The Damned (22 page)

“I’ve always thought so,” Holgar wheezed. He pushed himself up and tried to stand, then collapsed back onto the ground with a high-pitched cry that sounded like an injured animal.

“You broke that ankle,” Taamir said. “You won’t be any good to travel.”

“Never underestimate a werewolf,” Holgar said through gritted teeth.

Skye moved her hands over his ankle.
Goddess, help him
, she silently prayed.

“Or a witch,” Holgar added. “She’ll fix me up.“

“We don’t have a prayer of catching up to Jamie,” Jenn said. “But we have to go in after him.”

“Three minutes,” Skye asked, working as fast as she could.

This was Estefan’s fault. He had done this to her and put Holgar in harm’s way. It was bad enough that he wanted to hurt her, but now he had hurt Holgar, and she could feel the rage building within her. It wasn’t good; it distracted her from helping Holgar heal.

She breathed in, trying to feel the earth beneath the layer of snow that was quickly turning crimson around him. Every second that she lost to her anger was a second more that Holgar was bleeding and in pain, a second more that Jamie was alone and in trouble.

Jamie, we’re coming. Don’t do anything stupid before we get there.

Jamie knew it was stupid, but he went in through the front door. Alarms were going off, and the place appeared to be on red alert. Stupid blighters didn’t even bother to lock the door when they were under attack. Maybe that was their exit strategy.

He made his way toward the stairwell and stopped a moment to study an evacuation plan mounted on the wall. It was in Russian, and he couldn’t read any of it, but a giant red arrow pointed out the door he had just come through. Since no one seemed to be coming his way, he figured they were either holed up somewhere else or using an entirely different exit.

Svika had mentioned underground tunnels leading in and out of the building. And the basement was where he’d go if he were expecting an attack.

Smart money said that they’d have Eriko down there and not aboveground where she might throw someone out a window. And then jump to freedom. That was his girl.

He kicked open the door to the stairwell and ran down, taking them two at a time. The door on the next landing was made of reinforced steel and locked. Jamie gave it a tentative kick before continuing downward, encountering one sealed door after another, much to his frustration.

At the bottom of the stairs there was an unlocked door. Jamie ran through it, crouching low, gun in one hand, stake in another. Red flashing lights illuminated the hallway, and he saw a few people, or maybe Cursers, in lab coats, scurrying around at the far end.

Why do I keep ending up in the labs of mad scientists?
he wondered, heading down the hall away from the people. The first two rooms he passed were offices with papers scattered about. The third held rows and rows of freezers and benches with high-powered microscopes and beakers and test tubes. Along the wall, text scrolled across the screens on a bank of computers, and a nearby printer spat paper at an impossible rate.

No sign of Eriko.

Jamie moved on to the next room. The door was closed. Jamie braced himself, then flung it open and stepped inside.

The room resembled a hospital ward with rows and rows of cots. Bodies lay on the cots, sheets tucked up to their chins. Sleeping, dead, or comatose, Jamie couldn’t tell. He walked slowly down the ranks, scanning each face for Eriko. Or even Antonio.

The first few appeared human, but as he walked, the creatures in the beds began to resemble those they had fought in the woods, all fangs and twisted features. They appeared to be in comas, tubes running in and out of them.

Janie heard a strange hissing and picked up speed, desperate to find Eriko so they could torch the place and get out of there.

He turned to the next cot and froze as a pair of eyes met his gaze.

It was a girl, no more than eight. Her pupils dilated in fear as she stared at him. There were straps over the blanket that covered her, pinning her down to the bed. IVs were hooked up to both of her arms, and there were fang marks up and down her throat. Tears slid out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She opened her mouth, and he could see that her tongue had been cut out.

He swore and moved to her side, quickly unbuckling the straps that held her down. As he grabbed the last one, he heard a noise behind him, and spun to see a man in a doctor’s coat, his hands raised above his head as if to show that he was unarmed.

The man spoke in Russian over the clanging of the alarms, and Jamie shook his head.

“English, lad,” Jamie said.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said in English.

Jamie covered the man with his gun, trying to decide whether or not to shoot him. “And why is that?” he asked as he flipped the last buckle open.

In an instant the girl jumped on Jamie, clawing at his face.

“Hey!” Jamie shouted, trying to pry her off.

She grew fangs before his eyes. Her mouth clacking, she strained to bite him. Jamie screamed and jumped backward. Then he managed to throw her clear.

She landed on the ground on all fours and made a horribly breathy sound—a hiss without a tongue. Her knees bent the other way, like an animal’s, and her hands and feet were tipped with six-inch talons.

The girl turned, saw the doctor, and threw herself at him, sinking her fangs into his throat. Jamie opened fire on them both, killing the doctor before she could. Then, while she was recovering from the gunfire, Jamie staked her. As she slowly turned to dust before his eyes, she gave him a ghostly smile.

Sick to the bottom of his soul, Jamie turned and ran the rest of the length of the room, scanning the beds for Eriko and Antonio until he reached a set of bassinets. He could hear strange cries coming from the infants, but he squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to see what was inside. He turned and staggered out of the room.

He had to find Eriko, kill this Dantalion, and blow up this place. No one could see this. No one could repeat this. It had to end here and now.

She could have been my little sister
, he thought, the girl’s face coming back to him and merging with his memory of Maeve. Jamie tried to push the image away, but couldn’t. He faltered as he turned a corner and came to another set of doors. He didn’t want to know what was behind any of them.

Then someone grabbed him and slammed him into the wall, clamping a hand over his mouth.

CHAPTER TEN

Faces lifted to the sky
The silvery moon hears our cry
Laugh or cry it matters not
Dead now those whom we have fought
Servant, master, all a name
Power, politics, just a game
For we’re entwined, every part
Spirit, mind, flesh, and heart

S
ALAMANCA
F
ATHER
J
UAN

Father Juan woke suddenly from a deep sleep. He had been dreaming of his childhood, after his father died, when he and his mother and siblings had been living on the streets, doing whatever work they could find, going hungry. Those times had taught him much, toughened him physically and mentally, and given him a spiritual strength that had served him well.

They also taught him the value of home. For years the university had been his home, the place that sheltered him when he fought his own fears and dreamed dreams that were still as prophetic and mystical as those of his youth. He turned on his side, savoring the feel of the pillow beneath his head. Home was where you were safe and comforted. His little room was all his; more than just a place to rest his body, it was a sanctuary for spirit and mind.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of incense, and
knew
as surely as if an angel had whispered in his ear:

Someone had invaded his sanctuary.

Someone who meant to kill him.

Father Juan sat up just as a knife arced through the air toward him. With a shout he grabbed the wrist that wielded it and twisted it sideways. The skin was warm to the touch—a human.
Who? How?

His attacker was off balance, and his body followed as Juan wrenched his arm. The assailant fell to the ground hard, grunting as he did so. Without letting go of his wrist, Juan stood up and pressed his foot down on his assailant’s neck, ready to break it at a moment’s notice. The knife fell and skidded under the bed.

“Help!” Father Juan shouted, loud enough that he would be heard by Diego, who was staying overnight in the room next door, but hopefully no others.

Seconds later Diego shot into his room. The bishop flipped the light switch and stood there in his pajamas. Father Juan squinted against the light and looked down at his attacker.

He gasped in dismay as he recognized the normally jovial features of Brother Manuel. Although the cook was grunting beneath the weight of Juan’s foot, he made no effort to get away. He simply lay there passively, barrel chest heaving.

“What is going on?” Diego burst out.

“He tried to kill me,” Father Juan said through clenched teeth. He pushed on his foot slightly, glaring down at the man who had cooked a thousand meals that he had trustingly eaten. “Tell me why.”

“I was ordered to,” Brother Manuel whispered.

“By whom?” Diego asked sharply, stepping forward. “Did a Cursed One put you up to this? What did they promise you, immortality?”

Manuel shook his head, as much as he could with Father Juan’s foot still on his throat.

“Then what did they promise you?” Diego demanded.

Again Manuel shook his head.

“It wasn’t a Cursed One, was it,” Father Juan said quietly.

Manuel squeezed his eyes shut.

Diego turned to Father Juan. “You don’t think—”

“I do,” Father Juan said, heart and voice heavy. “One of us, someone from Rome, most likely.”

“But, they
can’t
have told him to harm you,” Diego said incredulously. “Shut us down, yes. Force us out, probably, but
kill yo
u?
”

It was not the first time Father Juan had been attacked by others of his kind for standing up for what was right. “It’s an old tactic.” He looked down at Brother Manuel, and he was filled with sorrow. Brother Manuel was a good man, but he didn’t know how to question, how to stand up for himself. He was at the Salamanca academy because he’d been told it was his duty, not because he believed it was his sacred calling, above and apart from even his calling as a priest.

Father Juan eased his foot up enough to let the man talk. “How many others were you supposed to kill?”

“Just you,” Manuel said, his voice tinged with genuine regret. “They believed that without you the rest would obey.”

Father Juan closed his eyes.
Obey.
It was a word that had enslaved countless generations. One that he had fought against time and time again. It was the antithesis of responsibility, individuality, conscience.

“What do we do with him?” Diego asked, deferring, as was his wont in times of crisis, to Father Juan.

“We send him back to Rome,” Father Juan said with a sigh. “A pity, too. He was a good cook, and he didn’t mind feeding the werewolf.”

It was a joke, a poor one, but a joke nonetheless. Holgar would have been delighted. The werewolf was clearly rubbing off on him.

He thought of his team out in the field and said a prayer for them. He wouldn’t tell them of this. They needed to believe in the academy, believe it was a sanctuary, as he once had. He would make it safe for them, even if it would never again be safe for him.

R
USSIA
T
EAM
S
ALAMANCA
M
INUS
A
NTONIO AND
E
RIKO;
T
AAMIR AND
N
OAH

“What are you doing here?” hissed the man who had grabbed Jamie. Speaking English.
American
English, through the vocal distorter of a gas mask. He was dressed all in black, and he had on a silver helmet emblazoned with a black Jerusalem cross.

“Bloody well the same as you, I figure,” Jamie shot back.

“I very much doubt it. Get out of here before you screw it up. Go!”

“Not until I find my girl.”

“The Hunter? She’s not here.”

“How do you know?”

“Dantalion’s monsters didn’t bring anyone back with them.”

If that was true, then maybe Eriko and Antonio had sent the fang gang running.

“But there’s a male witch, yeah?” Jamie asked.

“No, no witches here except yours,” the man replied. “Come with me. Poison gas is coming in through the ducts, and he’s set the place to blow. Thinks his handlers are on their way.”

“Dantalion might know where she is,” Jamie said.

“He’ll be dead in five minutes,” the man replied. “You will too. Let’s go.”

Jamie was about to argue with the man when they heard steps running down the hall from the same direction Jamie had come. Helmet dragged Jamie through an open doorway a foot away. Three beasties—huge fangs, rubbery lips, bloodshot eyes, and horribly misshapen bodies—streaked past them. Before the other guy could say anything, Jamie twisted out of his grasp and charged after the trio.

His eyes began to water, his lungs to burn. The guy was right; there was something in the air.

Wherever the beasties were going, they were in such a hurry that they didn’t notice they were being followed. Jamie trailed a few steps behind as they twisted through the corridors. He tried to keep the layout straight in his head so he’d be able to get back out again, but he was having trouble focusing. His lungs were on fire, and his eyes were tearing up so he could barely see. Poison gas could kiss his ass.

Jamie picked up speed as the trio skittered down a hallway into darkness. Jamie bounded after them, then came to a T-junction. Light spilled from a doorway on his right. Slowing, hugging the wall, he moved closer. Behind him he could hear quiet footfalls, and he risked a glance over his shoulder. Helmet guy was coming up behind him. Jamie turned back, fixating on the doorway. He couldn’t hear over the alarms, and crept closer.