Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) (22 page)

The vampire twitched violently and then went still.

For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory
.

John stood holding the dripping blade, a sweet roaring in his head. A soft blue glow filled the room, accompanied by a thousand whisper-soft, sweet voices. It was as if all the angels in heaven had gathered to clamor and call to him, and he lost himself in their song.

It wasn’t a miracle. It was recognition. God looked upon him and found favor with him. He had become a holy warrior, tested in training and battle, his faith steadfast and unflinching in the face of certain death.

At long last, John Patrick Keller had proved himself worthy.

The voices and the light faded slowly away. Before they did, John closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks. “You can come in now, Brother,” he called out to Orsini. “It is finished.”

The door opened, and the novitiate master looked cautiously inside. For once his thin lips formed a genuine curve as he stepped over the dead vampire to stand and make the sign of the cross over John.

“
Es area Dei
,” Orsini murmured, and embraced him like a son. “You are the ark of God.”

Now and forever
, John thought.
Amen
.

Michael took Alexandra from Atlanta to New Orleans in the
jardin
’s private jet.

“Another bonus of living for seven-hundred-plus years, I suppose,” she muttered as she sat as far away from him as she could in the small cabin. “Lots of expensive toys.”

Phillipe took his usual position in the row behind her, and when she had clipped her seat belt, Michael rose and took a seat across from her.

Alex glowered. “I’m not going to jump off the plane.”

Michael hardly heard what she said. He was still staggered by the fact that she could resist his verbal and mental commands. He was her master by blood, through his blood that surged in her veins, and yet she had repeatedly brushed him off like a bothersome insect. In seven hundred years, no Kyn of his making had ever been able to resist his voice.

She could be something completely different: half human, half Kyn. Is it possible
? He saw she was watching him with curious eyes.

“We should talk about your patients,” he said, reaching for the briefcase he had tucked under the seat.

“They’re not my patients.” She reached over to close the screen over the window and braced herself as the plane taxied down the runway.

Michael saw her nails dig into the ends of the armrests and her knuckles turn white. “Alexandra, are you afraid?”

“No, I’m dancing the conga,” she said through clenched teeth. “Can’t you read my mind?”

“No, that is not my talent.” When she gave him a blank look, he added, “I can only make you forget.”

“So reading minds doesn’t automatically come with this gig, huh? Good to know.” Speed made the plane shudder slightly, and her lips disappeared. “God, I
hate
flying.”

If Michael had known this would distress her, he would have had Phillipe drive them back. A day’s delay would make no difference to Thierry. He rather doubted anything would. “You should have told me.”

“I just did.” As the plane lifted off, she closed her eyes tightly.

Alex’s fear had one benefit: it gave him time to look at her. Gone were her voluptuous curves; the change had whittled her frame down to a compact, lean toughness. Her skin had paled from golden tan to a creamy ivory. Her mane of curls had grown longer; the end of the ponytail she wore reached the center of her back. He would have to warn her about the unpredictable spurts in which their nails and hair grew, or she might wake up one night screaming, surrounded by a sea of hair or with talons curling from her fingers.

If she did not die first. Alexandra might still be human enough to court a quick and senseless death.

Her eyes had changed, as well, he saw when she opened them. Still the same, ordinary brown, but the Madonna-like serenity they had once possessed was gone. Now shadows and secrets, her secrets, gleamed from within.

As her master, Cyprien was entitled to know her secrets. All of them.

Perhaps her resistance was due to her time. Unlike all the other Darkyn, the doctor had not been cursed in a feudal era, when she would have possessed the simpleminded mentality of a peasant trained from birth to blindly obey her lord. By all rights Alexandra had been a free woman and highly respected artisan in her world, and his interference had destroyed everything she valued. If he wanted her to trust him, then he could not treat her as his
sygkenis
. He would instead court her favor as an equal, and give her art back to her.

Working as a surgeon again would keep Alexandra out of any more alleyways. It might serve nicely to bring her under his absolute control.

“Quit scheming,” she told him.

“Scheming is for women.” He smiled a little. “Men schedule.”

“Sexist.” She sighed and opened her eyes, but she didn’t look at him. “Tell me how bad they are.”

Michael did not have her medical vocabulary, and besides Thierry, the other three Durands had proved very resistant to being given any assistance. In the end he had given them private rooms and ample nourishment, and allowed them to rest.

“They were tortured as I was, but their injuries are different. Some I do not know if you can heal.”

Alex snorted. “I healed yours.”

“They worked longest on Thierry.” Cyprien’s mouth tightened as he thought of what had been done to his childhood friend. “He is more critical than the others.”

She sat up and gave him her full attention. “How critical?”

He removed an envelope from his breast pocket and withdrew the folded paper inside. “I made this the night we brought the Durands to New Orleans, two months ago.” And had damned his eyes for seeing, and his hands for having the ability to reproduce what he had seen.

Alex saw pencil lines through the paper. “Why a sketch?”

“I am an artist, not a photographer.”

“Guess it’s hard to explain why you’d show up in a hundred-year-old photo, too, huh?” She unfolded the paper and studied his rendering of Thierry’s wrecked, twisted body. “This isn’t an abstract.”

“Sadly, no.”

The pilot politely announced their travel route and the approximate time they would be touching down at the New Orleans airport.

Alexandra folded the paper carefully and handed it back to him. “I’ll look at them. That’s all I’ll commit to right now.”

Cyprien felt cautiously optimistic. She had not been able to abandon him in his need once she had seen him. She would care for the Durands, and in time, she would come to care for him. “Thank you, Alexandra.”

She turned her head away and stared into the clouds. “Day-dreamer, beware.”

Father Orsini escorted Brother John Keller to the barracks used to house guests of the Brethren, and put him in the care of the helots. “Eat and sleep, Brother. You will not be called upon to serve again until you have fully healed.”

The American priest nodded and hobbled off with his escorts, his eyes still filled with the serenity induced by his trials and the drugs Orsini had been administering to him for the last eight weeks.

Orsini was not, nor had ever been, a novitiate master. He served the Brethren as one of their chief interrogators, and thought of himself as a sculptor, with human and nonhuman beings serving as his clay. Given time and the proper facilities, he could destroy will, uncover truth, and even shape a man’s soul. As he had been instructed, Orsini left the barracks to report directly to Cardinal Stoss, who was in conference with the Brethren’s chief archivist, Brother Tacassi.

“Stay, Cesare,” the cardinal said when Tacassi rose to leave the office. “I will need your advice on how to proceed with this American.” To Orsini, he said, “I take it you have achieved your usual success, Ettore?”

“Keller is as strong as he is determined,” Orsini said after reciting the results of John’s training and final test. “He very nearly killed the
vrykolakas
today.”

“The Spaniard will heal; he always does.” Stoss checked his calendar. “How long will it take Keller to recover?”

“A few days, perhaps a week.” Orsini shrugged. “He endured
clausura
for two months.”

Clausura
was an old practice within the realm of the Vatican. The practice, which originally involved cloistering a group and reducing the amount and quality of food provided, had helped elect more than one pope. Now the Brethren used it with great effect on reluctant subjects like John Keller, who Orsini suspected was not a stranger to starvation diets.

“Did your methods make him docile enough to be trusted,” Tacassi asked, “or merely exhaust him?”

The cardinal frowned. “Yes, Ettore, what level of obedience can I expect from Brother Keller?”

Orsini disliked Tacassi for casting doubt on his abilities, but thought carefully before replying. “Had I six months to condition the man, I would say his obedience would be absolute. Eight weeks is not enough.”

“This man is surely not important enough to waste any more of our time,” Tacassi suggested. “Have Orsini dispose of him, Your Grace.”

“I did not say I made no progress,” Orsini returned sharply. “The key with Keller is his faith. After fighting the Spaniard he had the look of epiphany in his eyes. That should sustain him—and stave off any reluctance toward those duties you wish him to perform—for some time.”

Tacassi rolled his eyes. “I assume you gave him the full treatment—the celestial choir, the light from above, and so forth?”

Orsini nodded. “With all the drugs in his system, he likely believes he has experienced divine approval, if not an actual visitation.” He felt compelled to add, “Any other man would have dropped long before now. I think that beneath the fleece, John Keller is a bull. In a physical sense, he could prove quite useful.”

“Let us hope his mind remains on a bovine level.” Stoss picked up the phone and made an overseas call, putting the line on speakerphone. “I have Orsini here, and he tells me that your fledgling has done well, August. In a short time we will send him back to you.”

“A true servant of God,” Tacassi muttered.

“Alexandra has disappeared again,” the American archbishop warned. “I will need him as soon as possible.”

“Ah, that is the name he calls out in his sleep,” Orsini said. He would have to review the recordings they had made of Keller during his rest periods and check for specific phrases. “A former lover?”

“His sister,” Tacassi snapped.

“John still feels a strong sense of obligation toward Alexandra,” Hightower said, “although we have done what we could to suppress it since his joining the priesthood.”

Stoss pursed his lips. “We can certainly use that.”

“Perhaps, sparingly,” Orsini cautioned. “When motivation involves estranged family, particularly females, it is always a risk.”

“Go carefully,” Hightower said over the speaker. “John has always been hypersensitive about his sister. He has confided to me more than once that Alexandra is better off without him in her life.”

The cardinal seemed surprised. “Do I sense some inappropriate feelings on his part?”

Hightower made a noncommittal sound. “I would say John Keller has never believed himself deserving of love. Not from his God or his sister.”

Tacassi shook his head, his disgust plain.

“An inferiority complex, mixed perhaps with a touch of closet incest.” The cardinal tapped his lips with one finger. “Interesting. Cesare, would you go and pull the files on Alexandra Keller for me?”

The archivist nodded, rose, and left the room.

“Cardinal, I want this man handled with care,” Hightower said, his tone changing. “John and his sister are part of my special projects. When this is finished, you will turn them over to me.”

“Of course, August,” Stoss soothed. “We will advise you of when Brother Keller is able to travel back to the States. God keep you in the light.”

“And you, Cardinal.” There was a click, and then a flat tone.

“Keller is not the only one with attachments.” Orsini regarded the cardinal steadily.

“The archbishop serves his purpose. As do we all.” Stoss sat back in his chair. “For now, you will assign someone to nurse our fledgling back to health. Someone who understands his weaknesses.”

Orsini knew exactly whom to choose. “And when Brother Keller and his sister have served their purpose?”

Stoss simply smiled.

A
man who had been alive since the Dark Ages had probably had plenty of time to make and lose and remake a hundred fortunes, Alex decided. Given the fact that he had dropped four million dollars in her lap, he evidently had enough bucks to buy and sell the city.

So why did he have such a dinky mansion?

Maybe he likes small houses
. Try as she might, Alex couldn’t imagine Cyprien living in a condo or a modest ranch house in the suburbs. Vampires in the movies never did.

That reminded her. “Do you have one of those high-collared black silk, floor-length capes, lined in red?” she asked as Phillipe drove them up to the mansion.

“No.” He gave her a puzzled glance.

“Pity. Would liven you up a bit.” She looked out the window, unable to keep from gawking a little. On her last visit she hadn’t been in the mood to appreciate the old Cyprien homestead, but now it was in her face.

Perfectly manicured hedges of white tea roses boxed the property and disguised the brick of the privacy wall behind them. As Phillipe opened the driveway gate with a remote, Alex studied the front of the house. She was sure the architecture had some pretentious name borrowed from some country’s dead monarch, but it was undeniably handsome. It looked a bit like a little castle with its twin towers flanking the high walls, painted a soft, unassuming silvery gray with accents of white on the trim and shutters.

Where is the room he locked me in
? Alex turned to look at the right side of the house, which had windows on the first floor but one missing in the center of the second.
Bingo
.