"St. Everhild—? The church across from the Black Lodge?"
The priest nodded and placed a cool cloth on her head. "I'm afraid I'm unused to visitors. I've made you a bed out of old choir robes, but some of them are rather mildewed."
"I'll get over it."
Father Eamon glanced in the direction of a distant explosion, followed by hoarse screams. He stood and peered out a heavily barred basement window set level with the street. His hand dropped automatically to the rosary about his neck. When he spoke, his voice was strangely calm, almost dreamy.
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"Tonight I saw the hand of God come down and smite Deadtown. It is time for the just to rise up and make the guilty pay for their sins. Tonight I cast aside my fear of the dark and unlocked the doors of the church for the first time in twelve years." He glanced back to where the stranger lay on her makeshift pallet. "When I saw you sprawled across the stairs, I thought you were Esher's harlot. The one with the rings."
The stranger smiled wryly. "Seems to be a common mistake around here. Not that it'll be happening that much anymore. She's dead. I killed her."
Father Eamon lifted an eyebrow but his features remained immobile. "Is that a confession to me?"
"Just stating a fact."
The priest moved away from the window, staring down at her with a troubled frown. "I see a lot from the belfry. One of the things I've seen is you. At first I thought you were one of them, because you slept away the daylight hours in the attic. Then I saw you enter the Black Lodge. But this morning, in the light of day, I saw you with the boy. It was then I realized I'd misjudged you—you are a child of God, not Satan."
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Father," she rasped. "You got me pegged a lot closer than you know.
See what I mean?" she grinned, baring her fangs.
Father Eamon gasped and took a step backward, his hand closing on the rosary. "Impossible—! You touched my rosary! You asked for sanctuary—I have bathed your wounds in water from the baptismal font! I myself saw you walking in the full light of day!"
"There's more to the Kindred than you realize, Father. It is in their interest to keep humans confused as to their exact weaknesses and abilities. There is wisdom in keeping your enemies ignorant. It's true sunlight kills them, but most Kindred would fear your rosary, not because of its religious significance, but because of your faith in it."
"I can't believe that."
"Believe what you like. It does not alter what I am—or the fact that I am here."
Father Eamon struck himself across his right cheek with his open palm. The blow was hard enough to send him staggering. "I have sinned again! I have brought into this holy place a thing of the devil!
Unclean fool!" He delivered another blow to his own face, then another.
The stranger struggled to sit upright. "Father! Stop that!" she snapped. "You have betrayed no one! It is not the Church itself that makes this place anathema to the undead—it is the faith of those who believe in it! What white magic exists in this place is here because of you."
Eamon stared at her for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice and mannerisms contained no trace of the violence and self-loathing of a moment before except for his redly glowing right cheek. "This is your handiwork, isn't it?" he said, pointing in the direction of the window. "I can feel it in my bones.
This all ties in to you, somehow. That is why you were brought to St. Everhild! That is why I felt compelled to help you!"
The stranger eyed the priest cautiously. Was it possible that the old hermit had some sort of low-grade extrasensory perception? Then again, the humans most susceptible to the shadow world were drunkards, lunatics, and poets. And it seemed that Father Eamon might qualify for two out of the three.
Something flickered deep in Father Eamon's eyes as he began to pace, speaking aloud more to himself than to his guest. "Deep within the bowels of Hell there dwells a divine monster—a creature both devil and angel. It goes by many names, but it is best known as the Angel of Destruction. It is the harbinger of punishment, vengeance, wrath, death and ire. Although the Angel of Destruction is in the thrall of Satan, it serves God, and no doom is visited upon mankind in which the Destroying Angel is not in its midst.
When it executes its punishment on the world, it wields the Sword of God. And tonight I saw the Sword of God strike and split the sky!"
The stranger laughed and weakly shook her head. "I'm certainly no angel, father!"
Father Eamon halted his pacing and frowned, stroking his chin. "Perhaps. But I know what I saw tonight was a sign from God. A sign that it is time for me to do something besides cower in the shadows and drink myself into a stupor every night."
A burst of submachine-gun fire drew his attention back to the window. He peered out onto the street, then stepped back, crossing himself.
"What is it?" she whispered.
"Pointers. Dozens of them. They're walking five abreast in the middle of the street, headed for the Black Lodge."
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) The stranger pushed herself into a sitting position, although her head felt as if it was swinging on the end of a tetherball cord. "Help me up. I want to see."
"You're in no condition to move—!"
"I have to see what's going on," she grunted through gritted teeth as she struggled to stand.
Father Eamon clucked his tongue reproachfully, but looped his left arm under her shoulders, helping her to her feet. She staggered slightly, closing her eyes to the black specks swimming before her vision like a connect-the-dots game. Father Eamon helped her to the window, where she clutched the sill with trembling fingers.
The street in front of St. Everhild was indeed full of Pointers, mixed with members of Esher's enclave.
Gang members and vampires alike carried assault weapons and military-issue machine guns. As she watched, a group of Black Spoons opened fire on the advancing invaders from a nearby alley. A couple of Pointers dropped as their fellows returned the fire. The exchange of fire ended with screams and splashes of blood. The Black Spoons' Glocks and Lugers were no match against Street Sweepers and M24s.
The overamplified thump of industrial-strength rap, laying down a bass-line as thick as boilerplate, signaled the Batmobile's approach, flanked by armed Pointers who trotted alongside the car like Secret Service agents in a presidential motorcade. The stranger grimaced as her molars vibrated in time with the beat.
"Looks like Esher's bringing the fight to Sinjon's door," she muttered. "I guess 'say it with flowers' really works."
The Batmobile halted directly across the street from the Black Lodge. One of the attendant bodyguards opened the rear passenger door and Esher stepped out. The vampire lord placed his hands on his hips and scanned the scene. A jumbled barricade of old furniture, broken masonry and timber had been erected in front of the Black Lodge, the top festooned with a bale of razorwire that glinted like tinsel in the flickering light of the fires from the burning tenements. Behind the barrier stood the Black Spoons and Sinjon's progeny, their faces smeared with blood and soot.
Esher motioned to one of his underlings, who reached into the front seat of the Batmobile and retrieved a bullhorn. Esher lifted the amplifier to his mouth and bellowed: "Sinjon! I've come for what's mine! Do you hear me, Freemason?"
Sinjon stepped out onto the third-story balcony overlooking the street and glowered at the assembled army at his doorstep. "What is the meaning of this, Esher?!? Have you gone mad like the rest of the rabble in this wretched place? It's less than an hour before dawn! First I have crazed derelicts attacking my men with torches and firebombs, now you!"
"Don't play coy with me, you bastard! You know very well why I am here! After all, it is you who cast the first stone!"
"You are mad!"
"I want my woman! I want the cocaine you took from me! But most of all—I demand that you hand over the traitor to me!"
"I have no idea what you're raving about, Esher! Return to your territory while you still can!"
"You give me no other choice, then!" Esher lowered the bullhorn and made a quick, chopping gesture with his hand.
The Pointers opened fire on the Black Lodge, the bullets gouging marble-sized holes in the building face.
Sinjon flinched as a phosphorus bullet whistled by his ear and ricocheted off the brickface behind him. He quickly withdrew from the exposed balcony, shouting at his minions to return the fire.
"Daddy—what's going on?"
Vere, naked except for a black vinyl jockstrap, shivered on the canopied bed, clutching the purple satin sheets to his chest. His eyes were white with fear, and for the first time in months he looked like the frightened young boy Sinjon had picked up in front of the downtown bus terminal.
"The wizard's lost his mind! He's jabbering on about giving him back the girl and the drugs! And he seems convinced we're harboring Morgan's get!"
"Did you tell him she's not here?"
"Of course I told him, you ninny!" Sinjon shrieked.
There was the sound of breaking glass and a grenade landed with a thud on the carpet between Sinjon and the boy. The vampire lord stared at it, more stunned than frightened.
"The son-of-a-bitch has grenade launchers!"
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) The explosion sent glass and debris flying out the third-story window, where it pelted the Black Spoons like a lethal rain. Sinjon's progeny lifted their pale faces as one, their scarlet eyes glittering with panic, and raised their hands in supplication. "Father!" they wailed. "Father, help us!"
The situation behind the barricade was grim. Dead and dying Black Spoons lay sprawled three-deep.
There were Kindred causalities as well—most brought down by phosphorus ammunition or grenades. The vampire called Tristan—his body blown away from the waist down—dragged himself along his elbows and belly, battening onto the wounded Black Spoons in hope of draining enough blood to hurry his reconstruction. The dying humans struggled feebly to escape his grasp, but were powerless to stop what was happening. Their cries for help went ignored by their former comrades-in-arms as they returned the Pointers' relentless fire.
The street in front of the Black Lodge ran red with blood, its sidewalks littered with bodies. Esher's minions fell back, taking cover behind garbage cans and repositioning themselves from the windows of the few nearby buildings that had yet to succumb to arson. Esher himself sat in the back of his bulletproof Caddy, watching the slaughter with a preternatural calm. During a brief break in the firefight, he glanced at the Rolex on his wrist and pulled a walkie-talkie out from under the seat.
"King Hell to Firebird. Begin the suite, over."
"Roger, King Hell. Firebird over."
Esher tucked the walkie-talkie back under the seat, leaned back, folded his arms across his chest, and waited for the show to start.
A pair of Pointers armed with grenade launchers zigzagged across the street, protected by covering fire from their fellow gang members, and set up their position on the steps of the church opposite the Black Lodge. One of the Pointers caught a bullet and dropped, rolling down the marble stairs, but his teammate kept working. When the first launcher fired, the Black Spoons watched what they thought was another grenade arc its way toward them. It wasn't until it hit that they realized it was napalm.
The jellied gasoline ignited instantly upon impact, splashing the troops huddled behind the barricade.
Vampires and humans alike shrieked in terrified agony as the flames ate through their clothes and skin.
The vampire youth Ethan leaped over the barricade, screaming and waving his arms in a futile attempt to escape the fire, only to be mowed down by Esher's men.
The second launcher fired, this time sending its fiery cargo directly through a second-story window. A chorus of shrill screams could be heard coming from the Black Lodge as thick smoke began to pour from the windows. A third volley crashed through the third-floor balcony Sinjon had been standing on minutes before.
Figures began to emerge from the Black Lodge, both human and Kindred. Some were on fire, others had their hands over their heads. The Kindred hesitated on the threshold, eyeing the lightening sky with apprehension, but were forced out by the flames. Not that it mattered—they were all mowed down the moment they cleared the barricades.
Esher smiled as he watched those trying to escape fall, the bodies piled four or five deep in places, and picked up the walkie-talkie again. "King Hell to Enclave Subcommand. Over."
"Enclave Subcommand here, milord. Over."
"Give the signal for the enclave to go to ground. Over."
"Understood, milord. But what about yourself? Over."
"Don't worry about me. I wouldn't miss this for anything. Over."
The Kindred recruits from Esher's enclave began to pull back. The sun was coming up and he had no desire to risk any more of his thralls unless necessary. He alone would remain behind, within the sunproofed Batmobile, and watch the fall of his enemy.
Tongues of flame leapt from every window of the second and third stories of the Black Lodge. Thick black smoke boiled forth like a biblical swarm of locusts. Vere came running out of the inferno, naked except for his black vinyl jockstrap, which the intense heat had melted to his skin. The youth's hair was on fire and his blistered flesh hung in large, flapping patches from his face, thighs and back. Blood trickled from his ears and nose from the damage done by the concussion grenade that had detonated in the boudoir. Vere waved his arms frantically in an attempt to escape his pain, his screams as high and piercing as those of a child.
"Help me! Somebody please help me! I don't want to die!" he wailed. "Save me, Daddy! Save meee!"