Shadows of the Midnight Sun Page 11

  “Is that the best you can do?” Drake asked, looking at Christian’s remaining makeshift weapon.

  Christian said nothing. He felt as if Drake were toying with him.

  “I told you once, if not a thousand times,” Drake said, “never walk in the open without arms. They will come for us—in their own words—‘like thieves in the night.’”

  With that, Drake unleashed another barrage. He pressed forward unmercifully. Christian found himself being pushed back into the darker recesses of the alley, beside the church where he’d met Faust at the caretaker’s door.

  He continued to retreat, avoiding Drake’s blade and deflecting it with glancing blows when he could. If Drake swung hard and dead on, Christian would have to sacrifice the last pike to protect himself. He would then be defenseless.

  His only hope was to wound Drake, or even throw him off-balance enough for a chance to run.

  Instead, he backed into a solid brick wall.

  Drake stopped his approach. His wolfish eyes gleamed almost green in the darkness.

  “Last chance,” Drake whispered. “Life or death?”

  Christian shook his head, well aware that he was about to die, quite certain that the fires of hell awaited him. He’d felt them claw at him once before. A warning. A premonition, perhaps. He would soon know the truth, what lay beyond the great void.

  “We’re already dead,” he said calmly.

  He gripped the pike and tensed, preparing to plunge it into Drake’s heart in a death embrace, even as Drake’s sword came down on him.

  “So blind,” Drake said, sounding disappointed. And then, surprisingly, Drake turned and began to walk away. He’d taken three steps when he whispered, “Take him.”

  Only now did Christian become aware of the figures on either side of him—one to the left and one to the right. With all his attention focused on Drake, he’d been unable to sense them lurking in the darkness.

  Drones—Drake’s most loyal henchmen. He gave them great physical power, but stripped and burned their minds down to a childlike state. Little if any of their own thoughts still existed; they lived now only to do Drake’s bidding.

  The snap of a palladium whip sounded from his right, a weapon normally reserved for the Ignis Purgata. The last pike was ripped from Christian’s hand. At the same time, another whip snapped in from the left, wrapping around his leg and yanking it out from under him.

  Christian dropped face-first, hitting the ground with a jarring impact. He managed to get his hands on the whip and pull it free from the first drone’s grip.

  Even as he did, the other drone leapt onto his back, looping a forearm around Christian’s throat and bending his head back.

  To a human, the drones would look like men, large and perhaps menacing in an indescribable way, but through Christian’s eyes, they were monstrous creatures of bone and fang.

  As Christian struggled to breathe, he reared back, slamming the second drone into the stone wall behind them, cracking the bricks and pushing some out of place. The drone howled but did not let go.

  Its partner approached in a hunched position, swinging a chain with a spiked ball on the end, something like a morning star from the Middle Ages. Based on the heavy gloves the drone wore, the weapon was probably made out of palladium as well.

  The chain flew in. Christian blocked it with his free hand, and it wrapped quickly around his arm, burning him like molten steel. The pain was excruciating, but this was his chance and he knew it.

  Summoning all his strength, Christian ripped the chain from the drone’s hand and then slammed himself backward once again, crashing through the wall. Bricks, mortar, and dust fell in a rumbling cloud. Christian and the drone that had tried to choke him ended up in a storeroom of the rear building.

  Rolling free of the drone’s grasp, Christian found himself next to an ancient wooden support beam. He slammed his hand into the beam, splintering the corner. Chaff and long slivers of wood flew everywhere, along with a two-foot daggerlike shard.

  Christian dove for it, grabbed the splintered piece of wood, and rolled over, just as the drone leapt for him. With a jerk of his arm, Christian thrust the shard upward, plunging it into the beast’s abdomen.

  The creature howled in pain and staggered backward. It fell, shaking uncontrollably. The wooden spike caught fire, and then the drone’s entire body flared as its death dance began.

  The second of Drake’s hideous creations pushed through the gaping hole in the wall, but paused at the sight of its brother burning.

  Christian swung the barbed morning star in a haymaker fashion. The bulk of it caught the creature in the temple, snapping its head to the side. The bony skull caved in, and the thing’s neck cracked as it fell in a heap. In seconds, it was ablaze like its brother.

  With flames jumping from the dead creatures to the walls and ceiling of the aged building, Christian knew he had to get out. He pushed through the jagged gap in the brick wall and saw Lagos charging with a machete in his hand.

  Christina flung the palladium chain at his legs. It wrapped around them like a bolo, pulling Lagos’s feet out from under him. He fell, lunging forward, stretching out like a diver.

  Christian didn’t wait.

  He raced down the alley and out across the plaza and toward the river. He sensed Drake following as he jumped over a fence and onto the promenade. Ahead lay the bridge. A train was moving out of the station and picking up speed. That was the answer, if it didn’t kill him in the process.

  Christian raced toward the tracks and leapt, grabbing a metal bar on the last car and holding on as the train throttled up.

  The train was soon racing across the bridge. Christian felt the presence of Drake and Lagos being left behind. Before the distance became too great, he heard Drake’s voice one last time.

  Run all you want, my friend. But the war is upon us. Soon you’ll have no choice but to return to my side, for you’ll have nowhere else to turn.

  CHAPTER 18

  Vatican City

  IN THE early morning hours of a rainy day, Simon Lathatch walked the halls of the Vatican’s inner buildings, accompanied by a bishop named Messini.

  Anton Messini was the ordained leader of the Ignis Purgata. He did not fight or take part in the physical actions of the war against the Nosferatu. His post was a spiritual one, caring for the souls of the hunters.

  It was a post well needed. The men of the order lived in conflict, both physical and mental. As servants of the Church, peace was their goal. But as the endless war filled their lives with death and pain and horrors that human eyes were never meant to see, they grew colder and harder in response. If they failed to act with determination and violence, the scourge of the Nosferatu would engulf the world. But if they lost their way and forgot the peace of the Lord, they might lose their very souls.

  Simon had known Messini for decades. For the last twenty years, he’d been the sword of justice at Messini’s beck and call.

  “My heart grieves for your driver,” Messini said as the two men walked slowly, hands clasped behind their backs.

  “He will recover,” Simon insisted. “And he’s free now.”

  “I sense that you’re not altogether displeased.”

  “The burden is heavy,” Simon explained. “Aldo’s soul was filled with light. He should not have to endure the darkness that lies ahead.”

  Messini nodded thoughtfully. “I remember a day when yours was filled with joy as well.”

  “A long time ago,” Simon replied.

  “You might have been better off if I’d never chosen you.”

  Simon had often considered how his life would have been had he never known of the Fallen and the war against them.

  “The darkness had already come to my village,” he said. “Having seen its cruel face in the eyes of the dead, how could I turn away?”

  The two men walked on, respectful to each other, but there was tension in the air. Simon knew the reason, a conversation he’d dreaded for the pa
st several years.

  “Perhaps it’s time you allowed yourself to look to brighter places,” Messini said.

  Simon stopped. He turned and looked up at his friend and mentor.

  “You’ve carried the burden long enough,” Messini elaborated. “Your service to the Church has been unparalleled. The sacrifices you’ve made, all that you’ve given up—these things have not been taken for granted.”

  Simon turned to the window. His thoughts drifted like the mist outside. His life had been simple once. The pleasures of a parish priest usually were. Marriages of blushing young couples. Baptisms for their children. Sermons for the flock. Even the funerals of those who’d passed gave him a chance to speak of God’s love.

  What had he seen of love these past thirty years?

  He stared at his withered hand, a causality of his experience. He thought of lost friends, thought of the Fallen damned to burn in hell. He had always hoped there would be another way.

  “My job is not yet finished,” he insisted, sounding much like Aldo had the day before.

  “It’s not wise to hold on past one’s season,” Messini advised.

  “I understand that,” Simon insisted. “And once again, I state for the record, my job is not complete. I will not be stepping down at this time.”

  “Be reasonable, Simon.”

  “It’s not for my own purposes that I stay on,” Simon explained. “The task at hand is too valuable to be left to children.”

  The bishop seemed unfazed by this answer. “Henrick Vanderwall is not a child. He’s the most competent hunter the order has ever claimed.”

  Simon had great misgivings about Henrick, but there was more to it than that. “If things continue as they are, he will no doubt be the greatest hunter of us all. But I’m not sure it’s God’s glory he seeks. Nor do I believe things will continue as they have been. A change is upon us, Bishop. The time for hunting may soon be over.”

  Messini straightened, his eyes sharpened and focused on Simon like daggers. He was no longer the kindly older mentor, but a powerful figure prepared to put a subordinate in check. “I urge you to consider what you’re saying, very carefully.”

  “I have,” Simon replied. “I’ve prayed on this for a long time. And in case I’m wrong, Henrick should remain my second. But if you put him in charge at this point, he’ll do more harm than good. He doesn’t yet understand the significance of what’s happening here.”

  “And just what do you think is happening, Simon?” There was great suspicion in Messini’s tone.

  Simon turned toward the window and stared once again into the mist outside. “I believe we stand at the edge of the Reckoning. The coming of the angel and the Midnight Sun.”

  Messini did not react. The prophecy Simon spoke of was a point of contention among the order. It had not been granted a proper seal of belief, but neither had it been rejected as heresy.

  “We’ve been debating this prophecy for a thousand years,” Messini said. “It divides us.”

  “You take no position?”

  “I’m wary,” Messini said. “Do not forget, it came to us from the lips of a demon in the first place. I do not trust in this legend the way you do.”

  Simon understood the resistance. “‘As the moment draws near, their power shall grow, and the Church’s strength shall wane and be divided.’ We have seen the weakest among them becoming more powerful. Aldo’s misfortune is only the latest proof of this.”

  Messini did not reply.

  “It says, ‘We shall face confusion as they find understanding,’” Simon added, pressing. “We are at odds over this very point. And yet, one of them has entered the cathedral in Cologne and accessed the records of their origin, records we have kept secret for millennia. He left a caretaker alive whom he could have destroyed. Upon leaving, he fought with Drakos himself. Never in history have we seen this.”

  “Simon—”

  “How could it be anything but a sign?”

  “You’re reading too much into—”

  “No,” Simon replied more sharply than he’d intended. “Something has been shown to us—and for a reason. We blame them for all that has occurred. But we could have forgiven Drakos seventeen centuries ago. How many lives would have been spared had our ancestors chosen mercy instead of war?”

  “Blasphemy,” Messini snapped.

  “Truth,” Simon insisted. “We’re not infallible. Millions have suffered because of that choice. Until we admit our sin, it will only continue. We should have forgiven him.”

  “You tread dangerously, my friend.”

  “Is that not the Church’s function, its purpose? To show mercy? To save souls?”

  “The Nosferatu have no souls.”

  “And yet, the Father sends them a healer.”

  Messini’s eyes were locked on Simon. “I understand your argument, all of which hinges on this radical prophecy. Do you truly believe in it, Simon? Or is it just your hope that there might be peace after so much killing?”

  “I believe this prophecy is valid,” Simon replied firmly, “and that its fulfillment is nearly upon us.”

  Messini took a deep breath and held it, thinking. “And how would you handle it? How would you have us handle this? Assuming I agreed.”

  “I’m not sure,” Simon replied, “but I feel the two in Cologne must know something. Perhaps they’re searching for the angel already, to find this forgiveness they believe in.”

  “Or to destroy it.”

  Messini nodded. At least he seemed to be considering the possibility. “It has been said that this angel will be born blind, unaware of its nature. Its arrival offers two paths—darkness and light, destruction and salvation.”

  Simon nodded. “If this is so, then we must find the angel before the Nosferatu discover it.”

  Messini rubbed his temple, the strain showing in his face. He sighed and walked over to Simon, staring out through the window and into the gloom as if the answer might be found there. “You make it no easier for me.”

  “I’m sorry, old friend.”

  “Not necessary,” Messini said. “We must ensure that darkness does not prevail, either in the world or in our own hearts. If you’re right, if by some chance this prophecy is true, then we must reach the angel before the Nosferatu find him.”

  “But where do we look?” Simon asked. He’d suspected for years that the Church had some secrets even he had no access to.

  Messini did not hesitate. “The prophecy tells us he will be found ‘across the sea, in the port city, whose heart is French, whose blood is mixed, where God and pagans are praised together. Her people cried out, unanswered in the night, drowned by nature and endless sorrows.’”

  Simon considered the clues, but Messini didn’t make him guess. “We believe it speaks of America,” he said, “and the city of New Orleans.”

  “I will send the hunters to America,” Simon promised.

  “And you will remain in charge of the order,” Messini added. “If this prophecy begins to unfold, you will continue at the helm. But if things are no less certain by the end of this year, you will step down.”

  Simon nodded his agreement. Either way, his time with the order was coming to an end.

  CHAPTER 19

  Compton, California

  SMOG DRAPED Los Angeles in blanket of pollution, ozone, and carbon dioxide. During the day, it turned the sunlight into yellow haze. At night, it dropped into the city, burning the eyes and lungs of those who had to breathe it.

  Leroy Atherton had endured it all his life. It wasn’t a problem, it wasn’t something he noticed—it was just the air. Same as the freeway outside his house was just the road. He’d never given much thought to either one, but lately, it felt like he was dying with every breath. At night, he’d have sworn that highway ran right through his living room.

  A half mile from his house, the traffic on the 105 rumbled and roared and never, ever stopped. The endless sound of rubber against the road and the semis barreling past,
even at 3:00 in morning, was relentless, like the beating of a drum.

  Sweating and frustrated, Leroy rolled over and pulled the pillow against his head, trying to cover his ears, but the pillow was rough and it scratched his face. And the tiny apartment was a sweatbox, even in the spring.

  He fought for sleep, tossing and turning, kicking the sheets. His T-shirt was drenched, and his dark face beaded up with sweat, no matter how many times he ran a towel across it.

  He looked over at the nightstand to see the time, but the red digits of his clock were dark. He reached for the chain on the light and pulled it. Nothing happened.

  He yanked it up and down half a dozen times to no avail. No power, no light, no fan. Only heat and sweat and darkness.

  “Goddamned electric company,” he swore.

  He shoved the light back angrily, and it toppled off the nightstand and crashed to the bare floor. As it fell, the cord hooked the drawer in the nightstand, pulling it open a couple of inches. Inside, Leroy saw the butt of his nickel-plated .38 revolver.

  He stared at it.

  Why hadn’t he used it when he had the chance? It was always there, inches from his grasp. All he had to do was grab it and pull the damn trigger.

  He turned away, flipping over onto his side and trying once more to get some sleep. Out on the highway, a big rig downshifted, and the engine braking rumbled through the apartment, shaking the walls.

  Leroy threw the sheet off and went to the window. He tried to pull it down, but it wouldn’t budge.

  He yanked on it and tried to force it, but his hand slipped and he sliced his palm on a tab of metal.

  He pulled his hand back and then slammed his fist against the windowpane, cracking it.

  “Goddamn you,” he shouted, thundering another punch into the frame. “Goddamn you!”

  The glass shattered and went everywhere, and Leroy sat back on the bed, his shoulders slumped, his hand bleeding, his body quivering with adrenaline. With the strap of his T-shirt, he wiped the sweat from his face. He had to get out of there, had to get out of that damn coffin of an apartment.