to the window and looked out. Probably an animal.

 
          
A
pale, snarling demonic face, baring its fangs and hissing, suddenly filled the
window. Zev fell back as the thing rammed its hand through the glass, reaching
for his throat, its curved fingers clawing at him, missing. It pushed up the
window, then launched itself the rest of the way through, hurtling toward Zev.

 
          
He
tried to dodge but was too slow. The impact knocked the flashlight from his
grasp and it rolled across the floor. Zev cried out as he went down under the
snarling thing. Its ferocity was overpowering, irresistible. It straddled him
and lashed at him, batting his fending arms aside, its clawed fingers tearing
at his collar to free his throat, stretching his neck to expose the vulnerable
flesh, its foul breath gagging him as it bent its fangs toward him. Zev
screamed out his helplessness.

 
          
JOE
. . .

 
          
Father
Joe Cahill awoke to cries of terror.

 
          
He
shook his head to clear it and instantly regretted the move. His head weighed
at least two hundred pounds, and his mouth was stuffed with foul-tasting
cotton. Why did he keep doing this to himself? What was the point in acting out
the drunken Irish priest cliche? Not only did it leave him feeling lousy, it
gave him bad dreams. Like now.

 
          
Another
terrified shout, only a few feet away.

 
          
He
looked toward the sound. In the faint light from the flashlight rolling across
the floor he saw Zev on his back, fighting for his life against—

 
          
Jesus!
This was no dream!

 
          
He
leaped over to where the creature was lowering its fangs toward Zev's throat.
He grabbed it by the back of the neck and lifted it clear of the floor. It was
surprisingly heavy but that didn't slow him. Joe could feel the anger rising in
him, surging into his muscles.

 
          
"Rotten
piece of filth!"

 
          
He
swung the vampire by its neck and let it fly against the cinderblock wall. It
impacted with what should have been bone-crushing force, but bounced off,
rolled on the floor, and regained its feet in one motion, ready to attack
again. Strong as he was, Joe knew he was no match for this thing's power. He
turned, grabbed his big silver crucifix, and charged the creature.

 
          
"Hungry?
Eat this!"

 
          
As
the creature bared its fangs and hissed at him, Joe shoved the long lower end
of the cross's upright into the gaping maw. Blue-white light flickered along
the silver length of the crucifix, reflecting in the creature's startled,
agonized eyes as its flesh sizzled and crackled. The vampire let out a
strangled cry and tried to turn away but Joe wasn't through with it yet. He was
literally seeing red as rage poured out of a hidden well and swirled through
him. He rammed the cross farther down the thing's gullet. Light flashed deep in
its throat, illuminating the pale tissues from within. It tried to grab the
cross and pull it out but the flesh of its fingers burned and smoked wherever
it came in contact with it.

 
          
Finally
Joe stepped back and let the thing squirm and scrabble up the wall and out the
window into the night. Then he turned to Zev. If anything had happened—