The Awakening (43 page)

Maggie smiled. “Some of what you see in the movies is true; some isn't. They won't turn to ash once the sun rises. Their strength is greatest at night. But don't worry.”

“And then, I started thinking after they left. A vampire is going to break into a church?” Megan said.

Maggie hesitated. “Lucian is very fond of churches these days. He wasn't always. Lucian is definitely a man on a mission, since he, more than any of us, feels a need to atone for the past. He's old, you see, very, very old. And he wasn't always on this side of the good and evil question.” She hesitated. “Men have created most their own devils, you know. And as you might have discovered, the power of the mind is one of the greatest strengths in the world. Take the entire Wiccan/Satanism dilemma. Wicca was the religion of the ancients. A celebration of nature. There were feasts for the harvests, for the home, for the time of reaping, the time of sewing. Way back then, the Wiccans, or Wise Ones, knew no such thing as Satan. But then the Middle Ages came, and Christianity, and there were men within the church who began to believe in the ‘Evil Eye,' and supernatural, or magic acts done out of malice. And as you've seen, there were those who then twisted practices of the old magic into a defiance of the Christian rites, and prayed to Satan, the God of Darkness, using many of the ancient pagan beliefs as well. True Wicca offers no harm; Satanism celebrates debauchery, and allows men the opportunity to let loose all the demons within them. The ancient Greeks believed that everyone had a guardian daimon, or demon. And there were some great philosophers who believed that demons were within all of us, that demons were the parts of our souls who longed to lash out, cut, slash, and cause harm within the world. The point is . . . what you believe is what gives you strength, whether it's to do good, or evil. You have a deep faith. Cling to it. It's important. That doesn't mean that you won't trip or stumble along the way. But at the worst of times, don't give up your faith in all that is good. It may be the final salvation.”

Megan smiled. “I'm still not sure I believe in werewolves—but I believe I saw a giant dog standing over a man who would have cut me to ribbons tonight.”

“Ah, and there . . . you have said it. You
believe
that you saw a giant dog.”

“So . . . I didn't really see a dog?”

Maggie smiled mysteriously. “He's a wolf, silly, not a dog.”

“Maggie!”

“A great deal remains in the heart and the mind of the observer, always,” Maggie said simply. “And then . . . well, beyond it all. Most people believe in a divine being, in one way or another. Study religion, and you'll see that gods and goddesses—from the ancient Roman, Norse, and so on—usually have counterparts throughout human belief. Perhaps there's really one place to get at the end of life here on earth, but many paths that may be taken to get there. I personally believe in the soul, and that what lies in the soul is what makes us what we are. And it's why a vampire can learn not to kill, and why he can enter a church at will, and wear a crucifix when he feels the need.”

“You've learned all this from observation?” Megan asked.

Maggie shook her head, smiling secretively. “Actually, I was a vampire.”

Megan frowned. “But you're not now?”

“No.”

“You were a vampire, or you believed you were a vampire?”

Still smiling, Maggie shook her head. “I was a vampire. I admit, I'm the only person I know who ever was a vampire, and gained mortal life again. But you see, that's because there are powers out there greater than evil.”

“And what are they?”

She laughed aloud. “Goodness—of course. Love, and belief in our fellow man, and so on.” Watching Megan frown, Maggie waved a hand in the air. “It's a very long story, and we've got far too much to worry about tonight. However, to make that long story short, remember that strength of will, love, and the fight for good over evil can all be very powerful.”

“Hey!” Jade exclaimed, suddenly looked up from her reading. “I have found the name Douglas mentioned again,” she said.

They all stared at her.

She read from the volume on her lap. “‘And among those in attendance was the outspoken one, he who called out, Finnegan Douglas.' ”

 

 

Ragnor departed on his own; apparently, he and Lucian had agreed that Andy Markham might well be a key to the truth, and Ragnor was impatient that he should be watched.

Finn drove alone with Lucian as they headed into town.

“I came to church with Megan before we went to the hospital to see Andy,” he told Lucian, staring ahead into the street. “It was painful. I thought that my head was going to explode.”

“Did you see a priest?”

“Yes . . . Father Mario Brindisi.”

“Were you blessed?”

“Yes,” Finn said, staring at Lucian curiously.

Lucian only shrugged.

Finn hesitated. “All right, let me put it this way. I thought I was going to die, the pain was so great when I was in here. And with everything that has happened . . . no matter what I say, no matter what denials I give, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I . . . that I might have killed the girl in Boston, that I might . . . that I might hurt someone. That something is happening to me. So . . . if it comes to a point when I may hurt someone . . . anyone . . . Megan, specifically, you have to stop me. By whatever means it takes. Swear to me that you'll do that.”

Lucian turned to look at him at last. “Trust me. If you threaten Megan or anyone around you, I'll bring you down faster than you can blink. All right? Let's see how you fare in church, huh?”

They found parking easily enough; it was still early morning, and despite the havoc of the fire at the hotel the night before, the majority of the populace was still gearing up for a big night.

As they approached the church, Finn fell back, feeling the pounding begin in his head. Lucian opened the door easily enough, and stepped inside. As Finn faltered, Lucian stepped back, slipping an arm around him to help him in. Finn gritted his teeth against the agony that assaulted him.

“You'll make it,” Lucian said firmly.

Half dragging Finn down the aisle, he came to the front of the church and lowered Finn down into one of the pews. He paused in front of the altar for a minute; Finn, though nearly blinded, watched him, and watched his lips moving. Then Lucian moved. Finn hadn't heard a thing, but apparently, Lucian was aware that the priest had come into church.

“We need your help, Father,” Lucian told him.

The priest stared at him a long time, then said, “I can do nothing, you know, without the approval of Rome.”

Lucian shook his head. “You're afraid.”

“Of you? Yes, that I am. Very afraid.”

Lucian shook his head. “Father, you are afraid on so many levels. We need your help. But I understand if you can't give it. I will ask you to turn a blind eye, though, to the theft I am about to commit.”

Father Brindisi nodded slowly. Then he walked back toward Finn. By then, Finn knew that his features were totally devoid of color. He and the priest stared at one another. He heard Lucian moving about the church, taking what he required.

Then suddenly the priest stiffened, and seemed to grow. He reached out a hand to Lucian. “The holy water. Hand me a vial.”

Lucian did so. Father Brindisi lifted the vial over Finn's head. “Father, protect thy servant. Let him walk in Thy way. Protect him and strengthen him from evil.”

The water dropped onto Finn's head. He felt as if he had been shot. He fell to the floor, doubled over in pain. The priest did not stop. He implored God's mercy. Finn could hear the words of the prayer growing stronger and stronger.

A burst of pain knifed through his skull.

He blacked out cold.

 

 

The shift at the hospital had changed. Janice's replacement, a woman Martha didn't know well, had come on. She explained herself politely, said that Dorcas had thought it an excellent idea for her sit there, as next of kin, and talk to Andy.

But the new nurse—a Miss Matthews—disagreed.

“No one is going in there during my shift. The doctor has already been in. There's been no change, and he didn't say a word to me allowing anyone in to hold his hand or any other such nonsense!”

“I must get to Andy!” Martha insisted.

“Andy is in a coma!” Miss Matthews said. “And you're not going in there. Not while I'm on duty!”

Martha should have been calm, serene, and hard as nails, totally determined. But her emotions were fraying. “I must. I must see Andy. Get him to talk, to wake up—talk in his sleep, whatever! He knows something. Don't you understand? Haven't you seen the news? My niece is going to be accused of arson. There has been something going on since she arrived, and Andy, bless his old soul, is part of it! Please, Miss Matthews, the doctors have said that he might respond to the voice or the touch of a friend.”

“No one gets in!” Miss Matthews said firmly.

“Well, you're going to have to call the police to get me out of here,” Martha said firmly.

“You think that I won't call the police?” Miss Matthews demanded, aggravated.

She turned to the phone on the counter.

Martha looked up and down the hallway. They were alone; the nurse on duty who should have been at the desk was away, either attending to a patient, or, more likely, making coffee, or going for a snack out of one of the machines.

There was a heavy clipboard on the counter.

Martha picked it up.

She was amazed by her own strength as she knocked the bitchy little pinched-nose Miss Matthews hard on the head.

The nurse crumpled to the floor without so much as a whimper.

Martha set the clipboard down and headed for Andy's room.

 

 

Megan sat before the fire, trying to read, but despite herself, growing exhausted. The others had gathered back around the table again. She had thought that if she was going to read, she'd remain comfortable. They knew one another—it seemed that at times they even thought alike. One could begin reading a passage, get stuck, and find a friend right there, deciphering the words. They were growing excited, as if they were on to something, but so far, they weren't making any sense to her.

She and Finn were evidently the ones in danger, so she was determined that she would keep moving in her own defense as well.

But exhaustion was taking its toll. She didn't think that she'd actually slept through an entire night since they'd come here. And last night . . . at the least, it had been rent with dreams. So as she watched the flames, she felt her eyes grow heavy.

The fire could be so pretty, fascinating, compelling. Little tongues of flame rising in so many colors, with such strange and ethereal contrast. Brilliant golds, deep maroons, startling blues. Twisting, rising, combining.

Despite herself, she felt her eyes close.

The flames continued to dance, blurring, and then receding.

She didn't realize that she had fallen asleep, and strangely, that thought was with her, even in the dream.

She walked . . . and walked. Lulled by the colors in the flames. Lulled by a voice, by a face in the fire, by a deep, rich tenor in the whisper of her name that beckoned and compelled. She knew him, trusted him, loved him . . . and she would go.

Walking . . . casting off her shoes, for they were annoying, and she needed to feel the sensual, deep, gritty feel of the earth itself beneath her feet.

She was touched by the fog, the mist. And it was sweet. A gentle caress.

Too late, she saw the figures arranged before her. They were part of the mist that surrounded the house, deep in the woods, but they took shape quickly.

She opened her mouth to scream, but one of them was behind her. A hand, holding a cloth dipped in some sweet-smelling liquid, clamped tightly over her nose and lips before she could do so.

She tried to assure herself that it was nothing more than a dream, that she would awaken.

Except that she suddenly knew. It wasn't a dream.

She fought, squirmed, kicked.

Someone swore soundly.

“Shut up!” Someone else said.

“The bitch caught me, right in the family jewels.”

“Shut up!”

They were real. Real flesh, blood, muscle, bone. Whatever had come over her face was stealing consciousness, and she fought hard from slipping, in a frenzy of violent energy now, determined that she must escape.

Someone else howled.

She had nails, and she knew how to use them.

But consciousness was fading quickly. Her limbs went limp; blackness swirled before her, and she kept trying to blink, desperately trying to remain awake.

Once, when she opened her eyes, she was aware of being in a car, thrown into the backseat, covered by some of the rough-textured cloaks her assailants had been wearing. She felt nauseated, certain she would be violently ill.

But then the blackness came again . . .

When she awoke, the fleeting light of the New England fall day was already fading . . . or gone, or covered by the canopy of green. She knew where she was.