Angel Souls and Devil Hearts (43 page)

And amid the furor surrounding the events in Salzburg and Washington, with the specter of the deaths of so many of his soldiers hanging over his head, it was that one fact that caused Rafael
Nieto to shiver now. Bill Galin disturbed him, even frightened him. And though he had not needed George Marcopoulos’s hastily whispered advice, it had certainly not helped to calm him. Nieto
had always suspected Galin was unstable, and he was inclined to believe Marcopoulos’s story, that Galin had tried to kill him.

And Galin didn’t want to stop there. Oh, no. The man had a hard-on for nuclear destruction, and he wanted the vampires dead. Nieto didn’t love vampires, and he had a hard time
trusting them with anything. But he’d known several shadows whom he’d trusted, even admired. Galin, though, wanted to use a nuclear rag to wipe the slate clean, and he had the UN
running scared. Rafael had long since ordered the evacuation, just in case, but damn it, he had soldiers in there—soldiers who had fought hard, been through hell and were lucky enough to have
survived so far.

And that lunatic Galin wanted to use them as bait!

He’d been calling Bill Galin every five minutes for the past hour, interrupted only by Marcopoulos’s call. Now the phone rang, and as he picked up, Rafael Nieto privately wished
George godspeed to whatever safe haven he now sought. He only hoped the old man was smart enough not to get caught.

“Yes?” he said sharply as the video image came into focus.

“You’ve been looking for me, I’m told.” Bill Galin seemed bored, lethargic, as if Rafael were at the bottom of his list of people to call back.

“You know damn well I have!” he snarled at the former vice president.

“Well?” Galin’s face and voice were smug, taunting. “What can I do for you?”

“Don’t even think about using nukes,” Nieto said. “The consequences for you would be very ugly.”

“Why you . . .,” Galin sputtered. “Don’t you dare presume to threaten me. You don’t want to mess with me. Rafael. I’m the goddamn President of the United
States!”

“That means less every year,” Nieto spat, “and the President’s dead; you’re nothing but an understudy brought in until they find a new star!”

For a moment Galin was speechless, and Nieto thought the veins in the man’s forehead would burst—all in all probably the least troublesome solution to their current dilemma—but
no such luck. Finally, the new President hissed, venom in every word.

“We’ll have this conversation again next year,” Galin said, “and then we’ll see how much my job title means. Until then,
muchacho del barrio
, don’t
presume to tell the U.S.A. what to do. From now on, that means me.”

The man is insane
, Nieto thought. Galin wanted to nuke Salzburg, and Rafael Nieto could almost see his point. In fact, he might be inclined to go along with the plan, as long as proper
evacuation could be guaranteed, but the crazy fucker wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted to get the missiles flying that moment, no later. And he didn’t care whether it meant ejection from
the UN, sanctions, even military repercussions.

“I’ve got to go now,” Galin was saying, “I have a package to deliver.”

“Wait!” Rafael barked.

“Oh,” Galin said and smiled, “I’m through waiting, and I see I’m getting through to you. The U.S. Congress has already voted in an emergency session to go ahead
with this action regardless of UN approval.”

“Give me two hours,” Nieto said finally. “I’ve got to try to get my people out of there. I—”

“Fraid not, Rafe,” Galin said and chuckled obnoxiously. “See, if your boys run away, what’s going to hold our target in place until the missiles get there? Besides,
you’re in no position to ask for favors.”

Galin leaned forward, putting his face close up to the screen, getting intimate with the secretary general on the other end, a friend telling secrets.

“This was a courtesy call, Rafe,” Galin sneered. “If Congress hadn’t made it a condition, I wouldn’t have bothered returning your messages.”

Nieto was stunned. It wasn’t just anger, or insult, or disbelief at the outrageous lunacy of the new President—it was all of that, but more. It was the voice of defeat that had
suddenly begun to speak in his mind, to issue from his mouth.

“But,” he said, scrambling for words, “you’ve seen the media reports. The vampires are all over Mulkerrin now, our people would be gone before—”

Galin was shaking his head.

“I don’t think so,” he began and then looked up, almost seductively. “Of course, I could be persuaded.”

“Persuaded how?” Nieto jumped at the opening, as he knew he was meant to. He couldn’t help it. If Galin wanted him as a puppet, that was fine, as long as he had the time.

“Well, for starters, there’s the obvious,” Galin said, and Nieto nodded.

“UN approval of the nuclear strike.”

“Correct,” Galin nodded. “Secondly, I want the UN to revoke all the privileges of shadows, to announce that the creatures are no better than animals, and I want the United
Nations to declare open warfare on all shadows.”

“Impossible!” Nieto stood and turned his back to the videophone, so that Galin could not see his horrified face. He had no love for shadows, but this . . . “No.” He
turned back to glare at Galin. “Henry Russo and Julie Graham’s assassinations must be treated like any other terrorist act. Other than Hannibal, we can’t know whether any other
known shadow is involved. Their entire race should not suffer for them. We are not Nazis!”

“I’m afraid I don’t see the comparison,” Galin said whimsically.

“No,” Nieto said sadly, and sat down again, “you wouldn’t.”

“In any case,” the American went on, “shadows are not a ‘race,’ as you put it. They are creatures, not people. They’re vampires, for God’s sake! And
their ambassador, George Marcopoulos, a friend of yours, I believe, tried to kill me before escaping with the help of some of his cohorts. He was obviously involved. No, these animals must be
destroyed, and the UN will declare war.”

Rafael Nieto knew he was defeated, and he tried to hide.

“The powers of my position have greatly increased over the years,” he said, “but even I can’t do that alone. The Security Council would have to—”

“And with you and I recommending such a move, the rest of the council will most assuredly do so at the emergency meeting you will call for this afternoon,” Galin sneered.
“Unless, of course, you are also involved in this conspiracy with your friend George Marcopoulos? Oh, there would be media feeding frenzy if such information were to come to light.”

Galin’s tone was insinuating, a promise in itself, and though Rafael thought of saying something like
You wouldn’t dare
, he didn’t. He knew better.

“Two hours?” he said finally, more a plea than anything else.

“Yes, yes.” Galin waved him off now. “You can have your two hours, and if Mulkerrin still lives, no matter who is there, the city of Salzburg will be vaporized.”

U.S. Interstate 81, Salem, Virginia, United States of America.
Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 4:54
A.M.
:

“Slow down!” George snapped, and Joe Boudreau looked nervously, angrily around at him . . . and then the look turned sheepish and the speedometer slid down from
seventy-five to a more comfortable sixty or so. That was good, George thought—not too slow or they’d look too suspicious. They’d been gaining speed gradually for the past
twenty-five minutes, and his heart was still pounding from their run-in with the law back at the gas station in Buchanan.

“You okay?” Joe asked, and George nodded, taking a breath and trying forcibly to calm himself down.

“Yes,” he answered, suddenly feeling his age more than ever. “It just seems like this trip is going to take forever.”

“I know what you mean,” Joe said and nodded, without taking his eyes off the road. “Time isn’t the same for me, and it feels that way already. Maybe because we both know
that even when we arrive in New Orleans, the trip is far from over. Nothing’s ever going to be the same again.”

George took that in, realizing then that innocent and simple as he might seem, Joe Boudreau was neither. And how could George have expected any less; the man was a vampire after all. The changes
that caused in a being were not merely physical. Suddenly George was very happy he’d never accepted his friends’ offers of immortality, of vampirism. For just a moment, he was glad that
he was old, that he would surely not survive the battle ahead. And then he wondered whether or not that made him a coward. He hoped not, for he had too much pride for that.

“It was strange back there,” Joe said, and George knew he meant the gas station. “But I guess that’s life from here on in, huh? Even if they don’t nuke Austria, the
worst has happened, right? I mean, my people will be hiding in the shadows, hunted down. With technology, we’ll be wiped out in no time.”

George looked at him and shook his head, perturbed.

“Don’t be such a damned pessimist, Joseph,” he said. “It’s not as if twenty-first century vampire hunters will be out there after sixteenth-century vampires. Your
people are probably the single richest segment of society, even with all of the drifters. The technology is yours as well, and there will be people who aren’t after you, who will, in fact,
help you to use it, to defend yourselves. Yes, things have come full circle, and your people have been lured out of the safety of myth, out of their secret lives, by the promise of peace and a
taste of what passes for normalcy. And now that has backfired, and once again humans fear the unknown, and kill what they fear.

“But at least there’s a unity now, and new strength and all the world to hide in. And don’t forget that there are groups of humans who are obsessed with vampires to the point
of worship, all over the world, who will gladly donate their blood to keep you safe, your existence a secret.”

“But the new order . . .,” Joe began.

“. . . will barely be remembered,” George cut him off. “When history is written, it will say that vampires were ‘discovered,’ and only dealt with after the
President of the United States was assassinated.”

“That sucks!” Joe said.

“Yes, it surely does,” George replied, with no trace of a smile.

“We’ve got to stop that from happening, make people see the truth.”

“If you have any ideas,” George said, somewhat cynically, “I’d be happy to hear them.”

But Joe was quiet.

There were more cars on the road now, and George couldn’t believe that some people were already on their way to work. He imagined they must have long commutes or odd hours, and no interest
in or awareness of the world’s status quo collapsing around them—not as long as their own livelihood was unaffected. Still, cars and all, it was very easy going, Joe’s foot barely
touching the brake.

“Do you think anyone’s after us, really?” Joe asked after a while.

“Not really, no,” George answered. “Like I said, the gypsies among you are going to be the hardest hit, and they’ll be the first to answer Hannibal’s call to
violence. I’m sure right now they’re wreaking havoc, and the authorities will be much more interested in them. Still, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to stop in a couple of hours and
pick up a razor, some scissors and maybe a hat and sunglasses. I don’t want to invite trouble.”

They were quiet a while longer, and then Joe cleared his throat and reached for the dash-screen TV controls.

“Do you want CNN back on?” he asked.

“God, no,” George Marcopoulos said with a shiver. “Anything but that. I think we deserve a rest, an hour in the dark, so to speak. We may never have the luxury
again.”

Pongau Basin, Austria, European Union.
Wednesday, June 7, 2000, 10:42
A.M.
:

“Hey, big guy,” Erika began, barely able to control the sarcasm that usually tainted her words, “what’s up with Junior Boy Scout over here? Seems to me
we’re just getting ourselves lost.”

Rolf smiled at the girl’s attitude, then tried to shake the word “girl” from his head. Erika was a vampire, just like him, and though she looked like a teenager, she’d
been dead for several years. Annelise, a tall, attractive shadow of French descent, and Carlos, a Central American whose true age and heritage were something of a mystery, nodded their agreement
with Erika’s words, with her doubt. Only Sebastiano, a vampire who’d been born in Sicily and who, as a matter of weird vanity, allowed his appearance to reflect the sixty-two years old
he’d been when he died, seemed perturbed by what Erika said. Strangely, the object of her complaint, the vampire known as Jared, did not seem upset at all.

“Erika,” Sebastiano chided, “if Jared’s guidance is satisfactory to Rolf, the rest of us should have no complaint.”

“Says you, Yano,” Erika said and sniffed. “The guy could be leading us right into a trap, and we’d never know it. Do any of you even know him?”

Rolf halted then, turning back to look down at the girl, his eyebrows knitting together in a deep frown. She stopped in her tracks, and the others behind her, but she was not intimidated by him.
Erika put her hands on her hips.

“Do
you
know him?” she asked Rolf, and though he was irked, he shook his head to say no. Then he turned and tapped Jared, to bring his attention to the matter at hand.

Jared stopped short. They were entering a narrow passage of ice, sloping gently downward until it became more and more difficult to walk. Their vampiric eyes could see clearly in the dark, but
there was some light just the same. Daylight filtered weirdly up from somewhere ahead, though they were descending, and reflected, was refracted, off the ice to give increasing illumination.

“I don’t blame you for lacking faith,” Jared said, not bothering to whisper, in light of Erika’s loud voice, “but I have already told your chief marshall here that
Hannibal is of my bloodline, descended from me, as it were. I can sense him not far ahead.”

He looked pointedly at Erika.

“And if there were no trap before,” Jared said sharply “you may rest assured that there will be one now.”

Rolf motioned, indicating that the conversation was over, and Jared turned back and continued to lead the group toward their final conflict with Hannibal. He was suddenly certain that Elissa was
already dead, and only the lack of any blood on the ice calmed him.