Vanquished (36 page)

As Lucifer surveyed the circle of sorcerers, they bowed low. Black energy ticked off them like static electricity

“My lord Lucifer,” said the chief sorcerer, a tall, gaunt vampire distinguished by a black diadem decorated with ruby bats.

“Have you heard about a virus created to harm us?” Lucifer asked.

The vampiric sorcerer consulted his fellows. Everyone shook their heads. “Nothing, my lord.”

“Hmm.” He approached the sacrifice and smiled down on her. “Heather, I hope you don’t mind the loss of Aurora’s maid. I thought it prudent to get rid of anyone who might still be loyal to her.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” Heather simpered.

“We’ve confirmed the auguries,” the head sorcerer said. “Tonight. Midnight would be auspicious.”

“No,” Lucifer said. “There’s a time that’s even more auspicious.” He clapped his hands, and the wolfhound
trotted over to him. He smiled at Dantalion, who smiled back. “Now, perform your ritual quickly. I have a race to wipe out.”

Into the already fermenting elixir Father Juan added cloves and cinnamon. Next, holy water. Saint John’s wort, aptly named. Shepherds’ Club. Rosemary and tarragon. Oak and rowan leaves. Ginkgo biloba. Passionflower. A dozen other herbs. Then another dozen. And then the special ones: the Tears of Christ. The Transit of Venus.

He put them all in the simple wooden communion cup he had taken from the chapel. It was consecrated, holy. Into the mixture he dipped a ritual boline—a White-magick knife used for collecting herbs—then passed it through a white candle flame six times.

As he did so, he uttered the incantation that in Father Juan’s tradition had to be spoken by a Catholic priest: “Greater love hath no man than that he lay his life down for his friends.”’

He said it first in Latin, for God. Then in Spanish, for himself. Then in Hebrew, for Noah. Then in English, for Esther.

Then he laid the knife across the top of the cup.

“And now for the last,” he said, his voice shaky to his ears.

“Are you sure about this?” Esther asked.

He nodded. “I can’t ask any of the brothers here to do it. It must be a priest, one who has set himself up as a conduit between God and man, and a priest who gives himself willingly. For generations the priests of Salamanca have been willingly making the sacrifice without the Hunter ever knowing. Father Pedro gave his life for Eriko’s elixir. It is right and fitting that I should give mine for the others.”

Esther looked at him with misty eyes and laid a warm hand on his arm. “We’ll miss you, Padre.”

“I hope so,” he said, feeling a bit wistful. They could only miss him if he were well and truly dead.

He turned and began praying over the concoction. He couldn’t do the deed himself, as suicide was forbidden by the Church. In the end he had been the one to kill Father Pedro.

And now Noah would kill him.

Finished, he took a deep breath. “Now,” he whispered.

Noah put his hand over Father Juan’s mouth and held his nose. Father Juan knew that he would fight for air. He remembered his part in the ritual: to know that his body’s struggles to breathe were only birth pangs as he slid from this plane of existence into the next, fighting like a newborn for the first gasp of life. The next breath he took would be from God’s mouth, in Heaven.

Still, the instinct to save himself was overwhelming, as it had been for Pedro. Death throes overtook him. He struggled, but all life was struggle.

Oh, my soul, take flight, and repair the world.

He could see the golden glow of his soul radiating out, entering the cup; he could see the elixir bubble and gleam. Through the steam he could see the room bathed in gold. See the faces of Noah and Esther, gleaming like saints.

Into Thy hands I commend my spirit.

And then he saw nothing.

* * *

Noah caught the dead priest in his arms. He gazed down with pity at the man, then carried him to a pallet made with fresh white linen. Noah laid him down.

Esther took a steadying breath. She locked eyes with Noah and nodded. Father Juan’s choice of “deliverer” had been one of the two of them, and she was grateful that Noah had volunteered for the duty. She would never have been able to do it.

“Rest in peace at last, Saint John of the Cross,” she said, bending down and kissing Father Juan’s forehead.

On the eve of his death he had finally admitted the truth to her, though she had guessed it long before. Esther knew it had brought him some comfort, knowing that there was another who shared his secret and who would mourn for him as he really was.

Holding the cup, Esther walked back into the main room with Noah trailing behind her. The others looked up, then past them, clearly expecting Father Juan to be rejoining them.

“Where’s Father Juan?” Jenn asked.

“He’s gone into seclusion to pray for victory,” Esther said. By agreement she and Noah weren’t going to speak of his death until they could no longer stave off questions.

She handed the cup to Jenn. Jenn was the leader; it was right that she went first.

Her granddaughter took the cup with a steady hand.

“Only a small sip. There has to be enough for everybody,” Esther reminded her.

Jenn nodded and raised the cup to her lips. Then she handed it to Holgar.

Before the werewolf could drink, Jenn went crashing to her knees with an anguished cry. The others jerked in alarm, but Esther put a hand on her head.

“It’s all right. The pain will pass in a moment.”

Jenn nodded, though she didn’t say anything.

Holgar gave her one last look before taking his own swallow. He barely had time to hand the cup to Jamie before a howl was ripped from his throat. His back arched, and for a moment it was as though Esther could watch liquid fire tracing all the veins in his arms and chest.

Jamie didn’t look, just turned deathly pale, swallowed, and shoved the cup at Skye, who barely had time to catch
it before he, too, was on the ground screaming. Skye drank quickly as though she would back out if she gave herself time to think.

As she passed the cup to Noah, Skye’s features twisted. “What else did he put in—”

Cut off by a strangled gasp she bent over, making retching sounds.

Noah held the cup for a moment, his lips moving in silent prayer. He drank and also began to scream.

Jenn staggered to her feet and grabbed the cup from his hand just as it was slipping to the floor. She glanced inside and then at Esther. “There’s enough left for you,” she said.

Esther smiled at her granddaughter and shook her head. “No, Father Juan meant this for the hunters of Salamanca, and I am not one.”

“Then what should we do with it?” Jenn asked.

Esther produced a small vial and poured the rest of the thick, black mixture into it. She capped it tight and handed it back to Jenn. “Give it to the last Salamancan when you find him.”

Jenn’s eyes grew enormous, but she didn’t argue. She took the vial and tucked it into a pocket in her jacket.

Esther surveyed the others as they slowly recovered. Holgar was the first to take advantage of his new abilities, crossing the room in the blink of an eye.

“It works,” he said, as everyone swiveled to look at him.

“Excellent,” Esther said.

“And I hear planes. They’re descending,” Skye said. “They must be from Solomon.”

“Or Kent,” Jamie said. “Still daylight out. Vampires need to stay inside. We’ve still got that one on the Cursers.”

“Then you should go meet them,” Esther said, feeling like a real freedom fighter for the first time in years. “Plan your attack.”

“Are you coming, Gramma?” Jenn asked.

“In a minute,” Esther replied.

Excited, eager, Holgar grabbed Skye’s hand. The two flashed past Esther, and Jenn launched herself after them. After a moment’s hesitation Noah and Jamie barreled out of the room, moving so fast they became blurs.

Esther braced herself, a hand against the wall, the façade she had held in place crumbling.

In her heart she felt that they were all going to die.

Her cell phone rang. The caller was blocked. Not a lot of people had her number, and there was a reason for that—they were at war, and she was off the grid. She took the call anyway.

“Esther? It’s Greg.”

She blinked. She’d half assumed that Noah had killed him when he’d infiltrated the lab. A rush of happiness was tempered by her instinctive caution.

“Tell me about the virus,” she said as calmly as possible.

There was a pause. “I wanted to tell you, Esther, that
all those years you thought I was hunting you and Che . . .” He trailed off.

“The virus, Greg.”

“I was protecting you. If I was keeping tabs on you, I knew no one else would.”

Esther smiled faintly. She’d had no idea. “A fellow revolutionary?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He added, “Gotta go now.”

“Why did you call me?” she asked.

The phone went dead.

Dozens of sheep from the nearby pasture swarmed around Jenn and Noah as they dismounted from their snowmobiles. Jenn was wearing full battle gear—a black catsuit, a vest, and her Salamanca jacket. Her boots were strapped up to her knees. Velcro pockets held crosses, holy water, garlic, and ammo. Noah wore olive-green fatigues and a vest like hers, but with the Star of David emblazoned on it. As the resistance fighters had arrived, they had brought weapons and clothing for the Salamancans. They had a well-stocked armory now.

Much later, a military transport plane taxied in the large sheep pasture; three more hovered in the air, waiting their turns. The silhouettes of choppers half a kilometer distant
disgorged armed soldiers and hulking hybrids into the chilly sunshine. A few snowflakes drifted down over the scene.

Special-forces units from around the world had also arrived and put themselves under Noah’s command. Mossad members mingled with what was left of American Ranger and SEAL units, most of which had gone underground when America had surrendered to the Cursed Ones.

Jamie had gone to round up his street fighters, and Skye was gathering the witches. Holgar was meeting up with Viorica and her werewolves.

Together all these “special troops” would make an amazing army.

“Solomon’s Cursed Ones must be holed up inside the planes, waiting for dark,” Noah said.

Jenn took a deep breath. “I hope it doesn’t start to snow. The vampires in San Francisco could move in the fog.”

Noah gave her hand a squeeze. “Nothing will stop us.”

She squeezed back. “We’re the heart of the battle, but it’s going to be happening all over the world.”

“When this is over, one of the things at the top of my list is to meet Kent Wallace,” Noah said. “Without the Voice of the Resistance, we’d still be one group in a sea of apathy.”

“Agreed,” she said. “We owe him.”

“Ready to review the troops?” Noah asked her.

She nodded, still unable to believe that she, Jenn Leitner, was the commander in chief of their ground forces. Noah let go of her hand, and together they began to walk toward the
soldiers, who were already assembling into neat rows for her inspection. Monstrous hybrids loped up behind them.

Another plane landed with a roar.

And another.

Then Jenn spotted Jamie emerging from the trees. He held the hand of a very small girl dressed in camouflage, her hair in pigtails. Together they were leading a throng of about forty people, all brandishing Uzis and rocket launchers.

From the opposite side of the clearing at least sixty witches appeared with Skye. They wore camouflage as well, and carried weaponry. Many of them wore crowns of evergreens. Skye wore a sort of crown decorated with shards of mirrors on her head.

“I wonder what that’s about,” Noah said. “Something magick?”

“Yes, she told me about it,” Jenn said. “They’re going to cast spells so that if the vampires look into the mirrors they will get disoriented. She said she got the idea from something Estefan did.”

Noah nodded appreciatively. He looked up at the sky, watching the light snowfall. “I can still see the sun very well. Remind everyone that even though the vampires can’t come out of the shadows, they can still shoot weapons and use their hybrids and werewolf forces.”

Then he put a hand on Jenn’s forearm and pointed.

“Look.”

About four dozen men and women, most of them young,
marched behind an older man holding a bishop’s crook. Though they were dressed like soldiers, each bore the original Crusader’s cross across their chest—over a shield of white a black cross, with each of the four arms the same length. At the end of each, a smaller line lay perpendicular. They were chanting, their voices rising and falling. As they neared the throng of witches, the witches began to cheer. Then a few broke out into the same chant.

“Familiar?” Noah asked her.

Jenn shook her head. “Maybe it’s some religious thing.” She peered at the men. “I recognize that man. He’s Bishop Diego. He is friends with Father Juan.”

“It’s nice that the Catholics and the witches have something in common. Shared faith,” he said. Then Noah smiled at her. “My faith’s in us.”

She wasn’t sure which “us” he was referring to, but she smiled up at him. Then his smile faded, and he put both his hands on her shoulders.

“We’re going to live through this,” he said. “Go tell them that.”

* * *

Jenn spent the next half hour conferring with the leader of each of her armies. Though she was unused to strategizing on a large scale, she quickly determined that their assault was actually made up of a number of missions that would be conducted by each group—what she had taken to calling her “squadrons.” Once she and the other leaders—her Joint Chiefs—
had decided on a plan of action, each chief took their mission back to their squadron and briefed them. It took far less time to plan the attack than she would have believed possible.