Vanquished (28 page)

“No, you don’t, you soddin’ bastard,” Jamie cried, struggling to get up. Estefan had hold of something. An arm.

Skye’s arm.

“Are you seeing this?” he shouted into the night. “You witches, you standing over a cauldron in your safe little
hidey-hole? Cacklin’ away because you’re not hurting a fly?”

Estefan’s mouth opened wide, fangs gleaming.

“You going to let this happen?”

“No,” said a familiar voice behind him.

“No,” said another.

Then something was wrapped around him, and the wind let go of him. It was one of the witches’ white cloaks with spangles. Flanking him were Skye’s friend Dye Job, in a white sweater and jeans, and Soleil, wearing a cloak same as his. They raised their hands and began to shout against the wind. He didn’t know the language, and he wasn’t about to stand there while Estefan pulled up Skye like a marionette. Her head lolled back, and the Dark Witch leered at her white neck.

Jamie broke into a run, vaguely aware that behind him there were more than two girls chanting. Voices roared over the rush, lots of them. More witches: Skye’s mates, come to the rescue.

He ran harder, approaching the hideous tableau of Estefan bending over Skye like a pantomime villain, about to bite her. Jamie let out a good Belfast yell and doubled his fists. Estefan glanced up, his eyes crimson and evil, and Jamie let out another yell because he was pretty sure he wasn’t coming back from this fray, not this one.

But as long as Skye did, that was all that mattered.

Then Estefan’s two mates from their last encounter appeared on either side of the warlock and tossed something
Jamie’s way—huge, spinning fireballs. Jamie dove toward the ground as something shot over his head from behind and smacked into the fireball on his left. A golden stream of sparklers from his right hurtled toward the remaining fireball. They collided with an enormous explosion that shook snow from the trees.

The witches were taking up arms, then. Or else defending Jamie so he could dismember Estefan himself. Digging in his elbows, he crawled toward Estefan, who had paused to watch.

“
God
, if I could rip you apart from here, I bloody would,” Jamie ground out.

Estefan smiled straight at him, as if he could hear him—

And then, suddenly, blood streamed from Estefan’s mouth, as if he were vomiting it. Thick, red, clotted. It spewed from his eyes, and his nose, and even his ears.

Estefan began to shout like a man on fire. Blood poured down his chest and back; Jamie had no idea exactly how it was happening, but he didn’t care.
Too right, witchies,
he thought, as he pushed himself to his feet, raced forward, and threw himself at Estefan.

Arms and legs tangled as Jamie and Estefan fell to the ground, rolling over and over. Jamie was soaked in Estefan’s blood. All he heard was the roaring of his own voice as he damned Estefan to hell and back again. Then he rose up on his knees and pummeled whatever part of Estefan he made contact with.

Estefan flopped on his back, completely limp, and Jamie took advantage. Hitting, kicking, pounding, until hands were wrapping around his arms and dragging him away. The witch girls, at least three on each side, all in their robes except the one. As they moved him, he tried to kick Estefan. He tried to kick anything.

There was no wind. Estefan’s two henchmen lay inert on the ground as well, surrounded by dark pools that Jamie guessed were blood.

“Skye,” he yelled, struggling to get free of the witches.

“Oh, Jamie,” Skye cried, stumbling toward him. She was holding her side. “Jamie.”

He broke free of the girls and threw his arms around her. She winced and he caught her up, holding her in his blood-coated arms. He was as red as the dead men on the ground, and everywhere Skye’s body came in contact with his, she was soaked in blood as well.

Turning to face the others, he was shocked to see at least twenty of them, most in robes, and most holding each other and crying. They were staring at him and pointing at Estefan, and sobbing.

“Sisters, my sisters,” Skye said. “Jamie, please put me down.”

“Never. Never in a million years, Skye,” he said, and tears streamed down his face. “Skye, if I had lost you, I would have . . .” He trailed off. He didn’t know what he would have done.

As he set her down, he collapsed onto his knees and put his arms around her waist. He rested there, completely and totally undone.

“I love you,” he said. “Oh, dear God, Skye, you have to know it. And if you’d gone . . .”

He saw Eriko lying dead. He felt the roughness of the rocks he had piled to make her grave. And he said good-bye to her.

“Jamie,” Skye said, shushing him as she put her hands on his head. “I—I . . . you’re my brother in all things. And that’s how I love you, too.”

He froze as the meaning of her words penetrated the tidal wave of his emotions. “I’m not too late. I didn’t tell you too late,” he said desperately.

She hesitated. And then she said, “Holgar.”

No.
Jamie’s world stopped.

“Skye, what are we to do?” Soleil wailed, as the witches gathered around the two of them. “We’ve broken the code. What we
did
to them! We didn’t have to do that. But we
did
.”

No.

“We were vicious,” said another.

“Murderous,” a third moaned.

No.

“Sisters. Warriors,” Skye said, embracing each of them, one after the other. Estefan’s blood blotted their spangly robes. “You were
powerful
. That’s what we need, to win this fight.”

She looked over her shoulder at the bereft Irishman. “Jamie, you’ll come back with us.”

They kept crying, and Skye comforted them, painting a rosy picture of what it would be like to die in battle with a vampire ripping out your throat. A vampire, or a treacherous werewolf.

Holgar.
Jamie let his own near-animalistic rage rush through his body. He shook from the adrenaline surge caused by the battle. She couldn’t love that monster. Couldn’t.

No.

No.

No.

He felt the same way he had when Father Patrick had held him back and he’d watched the werewolves rip his little sister, Maeve, apart. Fangs and claws slashing, her screaming—

No.

Then Jamie got hold of himself. Shaking, he exhaled slowly. Street fighters didn’t live long if they gave in entirely to their anger. He began to strategize. Wolf had once left a deer head in Jamie’s bed.

Fine, then. Jamie would leave something for the wolf: a silver bullet, deep in his
head
. Marked with an
H
. And another in the heart for good measure.

Yes.

Once the battle was done.

Father Juan knelt in the gloomy chapel of the monastery and gave thanks for the heaps of Transit of Venus beside him. The leaves of the herb glowed like moonstone. By the light of the Goddess the werewolves had found a large patch of it, and they had transformed into human form to harvest it for Father Juan.

Afterward, when Holgar had slid behind the wheel of their SUV, Viorica had raised her slender arm in farewell. He’d rolled down the window, and she’d said something in Russian. He had replied very softly under his breath. Softly, and tenderly.

In the chapel Father Juan’s cell phone rang. Crossing himself, he answered it. When he heard Bishop Diego’s voice on the other end, he couldn’t help but smile.

“How’s it going, old friend?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Better, I think, than for you,” Diego said, sounding skeptical.

“Any luck on turning the tide in Rome in our favor?”

“I’m afraid not. But courage, Juan. There are many here who would help if they were only shown the way.”

“Isn’t that what I sent you there for, to show the way?” Juan teased gently.

“
Sí
, and I’d rather you had sent yourself.”

Juan laughed, and it felt so good.

Then Diego’s tone grew more somber. “Tell me, old friend, is it true you’re trying to gather the ingredients to make the Hunter elixir?”

Juan sobered quickly. “Yes. I want to make enough for all of them.”

“Do you have a priest assisting you?” Diego asked, more somber still.

“No,” he admitted.

“Father, you mustn’t,” Diego cried, reverting, as was his habit when he was stressed, to a deferential tone toward Juan.

Father Juan smiled gently, grateful that he had such a friend. “I must. Don’t be sorry, my old friend. All things end some time.”

“Not
all
things, in my experience,” Diego said pointedly.

“But they should.”

“An argument for another time,” Diego said. “Now let me pray.”

In his sleeping bag in the abandoned Pizza Hut, Kent woke with a shout. Sweat was pouring down his body, and he was shaking. The imagery of the dream faded, but not its meaning. He pressed his hands to his eyes. It was time.
Years of watching, waiting, guiding, praying had come to an end. All the players were on the board, all the pieces in motion. It was now or never. It was time to gather all the allies together from the corners of the world.

Time to take the fight to the Cursed Ones.

He nodded to himself and got up.

Time to let everyone know just what time it was.

All ceased and I abandoned myself,
Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.

—St. John of the Cross,
sixteenth-century mystic of Salamanca

Salamanca Hunter’s Manual: Your Vows

The calling to become the Hunter of Salamanca is like any other summons to serve God. To be free from earthly distractions, to walk alone, and to place your sacred duty above all other concerns. You are married to destruction.

(translated from the Spanish)

There was a soft knock on the door of the little bedroom Jenn had made her sanctuary, and Jenn rose to open it. Her grandmother stood there, a wry smile twisting her features.

“What is it?” Jenn asked, dread settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Father Juan wants to see you in the chapel.”

“Oh,” Jenn said, searching her grandmother’s face for a clue as to what it might be about.

If Esther knew, though, she was good at hiding it. Jenn followed her out into the hallway.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” Jenn said, instantly regretting it. It sounded like an accusation when she’d just meant it to be a general comment.

Esther nodded. “He’s a fascinating man. I’ve been enjoying our talks.”

“How fascinating?” Jenn asked. She told herself she wanted to know more about Father Juan—not that she was concerned about her grandmother spending so much time with him.

Esther chuckled as though at some private joke. “More than he’ll admit.”

Jenn waited, but her grandmother didn’t say any more. When they reached the door of the chapel, Gramma Esther gave her a quick wink and then turned and walked away.

Jenn watched her for a moment, then went inside. It was very dark except for rows of lighted candles in glass holders in front of a statue of a sad-looking monk. Jenn guessed it was St. Andrew.

Father Juan was waiting at the front of the chapel. He wore a gold stole over his shoulders, and he was standing in
front of the altar, talking to someone in the first pew. With a start she saw that it was Antonio.

Father Juan glanced up and saw her. He beckoned to her to come sit on the bench beside Antonio. She hesitated, then walked forward.

Antonio gave her a weak smile that showed no fang. His dark brown eyes were warm and natural-looking, so she allowed herself to relax ever so slightly. She still remained on guard, though.
Mesmerize me once, shame on you; mesmerize me twice . . . ,
she thought.

Father Juan stared at her, and she ducked her eyes, wondering if he could see her doubts and fears in them.

“Now that you’re both here, there’s something we should discuss.”

She felt Antonio shift uncomfortably next to her, and she flushed.
He couldn’t possibly want to discuss what happened, could he?
There was no way Jenn wanted to dissect the attack or its aftermath. Maybe Father Juan just wanted to talk about Solomon, Dantalion, and Lucifer with them in private. But why? Surely there was nothing he had to say that couldn’t be said in front of the others?

Father Juan cleared his throat, and she hunched her shoulders as though bracing for a physical blow instead of a lecture. In many ways she’d prefer it.

“Antonio de la Cruz, you are my brother in Christ and my spiritual son. The Church gave you sanctuary in Salamanca, where your namesake, Saint John of the
Cross, studied as well,” Father Juan began. He cocked his head. “And what would you say is the most important thing Saint John had to say to us?”

Antonio did not hesitate. “‘Nothing is obtained from God except by love.’” His voice was hushed.

“The exact words of the saint himself. You learned your lessons well.” Father Juan patted Antonio’s cheek. “But have you made those lessons your own?”

Antonio cleared his throat. “I believe that I have, Father.”