If Angels Burn

Page 29

"You are in pain, and I am in pain," the man continued, his voice soothing. "We need not suffer like this. I can heal you, and you can help me escape. There is so much more to the world than this endless praying and self-denial."
And lead us not into temptation. John shook his head and backed up against the door.
"Don't be afraid." The words were beginning to sound slurred, as if the prisoner were drunk. "I can take away your pain, give you what you have denied yourself for so long. I only ask for my freedom in return." He stopped a few inches away and reached out to touch John's cheek. It was a strange gesture, almost paternal. "They have tortured you, as if you were one of us, yes?"
What Orsini had done to him—it had been torture. "Yes."
"You are safe with me." His smile revealed strong, white teeth. "Put away the cross. My soul is not in any peril; I do not have one. It has no power over me."
John glanced down. He had raised the cross, holding it between them as if to ward off the man. Like some low-budget horror film. The smell of the perfume grew stronger, but it was a lovely, nonthreatening scent. There was nothing to fear from this poor soul. He was friendly, even charming. Surely he would follow through on his promises, take away his pain. He could not be what Brother Orsini had said. He could not be…
Evil… between us and salvation… surrender to it… banish it from this earth…
But deliver us from evil.
"Come to me, Padre," the prisoner said.
Padre. That was what the girl in Rio had called him. Hei, padre… Hei, padre… Hei, padre…
It cleared John's head, enough to allow him to see the man's eyes. They were not beautiful or sad anymore; they were changing, the pupils contracting to thin slits, demonic slits. The kindness and warmth he had seen before had turned alien and predatory.
Like she had been.
John could not get past deliver us from evil.
The choice is yours.
If he was wrong, no harm would be done. "In the name of the Father," he rasped, and thrust the cross into the man's face.
Flesh burned. A huge gash appeared.
The prisoner screamed and threw himself away from John, his mouth unhinging and opening, turning into a snake's mouth, revealing two long, sharp canines.
John nearly collapsed against the door, but kept his shaking arm extended and the cross raised in front of him. "You are what they say."
The edges of the diagonal gash John's crucifix had made across the vampire's face slowly began to pull together. "As are you, amigo." He lunged forward, arms reaching.
As Orsini had drilled him to do, over and over, John pressed the tiny depression at the back of the crucifix. A narrow copper stiletto slid out of the base. He turned the blade so that when the vampire grabbed him, the point entered his chest at an angle. An acrid, burning odor filled John's nose as the man stood suspended, skewered by the copper blade rammed through his heart. When John pulled it out, the vampire made a helpless, gurgling sound deep in his chest.
"I send you back to hell, demon," John whispered as the monster slid down the front of him. He grabbed the vampire by the hair, and went behind him before dragging the blade across the straining throat. Dark blood gushed out, and he pushed the body face-first into the puddle it made on the floor.
The vampire twitched violently and then went still.
For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory.
John stood holding the dripping blade, a sweet roaring in his head. A soft blue glow filled the room, accompanied by a thousand whisper-soft, sweet voices. It was as if all the angels in heaven had gathered to clamor and call to him, and he lost himself in their song.
It wasn't a miracle. It was recognition. God looked upon him and found favor with him. He had become a holy warrior, tested in training and battle, his faith steadfast and unflinching in the face of certain death.
At long last, John Patrick Keller had proved himself worthy.
The voices and the light faded slowly away. Before they did, John closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks. "You can come in now, Brother," he called out to Orsini. "It is finished."
The door opened, and the novitiate master looked cautiously inside. For once his thin lips formed a genuine curve as he stepped over the dead vampire to stand and make the sign of the cross over John.
"Es area Dei," Orsini murmured, and embraced him like a son. "You are the ark of God."
Now and forever, John thought. Amen.
Michael took Alexandra from Atlanta to New Orleans in the jardin's private jet.
"Another bonus of living for seven-hundred-plus years, I suppose," she muttered as she sat as far away from him as she could in the small cabin. "Lots of expensive toys."
Phillipe took his usual position in the row behind her, and when she had clipped her seat belt, Michael rose and took a seat across from her.
Alex glowered. "I'm not going to jump off the plane."
Michael hardly heard what she said. He was still staggered by the fact that she could resist his verbal and mental commands. He was her master by blood, through his blood that surged in her veins, and yet she had repeatedly brushed him off like a bothersome insect. In seven hundred years, no Kyn of his making had ever been able to resist his voice.
She could be something completely different: half human, half Kyn. Is it possible? He saw she was watching him with curious eyes.
"We should talk about your patients," he said, reaching for the briefcase he had tucked under the seat.
"They're not my patients." She reached over to close the screen over the window and braced herself as the plane taxied down the runway.
Michael saw her nails dig into the ends of the armrests and her knuckles turn white. "Alexandra, are you afraid?"
"No, I'm dancing the conga," she said through clenched teeth. "Can't you read my mind?"
"No, that is not my talent." When she gave him a blank look, he added, "I can only make you forget."
"So reading minds doesn't automatically come with this gig, huh? Good to know." Speed made the plane shudder slightly, and her lips disappeared. "God, I hate flying."
If Michael had known this would distress her, he would have had Phillipe drive them back. A day's delay would make no difference to Thierry. He rather doubted anything would. "You should have told me."
"I just did." As the plane lifted off, she closed her eyes tightly.
Alex's fear had one benefit: it gave him time to look at her. Gone were her voluptuous curves; the change had whittled her frame down to a compact, lean toughness. Her skin had paled from golden tan to a creamy ivory. Her mane of curls had grown longer; the end of the ponytail she wore reached the center of her back. He would have to warn her about the unpredictable spurts in which their nails and hair grew, or she might wake up one night screaming, surrounded by a sea of hair or with talons curling from her fingers.
If she did not die first. Alexandra might still be human enough to court a quick and senseless death.
Her eyes had changed, as well, he saw when she opened them. Still the same, ordinary brown, but the Madonna-like serenity they had once possessed was gone. Now shadows and secrets, her secrets, gleamed from within.
As her master, Cyprien was entitled to know her secrets. All of them.
Perhaps her resistance was due to her time. Unlike all the other Darkyn, the doctor had not been cursed in a feudal era, when she would have possessed the simpleminded mentality of a peasant trained from birth to blindly obey her lord. By all rights Alexandra had been a free woman and highly respected artisan in her world, and his interference had destroyed everything she valued. If he wanted her to trust him, then he could not treat her as his sygkenis. He would instead court her favor as an equal, and give her art back to her.
Working as a surgeon again would keep Alexandra out of any more alleyways. It might serve nicely to bring her under his absolute control.
"Quit scheming," she told him.
"Scheming is for women." He smiled a little. "Men schedule."
"Sexist." She sighed and opened her eyes, but she didn't look at him. "Tell me how bad they are."
Michael did not have her medical vocabulary, and besides Thierry, the other three Durands had proved very resistant to being given any assistance. In the end he had given them private rooms and ample nourishment, and allowed them to rest.
"They were tortured as I was, but their injuries are different. Some I do not know if you can heal."
Alex snorted. "I healed yours."
"They worked longest on Thierry." Cyprien's mouth tightened as he thought of what had been done to his childhood friend. "He is more critical than the others."
She sat up and gave him her full attention. "How critical?"
He removed an envelope from his breast pocket and withdrew the folded paper inside. "I made this the night we brought the Durands to New Orleans, two months ago." And had damned his eyes for seeing, and his hands for having the ability to reproduce what he had seen.
Alex saw pencil lines through the paper. "Why a sketch?"
"I am an artist, not a photographer."
"Guess it's hard to explain why you'd show up in a hundred-year-old photo, too, huh?" She unfolded the paper and studied his rendering of Thierry's wrecked, twisted body. "This isn't an abstract."
"Sadly, no."
The pilot politely announced their travel route and the approximate time they would be touching down at the New Orleans airport.
Alexandra folded the paper carefully and handed it back to him. "I'll look at them. That's all I'll commit to right now."
Cyprien felt cautiously optimistic. She had not been able to abandon him in his need once she had seen him. She would care for the Durands, and in time, she would come to care for him. "Thank you, Alexandra."
She turned her head away and stared into the clouds. "Day-dreamer, beware."
Father Orsini escorted Brother John Keller to the barracks used to house guests of the Brethren, and put him in the care of the helots. "Eat and sleep, Brother. You will not be called upon to serve again until you have fully healed."