Of Masques and Martyrs (29 page)

Peter offered what smile he could muster.

“Hello, George,” he said and entered the room.

Bethany passed him on her way out and, when he glanced at her, her eyes told him a story he did not want to hear. In his mind, he thanked her for watching over George.

“Do you want to know the worst kind of heart attack?” George asked. “It’s the one that doesn’t kill you.”

“I wish I knew some kind of spell that would heal your heart,” Peter said.

“I’m happy that you don’t,” George replied simply. “I’d be tempted to let you use it.”

Peter blinked. “I’m glad you waited for me to wake up,” he said.

They stared at one another for several seconds then. Peter could hear the clock ticking on George’s bedside table. Finally, the old man reached out and rested his hand over Peter’s on the bedspread.

“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” he said. “We have a lot to talk about. Particularly some things I said to the coven the other day.”

Peter nodded. “I heard about that. It isn’t important. You said what you felt. What is important is my question for you. Have you thought about it?”

“You know the answer,” George replied impatiently. “It’s always the same. I miss her, Peter. I miss Valerie.”

“I understand,” Peter said, though he wanted to scream that he didn’t.

“There’s more, though, and that’s what we need to talk about. I don’t want the ‘Gift’ that the shadows offer. Because it isn’t a gift.”

Peter stared at him.

“I’m sorry if these things hurt you, but they must be said,” George continued. “What I said in front of the others was the truth. Perhaps shadows are no more prone to evil or malice than humans. But I think they are. You are an exception. And by setting an example, you have created a lot of exceptions. But even some of your closest friends were bloodthirsty killers before you gave them an alternative.

“Power corrupts, it has always been said. Immortality, shapeshifting—combine these things with the need for blood to survive, and you are predisposing an entire race to violent and predatory behavior.”

There was a silence between them. And, Peter thought, a new distance. He hated it.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Peter said.

“I’ve had nothing else to think about,” George replied. “And now that you are, for all intents and purposes, human again, I wonder where that example will come from. Not from Kevin, I assure you. He hates too much.

“You face a great dilemma, Peter. First you have to defeat Hannibal. I have faith that somehow you will manage to do just that. But then, you have to look hard at your own coven—and wonder how long it will be before another Hannibal arises.

“I say all of this because I’ve had more time to dwell, and you may not have come to really consider these things yet. Now that you have, I know what you’re thinking,” George said.

His voice had become a raspy whisper, the muscles in his face slackening even further. But the passion in his eyes never diminished. The love never faded.

“I don’t have a choice,” Peter said. “I’ve got to . . . to die again.”

“No!” George snapped, and then winced, as if raising his voice had hurt him very badly.

“No,” he repeated in a harsh whisper. “That’s just what I expected of you, and I understand why you would think that, but no. You can continue to be an example without becoming one of them again. And you must. But further, you’ve got to stay human so that you can remain objective. If they get out of control, it will be up to you to stop them.”

A small smile played weakly at George’s lips.

“And, of course, there’s Nikki,” he whispered. “Nice girl, that. If you can hold on to her.”

Peter thought about all George had said. Finally, he nodded.

“You’re right, my friend,” he admitted. “But I truly don’t think I need to be concerned about any of these things. Hannibal has us outnumbered so badly that even the most cunning plan will only delay the inevitable.”

George smiled thinly, eyes drooping drowsily.

“You’ll find a way,” the old man said. “I have faith.”

Then, holding Peter’s hand in his, George fell asleep. Peter smiled and held the old man’s hand tightly, whispering his love for his friend. He pulled a chair up next to George’s bed so that he might be more comfortable, and took up his hand once again. After a while, he found it hard to stay awake himself. The human body had its limits, and he’d forgotten them.

A while later, George began to snore loudly, raggedly. Peter let his eyes close, to rest them for just a moment. When he opened them just shy of an hour later, he found that George Marcopoulos had died in his sleep.

For the first time in a great many centuries, clear, salty tears rolled down the face of the man named Peter Octavian.

—MARIAH CAREY, “Vanishing”

 

 

 

 

THE AFTERNOON WORE ON. A FEW MORE hours, and it would be dark. Peter stood at the window and stared out at the courtyard, wondering what might be left of the garden after tonight. He gave a snort of morbid laughter, as he considered what might be left of his coven, his family, after the battle to come.

“Mr. Octavian? You all right?”

The speaker was a detective, Michaud, he thought the man’s name was. He and his partner, LeeAnne something, had shown up not long after the coroner had left with George’s body.

George’s body.

“No,” he replied without turning. “No, I’m not. Does that surprise you, detective? My best friend just died. I would think it pretty fucking monstrous if I
were
all right.”

“We’re not here to upset you, sir,” LeeAnne-something said. “We just have a few questions we have to ask, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Fine,” Peter replied.

They waited a moment, maybe expecting him to face them, but he did not.

“Y’all are the new owner of the convent, then?” Michaud drawled.

“I own this place, yes, but it isn’t a convent anymore. I would have thought that pretty clear,” Peter said.

“It’s a landmark, Mr. Octavian,” LeeAnne said. “It will always be the convent to the New Orleans tourism board. I’m sure that was part of your agreement when you bought it.”

“You’re right, Detective,” Peter replied. “But, then, I’m not even sure the place will be standing come morning.”

“Now what the hell do you mean by sayin’ somethin’ like that?” Michaud said angrily.

“Ease up, Jack,” LeeAnne said.

Peter realized that he couldn’t even really remember what the detectives looked like, beyond basic body shapes and hair shades. In a perverse way, he was glad. He wanted to erase them. Maybe if they’d go away, if he could just make them invisible, George wouldn’t be gone after all.

“Did you know I was a detective once?” he asked. “Private detective, of course, not a cop. Octavian Investigations, out of Boston. Had some pretty extraordinary cases, I’ll tell you.”

The cops whispered nastily to one another. Peter strained to hear their words, but couldn’t get more than every third one. It reminded him of his newfound humanity, the very thing George had so cherished, and he wrapped that memory, of their final conversation, around him as if it were a maternal embrace.

Not paternal, of course. He’d been born a bastard, his father an emperor who knew he existed, but who had never set eyes upon him. Oddly, though he was born nearly five hundred years later than Peter, George had become a kind of father figure for him. The closest to a father he’d ever had.

“Mr. Octavian?” Detective Michaud said, his tone more respectful than before. “I asked what y’all meant by that comment, and I’d like to hear your answer.”

“No, I really doubt that you would. But I promise you, I’m not going to do anything to my own property. That would be foolish,” Peter replied. He saw Kuromaku walking through the garden below, explaining something to Kevin.

“Are you trying to say—” LeeAnne began to ask.

But Peter was out of patience.

“Look, Detectives, why don’t you just ask me what you really want to know?” Peter snapped, still watching Kevin and Kuromaku in the garden below, though he could sense the growing agitation of the detectives in the small, now smothering room behind him.

“And what do you think that is?” Michaud drawled in his best tough guy.

“You want to know why nobody here called an ambulance after we’d realized that George had had a heart attack,” Peter replied, his voice just above a whisper as grief and frustration nearly overwhelmed him. “As long as the coroner confirms our story—and he will—you want to know why I let my best friend lay around waiting to die instead of getting him to a hospital.

“George chose not to call an ambulance when he had his heart attack,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “Instead, he sat in the convent’s chapel and prayed. When we found him, he asked to be brought into his room, asked that no doctor be called. He’d been a doctor himself. He knew what he was asking. We all did, though maybe we pretended it wasn’t . . . ”

His voice trailed off. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Then he turned to face the detectives, getting a good look at them for the first time. Michaud was a big, broad, angry local boy. LeeAnne—he remembered now her last name was Cataldo—was attractive, Italian, a city girl, born and bred. Both of them looked at him expectantly, surprised that he’d finally faced them.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been rude, Detectives,” he said. “But now I want to tell you something that’s going to be very important to your inquiry—and to your careers.”

That got their attention.

“We would never have called the coroner at all, if we’d had a choice,” Peter said and smiled sadly. “We would have given George an honorable burial in that garden out there. The only reason we called at all was to make sure that his corpse would be treated with respect, that whatever happens to us and to this place, his remains would be buried the way he would have wished.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Octavian,” Detective Cataldo said. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand. Why would you—”

“For God’s sake!” Peter shouted. “You can’t tell me the cops haven’t heard the rumors going around about this place!”

Both detectives backed off slightly. Michaud let his hand fall to his side, not far from the pistol he wore on his hip. LeeAnne Cataldo frowned, tilted her head, and stared at Peter.

“Of course we’ve heard the rumors,” she said. “What has that got to do with your friend? Superstition and nonsense doesn’t make that man any less dead.”

Peter shook his head, lip curled in disgust. “No,” he agreed. “You’re right about that. But this isn’t about superstition, Detective Cataldo. It’s about death, really, and not the death of George Marcopoulos. You mean to tell me word hasn’t filtered down to your office that the locals are abandoning this area of the Quarter right now? That shops and restaurants are closing for the night?

“You mean to say you didn’t notice there really aren’t many people on the streets? That even the tourists seem to be steering well clear of my property?”

Michaud and Cataldo looked at one another. Michaud shrugged. Cataldo looked back at Peter, sized him up.

“Mr. Octavian,” she said cautiously, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come along with us. Maybe there’s a place we can speak about this more reasonably.”

She stepped forward, left hand up to grasp Peter’s elbow.

“Are you fucking blind?” he snarled. “What do I have to do?”

His anger boiled over. Here they could be helping, but they were so unwilling to see what was really happening that they were wasting their time—and, more importantly, his own.

The magick nearly burned out of him, pulsing green light that seemed to suck the sunlight from the room and cast all their faces in a sickly glow. Cataldo was pushed roughly back but kept her footing, even as Peter rose to hover just slightly off the ground.

“Back off!” Detective Michaud shouted, a quaver in his voice as he brandished his gun with an admirably steady hand. “Just back the fuck off, mister.”

Peter did. The magick dissipated and he settled to the floor as if nothing had ever happened. Both detectives stared at him, but every few seconds Cataldo would look down at the hand she’d gone to grab him with, as if it were somehow responsible for what had happened. Michaud still held the gun steady, though his eyes were wide with astonishment, fear, and maybe a little horror.

“You don’t honestly think I’d let you shoot me with that?” Peter said, glaring imperiously down at the gun in the detective’s hand.

“How y’all plan to . . . ” Michaud began, then let his words trail off.

He holstered his weapon.

“Jack, what are you doing?” Detective Cataldo cried incredulously.

Michaud just looked at her, then back at Peter.

“I never heard tell of no voodoo vampires before,” Michaud said carefully.

“It isn’t voodoo, Detective,” Peter replied. “And I’m . . . not a vampire. Now, why don’t you respond to my inquiry? Save us some time and tell me you know what I’m talking about regarding the weird happenings in the Quarter today.”

“Today?” Michaud muttered.

But Cataldo had finally gotten her mouth working again.

“We know something’s going on,” she admitted. “And we figured it had some connection to this place, and when your friend’s death was phoned in, it gave us an excuse to start looking into it.”

Peter nodded, allowed a picture of George’s corpse being zipped into a black bag to enter his thoughts, and then pushed it away.

He was numb. That was it, really. The battle coming up, the danger to his latest adopted hometown, to his coven, to himself. He was numb. Or, at the very least, he was trying to be. Trying to keep the sorrow at bay until a more . . . convenient time. He almost chuckled at that, but didn’t want the detectives to get the wrong idea.