Angel Souls and Devil Hearts (38 page)

He didn’t need books anymore. His life had a purpose, and he would not betray it. He’d driven quietly for the last hour, but George had come awake at the beginning of the current
newscast and was even now listening intently to its discussion of the ascension of the new President and the battle in Salzburg. The media was trying its best to stay away from supernatural
references to Mulkerrin and his power, was, in fact, concentrating on the villainous acts of the shadows who had gone to fight alongside the humans and then betrayed them. Or at least that’s
how it was made to seem.

“Joe,” George said, “find someplace to pull off, will you?”

The old Greek doctor-turned-ambassador rubbed sleep out of his eyes, then stretched, never taking his eyes off the dash-screen.

“I’ve got to use the toilet, and make a phone call,” George elaborated.

“Whatever you say,” Joe replied, and began scanning the highway for a pit stop. They were still traveling along Route 81, and they’d been making excellent time. With mountains
and forest rising up on either side of them, it would have been a beautiful trip during the day. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been an option.

Joe saw a sign for the next town—”Buchanan, 5 mi.”—and was surprised again at the time that they had made. Then again, the highway was completely deserted. Anyone awake
at this hour was more than likely still at home, glued to CNN. By 7
A.M.
, they ought to have crossed into Tennessee. By 11:30, noon at the latest, they’d be passing
through Georgia for about twenty minutes, and then it was across Alabama and a tiny corner of Mississippi. A long way to go, but they’d be spending the night in New Orleans, come hell or high
water. After all, they only had to stop for gas, and for the old doc to pee.

Joe saw the flickering sign for a Mobil station up ahead, and slowed to pull off the highway. Slouched in the passenger seat, Marcopoulos grumbled something and punched a button, and the
dash-screen went off. The car rolled to a stop in front of the pumps, and Joe pulled the keys from the ignition.

“Let’s keep an eye on each other, shall we?” George said, and Joe nodded. As they were getting out of the car, a Viginia State Police cruiser slid into the station and parked.
Joe and George shut their doors and watched as the trooper hopped out and went into the tiny convenience store portion of the station. The bell atop the glass door jingled as it shut.

“Be careful” was all George said as they walked up to the store, following the trooper in. George went directly down the hall to the left and disappeared into the men’s room.
The trooper held what looked to Joe like an enormous cup of coffee, and was shooting the breeze with the clerk who’d just handed it to him. The trooper didn’t appear to have any plans
to pay for his coffee, but what surprised Joe was that he didn’t appear to get free doughnuts to go with it.

The man was lean, young but not a child, and his close-cropped hair promised a seriousness that his laughter did not make good on. When Joe laid two twenties on the counter and said,
“Fillin’ up the Buick,” the trooper barely glanced at him. And why should he do more? Joe was a regular-looking guy, some might even call him a dweeb, geek, dork, nerd.
Whatever they were calling quiet outcast children these days
, he thought.

He sure didn’t look like a vampire.

George Marcopoulos came out of the men’s room with an attitude. The place was a pigsty, and he’d nearly slipped in a small puddle on the floor. He hoped it was
water, because he’d gotten some on his pants leg. A man his age ought to be able to relieve himself in a relatively clean, safe and smoke-free environment. This place was none of those
things, and George was particularly incensed about the cigarette butts on the floor. Smoking was, after all, illegal in public places, including gas station rest rooms!

And now, approaching the counter, he was even more annoyed. It was the clerk who smoked, and he was lighting up at that very moment. The nerve of the man, with the police officer standing right
there, doing nothing. Though he’d been a pipe smoker for years, George was content to do so only in his own home, and the smell of cigarettes had always nauseated him. Perhaps he was a
hypocrite after all, but in his lifetime, he felt, he’d earned a little hypocrisy.

“Do you have a videophone?” George asked, and the clerk looked at him as if he were insane.

“Not just yet, fella. Telephone’s outside and to the right if you can handle that.”

George harrumphed and turned to go, but glanced back to tell the clerk, in no uncertain terms, what he thought of the conditions in the bathroom . . . and caught something strange on the police
officer’s face. The man looked puzzled, as though his mind were reaching for something just out of range. The officer met his eyes, looking more closely at George now, getting a good, long
look. The puzzled expression didn’t leave his face as the clerk said, “Something else, mister?”

George’s heart fluttered.

“You ought to clean that bathroom,” he said finally. “It’s disgusting.”

He hurried out, realizing that he’d procrastinated long enough, that he really ought to have done something sooner to change his appearance. There might not be a “posse” after
him, but certainly there must be a warrant for his arrest. They ought to get out of there, he knew, but he had to make this phone call. If the cop did realize who he was, George only prayed it was
after they’d left the station. By then, his call would have been traced anyway. Once they got closer to their destination, George couldn’t take that chance, but just this once . . .

He slipped his card through the slot, then punched in the number lodged in his head. Only one person would ever answer that phone. There was no answering service, no secretary or receptionist.
It seemed to ring forever, and George was concerned that the man he was calling might not have the phone with him.

George heard a door open behind him, and Joe was going into the store to get his change. Good, now they had a full tank of gas. He continued to watch, and listen to the phone ringing on the
other end of the line. The sky had been brightening for some time, but now he could see it start to burn, just at the horizon line. The sun would be up in no time. When Joe came out, the police
officer was right behind him. Both men went and sat in their cars, and George looked from one to the other. Inside the police car, a blue light, like that from a dash-screen, came on, and wondering
what the trooper was watching suddenly made George very nervous.

“Come on, you son of a bitch,” he said into the receiver, “pick up the phone.”

“What?” a startled voice said at the other end of the line.

“Oh, Rafe, thank God!”

“Who the hell is this?” Rafael Nieto, secretary general of the United Nations, barked over his private line.

“Who do you think?” George snapped back, annoyed. “We’ve got to talk.”

“I can’t believe you’re calling me,” Nieto said, recognizing George’s voice now. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Listen,” George said calmly, “I only have a minute, so pay attention. The shadows aren’t what you think. Just like us, they have white hats and black hats, but mostly
gray hats. I won’t argue that with you now, but I have two things you’ve got to know.”

Nieto was silent for a moment, then said, “Go on.”

“First, that these creatures have been hunted too long. If you start it all over again, you’re liable to drive the gray hats over the edge. Second, I don’t know if this nuclear
thing was your idea, but watch Bill Galin, Rafe. I mean. watch him very closely.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nieto said, and suddenly George had the feeling that maybe the secretary general wasn’t having the call traced after all.

“What it means is that the man is dangerously unstable. Perhaps even insane. After the President was killed, and that Agent Williams saved both our lives, Galin tried to murder me
himself.”

George couldn’t even hear Nieto breathing on the other end. It occurred to him that, for the moment, the man might not be. Across the parking lot, the trooper was getting out of his car.
George hadn’t seen him on the police radio, and he hoped that was a good sign.

“I’m not going to try to convince you, Rafe,” George said into the silence. “I don’t have time. All I’ll say is, you know me. You know some of these people,
these vampires. Don’t trust Galin, and please, for God’s sake, don’t use the nukes.”

The cop was approaching the Buick. George couldn’t see Joe’s face inside, but the engine was running.

“I’ve got to go,” George said.

“Be careful,” Nieto said quietly on the other end.

“No, my friend,” George replied. “It’s in your hands now.
You
be careful. And be watchful. Hannibal will certainly want you dead too, but he’s far from your
only enemy.”

George Marcopoulos hung up the phone, and heard the gunshot.

The car was running, and over it he could see Joe embracing the police officer, his mouth on the man’s neck. The clerk opened the door of the station to get a better look, then shut it
quickly, locking it behind him. George watched as the man stepped behind the counter and picked up the phone.

“Joe,” George shouted, “we’ve got to go!”

But Joe ignored him. Pushing the cop away, Joe Boudreau stepped over the man where he fell, and ran across the parking lot so fast that George could barely follow him. By the time he reached the
glass door, Joe had transformed himself into the form of a large wolf, and George couldn’t help but note his reliance on the traditional vampiric forms—he was young, yet.

A crashing noise was followed by the sound of the clerk screaming, and then silence from behind the counter. George couldn’t see either of them anymore. After a few moments, Joe reappeared
in the window, human once again, and rifled the cash register. When he emerged from the station, he had a big bag of pretzels and two big bottles of Coke in his arms. He trotted across the lot, but
George was already at the running car. In seconds, they were on the road.

George looked back at the police officer, sprawled on the pavement, then at Joe, and finally down at his hands.

“They’ll both live,” Joe said. “I won’t kill anyone I don’t have to.”

It seemed important to him that George understand, and unfortunately, George did.

“And now at least you’ve eaten,” he said, and Joe nodded in return.

“We’ve got to assume he’ll identify me,” George said, “but I don’t think I’ll be much of a priority.”

“You don’t think so?” Joe looked unsure.

“No,” George sighed. “I’ve just realized that this is bound to be happening all over the world right about now, humans confronting vampires, and most with far less
pleasant results than we left back there.”

“Back to square one,” Joe said, just as they crested a hill, and the sun truly broke over the horizon.

“No,” George said sadly. “It’s much worse than that.’

Salzburg, Austria, European Union.
Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 9:29
A.M.
:

Martha was desperate. Her brother’s blood-son, Isaac, was dead, consumed by a dark thing, a
Nachzehrer
, which Liam Mulkerrin had summoned to the fortress from
elsewhere
. Will Cody was buried beneath the rubble of an entire wall that Mulkerrin had dropped on him. Of the dozens of vampires who had stormed the fortress intending to destroy the
sorcerer, less than half remained, led by the Shadow Justice System deputy she knew only as Stefan and by Martha herself.

Mulkerrin hovered, borne aloft by his hold on the ephemeral, essential tethers of the world around him, by magic, shielded from attack. Apparently, Will Cody had somehow become immune to the
effect of magic on his person, but not on his surroundings, which was how he had come to be buried. Already quite mad when he escaped from his exile in Hell, Liam Mulkerrin appeared to be growing
more insane with every passing moment. Martha only hoped that her brother Lazarus or John Courage would return soon with help.

Even as she and Stefan gathered their forces for another attack, Martha had to admit that they’d had some success. After all, they had battered at the madman’s defenses until he
could no longer control the ghost warriors who had taken over the bodies of tourists at the fortress, nor could he hold open the many doorways from Hell he had created. Mulkerrin was using all of
his concentration to repel the vampires’ attack, and he hadn’t summoned any other creatures since Isaac had been killed. Martha thought that meant that such summonings drained the
sorcerer.
He’s weakening
, she told herself, and could only hope it was true. Otherwise, they would all be dead before help arrived.

“Come to me!” Mulkerrin called in a deep, less than human voice, which resounded within the crumbling walls of the fortress. “Come and be purified. Your kind must be cleansed
from the Earth before the purification, and the redemption of humanity, may occur. It is inevitable. It is God’s will. Come to me!”

From everything her brother had told her, Martha knew that Liam Mulkerrin had once been an extraordinarily evil man. But no longer. Now he was merely insane. She signaled to Stefan.

“Attack!” he yelled at her gesture, and the forty odd vampires left alive in the fortress surrounded Mulkerrin Those who had the ability to become fire did so, attempting with their
great heat and less mass to penetrate his magical protection Those who could not blaze became bats and great birds of prey, battering against the field with their wings and bodies, doing their best
to weaken the sorcerous shield at any cost. Martha admired their valiant efforts.

Meanwhile she met Mulkerrin’s eyes, saw the fanatical fervor there, saw the mission that the former priest had set himself upon, and redoubled her efforts. She had seen such eyes before,
and the memory frightened her.

“Yes! Come to me!” Mulkerrin shouted, and then more softly, he chanted: “
Gibil Gashru Umuna Yanduru; Tushte Yesh Shir Illani U Ma Yalki
!”

The sorcerer lifted his hands, and the greenish glowing sphere of magical influence that surrounded him, protected him, kept back the attacks by the vampire warriors burst into a green flame of
its own. This blazing new fire leapt out and scorched hawks, bats and eagles, who burnt in the mid-morning sunlight falling on the debris-strewn courtyard. Several turned to mist, or returned to
their human forms and fell to the broken stone ground in pain, but the rest wailed in agony as the green flames engulfed them. Then their own flames—yellow, orange and red—burned even
brighter, and they exploded, one by one, a fireworks display, into a shower of cinders, which fell to the stone like blazing snow.