Angel Souls and Devil Hearts (13 page)

And whether the man she loved would still be alive.

Salzburg, Austria, European Union.
Tuesday, June 6, 2000, 8:17
P.M.
:

In the depths of the fortress, Will Cody began, quite painfully, to come around. He lay on the stone floor, and felt the cold of the hundreds of feet of solid stone that made
up the foundation of the ancient structure. His eyelids fluttered halfway open as he glanced about the room, able to see well enough in the near-complete darkness. What surprised him most was that
he still lived. Almost as surprising, however, was his pain.

Will had felt all kinds of pain, both in his human life and after. He’d suffered a broken heart, a broken spirit, broken limbs and broken promises. He’d been stabbed, shot, kicked
and beaten, and eventually he’d died of old age and exhaustion, and that broken spirit as well. Karl Von Reinman’s intervention had given him another life, but that first death had hurt
him body and soul.

This pain was like that, only worse. It was despair over what might have happened to Allison, and it was the far-too-slow knitting of the gaping hole in his belly, where his innards had spilled
out and were even now being replaced. The regrowth hurt even more than the wound. Still, he used his hands to sit up, and dragged himself backward until he found the support of a wall to lean
against. He carefully avoided looking down at his gut, and concentrated on his other pain instead.

Allison.

Where was she? He’d seen Courage slipping down a side street with her, and fought that much harder to buy them time, expecting to follow. But then Mulkerrin had come . . . Still, he had to
believe that Allison was okay or he’d go crazy in here. And somehow, it was not hard to have faith in Courage. There seemed more to that shadow than met the eye, and he certainly had mastered
his abilities.

Yeah. Allison was okay.

Just keep telling yourself that, Will.

He held a hand across his stomach and was slightly disconcerted at the feeling. Under his palm, he could feel the wounds healing, the flesh growing back. Disembowelment was something he did not
plan to experience again. And yet how could he protect himself when he was barely strong enough to move? Certainly he was too weak to make the change into mist, at least for the moment.

That was how vampires could be killed. If you were strong enough, fast enough, to stay alive, to batter away at a shadow over and over, to wound him and make him bleed, eventually, you could
kill him, scattering the pieces far enough away that he’d never be able to draw them back together. Of course, if a vampire’s mind were still clouded by the tampering of the Roman
Church, it was even easier.

Will looked around for an escape, but found none. There were no windows, only a large iron door on the wall opposite him. Once he felt a bit stronger, he might be able to shapeshift, healing
himself in the process. Then perhaps he could try the strength of that door. And if that didn’t work, he would have to wait a bit longer, until he could make the change to mist. One way or
another, he had to get out.

Cody was not used to being a captive. In fact, he had never been anyone’s prisoner, unless he counted his business enslavement to that bastard Harry Tammen.

And at the thought of that, the memories flooded back.

Memories of Major North giving him his infamous nickname, of Ned Buntline making him a dime-novel hero, of his parents in Iowa and the death of his brother Sam, of his best boyhood friend, his
dog Turk. He remembered herding cattle, scouting for Custer and the all-black tenth cavalry. He spoke the sign language of the Sioux (which he still could do), drank with Bill Hickok and fathered
beautiful children. The death of his son Kit, his first standing ovation onstage in New York, scalping Yellow Hand, the murders of Wild Bill and Sitting Bull, the triumph of the Wild West Show,
traveling around the world—a star. His affection for Annie Oakley, his love for his wife Lulu, and his mistress Katherine, and his daughter Irma and so many others.

All dead and gone, the way he often thought he should have gone, on to whatever there was past this plane. But he couldn’t.

Harry Tammen had used Will’s own irresponsibility against him, leveraging the Wild West Show until he owned the whole thing. Will was a prisoner. Even when Will “died,” Tammen
thought he owned Buffalo Bill, hook, line and corpse. Years later, when Tammen died, Cody was there. The look on Tammen’s face made it all worthwhile. But at first, after Cody’s
supposed death, things only got worse. His wife, Louisa Cody, took Tammen’s damned money and agreed to bury her husband, against his final wishes, where it would benefit Tammen’s
pocketbook. His country, which he had faithfully served, took back his Congressional Medal of Honor because he hadn’t been a soldier when he performed the deeds for which he was given the
award.

Betrayals abounded. And all those who refused to betray Cody, who truly loved him, died. If not before him, then later, while he was forced to continue the charade of his death, they all died.
Since the truth of the shadows had come out, since the world had discovered he was still alive, supposed relatives had been attempting to contact him every day. For five years, he had refused to
see them. He loved Allison, he had Meaghan and Alexandra, even Rolf and George Marcopoulos. He had gotten back into show business, made a movie, and gotten the rights to the Wild West Show back. He
didn’t need these long lost family members.

But now, with his guts lying in a pile in the middle of a cold, stone room, with a man who spelled almost certain death for him lurking somewhere about, with him captive once again and perhaps
feeling a little sorry for himself, he realized that he’d made a terrible mistake. He should have embraced them all, poseurs or no. Possessions could be owned. In the modern world, even words
could be owned. But emotions had to be freely given. He’d been afraid to really have a life again, to let those emotions free from the prison of his heart, because he could not forget the
pain of the string of tragedies in his life as “Buffalo Bill.”

How he hated that name. It signified every painful moment of his life. But now he knew that to truly live he had to risk tragedy again. Knowing his loved ones would die, he must still allow
himself to care for them.

Perhaps being a prisoner again had, in a way, liberated him.

But enough of that—Will was getting out of there. He had to find Allison; they had to destroy Mulkerrin. He had a life out there, one that was just beginning, and he wouldn’t let the
evil bastard take that away from him the way Tammen took away the show, his old life.

Never again.

Colonel William F. Cody stood, clutching his stomach but already feeling much better. He coughed harshly, then spat several times, wads of blood and phlegm hitting the floor. He realized how
much blood he had lost, and how hungry he was, and he felt badly for the tourists whose bodies had been possessed. They would have to sate his hunger.

But first he would have to get out of this room. He stumbled over to the door, propping himself against the wall with one arm. He pulled . . . and it opened.

But his moment of freedom was fleeting, for as he stumbled to his hands and knees in the next room, he knew he was not alone. All around him the ghost warriors rattled to attention. He could
smell the demon-beasts in the room as well, and looked up to see two huge, snarling creatures chained to either side of a seat, hewn from the stone wall and positioned as if it were a throne. Upon
it, he sat, looking just as he always had, and dressed all in black.

“Well, I was beginning to wonder if you’d actually died in there. More fool me. My Lord, Colonel, but you’re a mess. And to think we’re just getting started.”

Cody tried to will himself to mist, to float out of this nightmare as if it were a fever dream. He felt the change coming, slowly, slowly.

Too slow.

Mulkerrin had stepped down from his throne, a strange green light playing about his open right palm. The armored creatures grabbed Cody and held him, their fingers digging into his flesh and
destroying his concentration. He could not think straight enough to make the change, though his eyes were closed tight.

“Open them,” Mulkerrin said.

And he did; he wanted the evil to see he was not afraid.

So he watched while the sorcerer’s right hand was enveloped in green flame; he clenched his teeth when the once-priest touched that flame to his chest; he screamed as that hand plunged
inside him and grabbed hold of his beating, blood-hungry heart and ripped it from his body; he fell to the ground, eyes open, staring, fading, as Mulkerrin knelt beside him and showed him his own
heart, licked it, then opened his mouth and tore into it with his teeth.

Mulkerrin kissed Will Cody’s forehead, lips smeared with the vampire’s own blood.

“Delicious,” he whispered, and then his laughter boomed, echoing through the fortress.

And somewhere, Cody’s mind drifted, dreaming.

Of vengeance.

Munich, Germany, European Union.
Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 12:02
A.M.
:

It was raining when Roberto Jimenez arrived in Munich, and his mood left him hard-pressed to remember a single sunny day spent in Germany. Castillians were a proud and
emotional people, and though it had frequently jeopardized his career, Roberto had long since tired of hiding those emotions. Now, as he marched down the hallway of the air-base offices, his
second, Gloria Rodriguez, at his side and his personal guard only two steps behind, he was one cranky son of a bitch.

Never one for ceremony, he opened the conference room door himself and stomped in. Immediately, the commanders of the six nations involved in this op stood in a gesture of respect. Toward the
back of the room, a large, silent figure rose as well, yet next to him, sprawled on the room’s one comfortable chair, another figure did not.

Roberto would not call him a man, and yet he was in such a mood as to allow himself to be annoyed by the creature’s disrespect. He would have dearly loved to dismiss the SJS chief marshal,
but even though he wasn’t certain the shadows would be needed for this operation, he knew he didn’t want them working against him. Not to mention, of course, that he had his orders. So,
rather than reward his impudence, Roberto simply ignored Chief Marshal Hannibal completely.

“Commanders,” he said, addressing the room, “please be seated.”

They sat. Out of the corner of his eye, Roberto saw the SJS deputy marshal give his chief a disdainful glance.
Hmm
, Roberto thought,
dissension among the ranks
. Also interesting
that the deputy marshal was the only subordinate, besides his own second, Rodriguez, attending the meeting.

“Commander Gruber, a report on our current status please.”

Hans Gruber barked a single word in German, and the table upon which they leaned became an enormous video console. The picture that appeared there was a satellite view of Earth. In its center, a
large portion of the picture was completely black.

“This is Land Salzburg,” Gruber said in English. “The dark area is approximately three square miles, the focus of which is Fortress Hohensalzburg.”

Gruber stood and began to walk around the table, pointing at various locations for emphasis.

“This would seem to coincide with reports from the shadow leader, Meaghan Gallagher—”

The SJS chief marshal coughed.

“We cannot confirm Mulkerrin’s presence here,” Gruber said. “However, Austrian authorities have reported sighting monstrous creatures as much as four miles from the
fortress, especially in the river and air.”

The room was buzzing.

“The evacuation is under way, with those troops and police within the city doing their best to get people out, and those outside surrounding the city upon your orders. Within, fires rage
out of control and many buildings have collapsed due to the earlier earthquake.”

“According to reports from Geneva,” interrupted the French commander, Jeanette Surro, “that earthquake never happened.”

“How’s that?” Roberto said, raising a brow.

“Well,” Gruber nodded, “though we have plenty of physical evidence that the quake indeed took place, it created no measurable seismic activity.”

“How can that be?” Philip Locke, the British commander asked. “That’s impossible.”

“Apparently not,” Jimenez said, then turned to the American commander, Elissa Thomas.

“Commander Thomas, you’re awfully quiet today. What’s on your mind?”

Thomas had been leaning back in her chair, eyes slitted, taking it all in with one finger tapping her lips and her chin in her hand. She continued that motion for a moment as she scanned the
room, lingering on the SJS reps and finally resting on Jimenez.

“I’ll tell you what’s on my mind, Commander Jimenez,” she said and sat up. “First, I want to know where the Austrian commander is, and why the German commander is
speaking for them.”

She nodded toward Gruber.

“Second, I want to know why Gallagher and Nueva are not here, since they know Mulkerrin’s methods and alerted us as to his involvement in this. And finally, I want to know what
we’ve heard about Colonel Cody.”