Forbidden (5 page)

Dark clouds leached the light out of the morning sky, which spilled over the church, casting it in a ghostly luminescence. The gray and mist made it feel as if time had stopped, hovered between night and day, hope and despair. Nothing stirred, not even in the shadows.

Roc watched from the confines of his Mustang for long minutes, making sure no one had followed him. He knew the real reason he delayed, but time was ticking away, and precious minutes were escaping.

He yanked the rubber band out of his hair, pulling strands out with it, and tossed the rubbery circle on the dash beside the attached GPS system. He shook his head in an effort to clear away the images, which jumbled his thoughts together. In an attempt to rid himself of the memory, he wrenched the keys from the ignition and jerked open the door, surprised at his own sudden action. It was time to fully face his mistake, his guilt. It would never be clearer or more painful than when he looked into Roberto Hellman's crystal-blue eyes and confessed he'd killed Ferris. It was his fault he'd believed the young man was ready and put him in harm's way, and he'd wear the stain of Ferris's blood forever.

Sweat poured out of Roc as he walked the lonely path he'd taken so many times over the past six months. It was too early for the pink-dressed nuns or even the most determined and dedicated churchgoers. The grounds remained deserted and quiet. Even the surrounding neighborhood, which housed the occasional bar, was hushed as if in reverence for the loss of Ferris. He reached the stone cathedral, its domes and arches pointing heavenward, its spires indicating
the
way
. He passed stained-glass windows with fierce angels soaring through the air or standing as if on guard to protect the sanctity of the church.

He remembered then to make the call. Using his cell phone, he dialed the number once then disconnected after one ring. By the time he'd walked the length of the building and rounded the corner, he dialed again, allowing it to ring three full times; then again he severed the call. Twenty more paces to the rectory. He passed the main entrance and went around to its side door, which was set in deep shadows. He couldn't actually see the wooden door and its ancient lock until he stepped onto the landing and his knuckle met wood with four succinct raps.

He waited, his breathing harsh in his own ears. He turned away to stare at the solitary path he had come, a path also leading to the garden the priest tended as faithfully as he tended his flock. Of their own accord, his feet took to the path, as if he no longer had a will, and he walked in the silence past the rectory and school to the alcove. The burbling of the fountain in its center had a calming effect and washed over Roc. He walked to the round stone edifice and placed a booted foot on it, just inches from the water line. He'd never really paid attention to the statue before, never cared. The rain clouds gave the white marble a soft glow, as if it was lit from its very soul. The Virgin Mary bathed the baby Jesus upon her lap, and just beyond her right shoulder stood a powerful angel, its face stern, its wings massive, its sword pointing downward as it stood guard over the young mother and her child.

For Roc, the Virgin Mother had always seemed full of accusation, but this rendition of Mary's face was soft and delicate as she tended her baby, and he wondered if his own soul could ever be cleansed of his sins.

Then a hand pressed against his shoulder. Roc dodged sideways and swung around while pulling his Glock free of its shoulder holster.

“It is all right, Roc.” Father Hellman spoke calmly, saying Roc's name with the guttural articulation at the end, the way St. Roch was often pronounced. “If I wanted to hurt you, you'd already be a goner.”

Roc had let down his guard. One lapse of judgment was all it had taken. In a way, Roc wished for that sort of release. Yet, he drew a steadying breath and replaced the Glock in the leather holster again. “That's comforting.”

The priest wore a button-down blue chambray shirt with his priestly collar beneath, as well as a pair of worn jeans. He didn't appear to have been awakened by Roc's phone calls or knock. “You seemed far away just now. Are you all right?” His gaze dropped to Roc's chest and Roc glanced downward. Even though his T-shirt was black, it was stained, some places wet, others dry. The coppery scent made it clear it was blood. “You were in a fight?”

Roc nodded.

“Are you hurt?”

“It's not my blood.”

Roberto motioned for him to follow. “Come. You can clean up and tell me about your adventure. And—”

“Do you have a drink?” A tremor rippled through Roc's hand.

Roberto eyed him carefully. “We will see.”

They walked the few steps back to the rectory in silence. Roc waited, glancing over his shoulder, while Roberto unlocked the wooden side door and led the way down the steep, narrow stairwell to the tiny room he occupied. It held only a small wooden desk, rickety chair, and cot where Roberto slept and studied. A musty smell filled the space, but Roc wasn't sure if it was from the man, the room, or the many books filling the bookshelves. Even more books were piled on the desk.

Roc sat on the rickety chair, a place he'd occupied many times in the past months. From underneath the cot peeked a forty-pound barbell Roc had used in his effort to get battle ready. Effort he now considered wasted. Often this tiny room had been a place where he had learned about a world he'd never wanted to discover, but tonight it was his confessional.

Usually, Roberto sat on the cot or paced along its long side as he taught and educated both Roc and Ferris. But tonight, he knelt at the end and pulled a wooden crate from beneath. The hinges of the lid creaked as he lifted it and pulled out a dusty bottle. The dark container had no label. The liquid inside sloshed about invitingly as Roberto uncorked the top. He poured the whiskey-colored liquid into two glasses and handed one to Roc.

With a slight shrug, Roberto said, “Sometimes one needs to numb oneself. This is not an easy task, what we have been given.”

Roc's hands shook as he stared into the amber liquor, which could bring temporary peace. He sniffed its aroma. Scotch. Aged at least twenty years if Roc had to guess. The good stuff. Or at least better than the rotgut he'd grown accustomed to. He almost wished for the harsher drink to punish himself. His soul longed for oblivion, where he could forget all he knew, all he'd done, his mistakes, guilt, and foolhardiness. His eyes filled, and the Scotch wavered before him like a golden sea of serenity. But there was no peace for Roc, no comfort, no redemption.

“What happened, Roc?” The priest's kind voice seemed to come from far away.

It took every ounce of control not to toss back the Scotch and let it slide through his veins. Instead, Roc set the glass on the desk with an awkward thump and stood. He walked around the room wanting to avoid why he'd come here. But he couldn't. With growing heaviness, he slumped onto the cot, hunching his shoulders forward. “Ferris is dead.”

Shock eclipsed Roberto's features. His eyes filled with tears, but they did not spill over. He leaned back as if all the air had been sucked from his body, his limbs sagging. Roc had expected dismay or even anger, but this reaction drove the dagger of guilt further into his heart.

After a moment, the old priest sputtered, “H-how?”

Roc rubbed the sweat off his palms along his jeans-clad thighs, back and forth along the tense-as-rope muscles as if he could punish himself or somehow infuse his system with courage. “It was my fault.”

“Your fault? I do not understand.”

“I took him with me to confront a professor at UPenn.”

Roberto's eyes and mouth rounded, and his skin turned pasty white. “The Philomathean…”

Roc went cold inside. “How did you know?”

“I've known for years…for years. But it has been too powerful to penetrate, the vampire—”

“Victor Beaumont.”

Roberto nodded, his mouth pinching at the corners.

“You knew? But why didn't you tell me?” asked Roc, shocked into anger. “Why—?”

“Tell you what? That the group existed? When we were strong enough, I thought maybe we might”—Roberto shook his head—“but alone? Never. It was impossible.” He turned his back on Roc, stepped away, before turning back to face him, his features stricken with raw grief. “And you are too rash yet. If I had told you about the professor, then I would not have been able to hold you back for long.”

“And while we waited”—Roc tasted the vehemence like vinegar on his tongue—“more innocents died.”

Roberto glared down at Roc. “We can't save everyone, Roc. You should know that. And you should know that Ferris was—”

Roc swiped the Scotch out of the priest's hand and sent it flying across the room. It smashed into the wall. Rivulets ran down the whitewashed plaster. Splinters of glass slid across the floor.

Strong hands gripped Roc's shoulders, and the older man gave him a stern, fatherly look. “Ferris knew what he was getting into. He knew the risks, just like you and I know. It is not your fault. Ferris is dead. But it is not your fault.”

“But—”

“No!” Roberto's voice exploded in the room, the sound reverberating and pulsing against Roc's eardrums. “It's not your fault. Accept it. Repeat it.”

But Roc's mouth couldn't form the words. His throat closed, jerked, and convulsed. He shrugged aside Roberto's firm hands and turned away, unable to look into the priest's probing gaze.

“Where is he now?” Roberto asked, his voice quiet in the stillness of the dank room. “Where is my—?” He swallowed hard. “Where is Ferris?”

“His body is still at the university. Along with the professor's.”

“You killed him too?” Astonishment saturated Roberto's voice, but there was really nothing astonishing about it. Fury had fueled Roc, and it was all a red haze now. There was no satisfaction in murder, not when they had suffered a devastating loss such as Ferris's.

“I have to go back and take care of things. Before they are discovered.” Roc sank back onto the cot, his limbs weighted, his soul depleted. “It's worse than—” He stopped himself from speaking of the gore. “You can't go. I will—”

Roberto clapped him on the back. “They will take care of it.”

The hair on Roc's neck prickled. “They?”

“Oh, yes, Professor Beaumont was not alone. But they will not want to be discovered, and so they will clean things up. They will not want investigators snooping around their sacred site.”

“But Ferris—”

“Is gone.”

A silence throbbed inside the room. Roberto sat beside Roc, folding his hands together. Was the priest praying, simply grief stricken, or planning their next attack?

“Roc,” he finally said, his eyes still closed. “I was not always a priest.”

The simple statement surprised Roc. He thought of Anthony back in New Orleans, his childhood friend who had become a priest and first suggested to Roc his wife had been killed by vampires, although Roc refused to believe him back then. “Of course not. No priest ever is
always
a priest. You're not born with that collar.”

Roberto's eyes fluttered open. “I was much like you at one time, bent on revenge. And I studied with a priest named Alejandro. A brilliant man. Scholarly. Gracious. Full of compassion and great humility. He cared for me after my sister, Maria, was killed. That is when my tutorials began about this life. And it was much later…after—” His lips tightened and then relaxed before he continued. “I had begun to travel and didn't see Alejandro much in those days. Once when I returned, I discovered he was missing and hadn't been seen in weeks.”

Slowly, Roberto leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared at the floor. “I tracked him down.” Then he met Roc's gaze. “And I killed him. Alejandro. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. But he had been changed. And he was waiting for me. He expected me to do it.”

Roc drew a shaky breath. “There is no end to all of this, is there?”

The corners of Roberto's mouth tensed with what appeared to be regret. “Not that I can see. And yet, we have a holy occupation.”

“Nothing holy about it,” Roc protested. “I'd prefer to go back to living like I didn't know any of this.” Roc stood, paced the floor, crunching glass beneath his shoes. “What good does it do anyway? So we kill one vampire? Big deal! There are plenty to take the professor's place. There are just more killings, more murders, more blood.”

He felt spent, depleted of everything. He had nothing else to say, no more arguments, no more questions. He stared at the wall and the spilled Scotch, which was wasted now. So much blood spilled. All of it a waste.

“Is that how you felt about being a cop, Roc?”

The priest's question jarred him. “What?”

“When you were a cop, did you think: what's the point? There's always another robbery, another murder, rape, whatever. Crime never ends.”

Roc buried his fingers in his hair, sliding the pads along his scalp. That life seemed so distant. “I don't know.”

“Yes, you do. You knew then, just as you know now, that your job is important, even vital. That other lives are depending on you.”

“But it does no good.”

“You will never know how much good it is doing. Only God knows the lives you have saved by killing Professor Beaumont. If he were to be allowed to continue…” Roberto shook his head as if that would be the end. “Only God can see the future and what would have been had you not acted.”

“But Ferris—”

“Enough! Do not speak his name again.” Roberto's voice turned to stone. “He is gone. He had a mission as well as you do. Despite the hazards. He wasn't seeking fame or a long life. He was trying to make a difference. He sought purpose. And he accomplished that. His death helped bring about the destruction of a powerful vampire. And purpose is what you have too, Roc. You have a destiny only you can fulfill. Just as I do. Then one day, I will die, probably the way Ferris did. But lying in a bed and waiting for the end is not our way or our destiny. We live boldly. And we will die the same way. But without regrets.”