The Gathering Dark (43 page)

“Hurry!” he told her. “I don’t know where they came from, but those soldiers are human. Take the boy and his mother. Drive straight through the demons if you have to.”

Sophie hesitated, wanting very much to refuse, to stay with him, but she knew better. What could she do, after all, in the face of such evil? Yet without anyone to look after, to protect, Kuromaku could do a great deal. Though she understood, it pained her to know that he must be relieved to be free of her.

“I’ll go,” she said.

The ronin vampire gave her a curt, respectful bow. Sophie took a breath and looked out through the windshield again. The Volkswagen was pointed down a hill, a hundred and fifty yards from the bridge that crossed the gorge ahead. It had taken her a bit, but she had realized now what city they were in. It was Ronda, in Spain, a place she had not visited since her father had taken her there when she was no more than ten.

Whispers had spread across the road, blocking the bridge. As she watched, she saw more of them scrambling up over the edge of the gorge, climbing out of the Cleft of Ronda to join the others. That’s where they were coming from, then. Somewhere down inside the Cleft.

Sophie turned to share this observation with Kuromaku, trying to block out the sobbing of Henri Lamontagne and the thump of his mother’s skull on the door. But Kuromaku was no longer beside the car. She scanned ahead and saw that he had run in advance of the car. Striding swiftly, the undead warrior advanced upon the mass of demons that were even now attacking the foot soldiers who surrounded the military vehicles. Kuromaku seemed not to notice the weapons fire that cut down demons and tore into pavement around him.

Teeth gritted, Sophie accelerated. Her lip was still bleeding, a tiny drop sliding down her chin, but she ignored it. The car rocked in the heavy gale and she kept her hands tight on the wheel. Her eyes stung and she didn’t know if it was the wind or if she was crying. She did not want to know.

“Quiet!” a voice shouted. “Be quiet!”

It sounded like her own voice.

The Volkswagen raced down the hill. Soldiers on top of a tank were waving wildly, trying to turn her away. The gun turret was aimed almost directly at her but Sophie did not even slow down. Whispers were ripped apart by gunfire only feet ahead of the car and then several bullets punctured the hood of the Volkswagen. Her chest hurt and she could not breathe and she crouched down slightly behind the wheel, expecting to be shot at any moment.

But she could not stop now. The Whispers were after her again. She had gotten too close now and drawn their attention and Henri Lamontagne had at last stopped sobbing when one of them thumped down on the roof. Gunfire tore it off the car, chunks of its armored form tumbling onto the trunk lid as they raced onward. The windshield wipers were on but the rain was thick as mucus now and smeared across the glass.

Sophie aimed the car at a phalanx of soldiers ahead. Beyond them was a large truck that must have been their transport vehicle and she wondered if she and Antoinette and Henri would be safe inside that truck. Some of the soldiers were still trying to wave her off but others were now beckoning to her, hurrying her on.

Not that she needed the invitation.

Sophie hit the brakes, the tires sliding on the sticky-slick ground. The Volkswagen slewed to the left and for a terrible instant she thought that she would sideswipe the soldiers, imagined the car sliding over them, crushing them, and just continuing on until it tumbled into the Cleft of Ronda.

The car shuddered to a halt and she bit her lip again, sending a jolt of pain through her, a fresh gush of blood into her throat and down her chin. Sophie popped the door open, staring wide-eyed at the soldiers in their helmets and dark face masks.

“Help us!” she called in English, and then in French.

A dozen weapons came to bear upon her and her heart seemed to freeze as the mouths of those guns gaped darkly at her. She knew she was going to die.

From amid the soldiers came the strangest man, a thin pale figure with close-shorn red hair and glasses. He wore the garb of a priest and he shoved two of the soldiers aside to force his way through.

“Get down!” the priest screamed at her.

Confused, fear still making her head spin, Sophie turned in time to see two Whispers reaching for her and a third with its hand shoved in through the rear window of the Volkswagen, dragging a weeping Antoinette out of the car by her hair. One of them lunged for her, grabbed her by the arms, its talons tearing her skin. Even with the viscous rain and the orange light she could see her reflection in that featureless shell that covered its head. The sharp tendril that jutted from beneath its face-shell darted toward her eyes.

Screaming, Sophie pulled backward, letting her legs fall out from under her, letting her weight carry her down. The Whisper lost its grip on her arm but it hissed, cocked its head to one side, and then descended upon her.

Weapons fire echoed across the Cleft of Ronda and off the buildings and the demon was torn apart. One arm up to shield herself from the falling pieces of its body and shards of its carapace, she saw bullets shatter the other two as well. Broken glass scraping her back, Antoinette Lamontagne fell from the shattered car window to the street. After a moment in which everything seemed to freeze except for the storm, her little boy popped his face up from inside the car and peered out the window in terror.

Above the gunfire and the sound of soldiers shouting, she heard a voice close by, gentle tones asking if she was all right. Sophie glanced up and saw the redheaded priest above her, reaching down to help her up. She took his hand, glanced over his shoulder, and saw two other clergymen. They raised their hands as though about to praise her and the air around them shimmered slightly. The tiny hairs on her arms stood up, static electricity sheathing her.

“What . . . what are you doing?” she asked in French.

The priest glanced worriedly around. “Protecting you as best we can,” he replied in English.

That same static seemed to flow from him, and Sophie glanced behind her to see that it surrounded Antoinette as well. The other two clergymen rushed out and retrieved Henri from the car and in moments all six of them were hustling back among the soldiers, behind the battle line. The feeling of static went away, that kind of electric hum on her skin, and Sophie found that she missed it.

They were behind the gunfire now, away from the bullets and the Whispers. Sophie’s body was racked with sudden spasms and she nearly fell to her knees. The priest supported her until she recovered her balance. It was all she could do not to break down, to scream out all the horror and terror she had been holding in since this had all begun.

“What’s your name?” the priest asked, pulling her even farther away from the fighting, between a tank and the empty troop carrier.

With a crack of ear-splitting thunder, the tank fired into the street. Sophie glanced up and saw a building on the edge of the Cleft—a building that must have been there five hundred years—begin to collapse in upon itself, sending up a cloud of dust.

“
Bonjour?
Hello?” the priest said. “Your name?”

“Sophie,” she said, as though only just remembering. “Sophie Duvic.”

He held out his hand, an odd bit of formality in the middle of chaos. “Father Jack Devlin.”

Sophie took his hand, but already the priest had glanced away from her. His eyes were on the massive thunderheads that were rolling in from the south, the hideous storm that roiled and churned, lightning sparking from cloud to cloud.

“We should get cover,” he said.

Kuromaku
, Sophie thought. She tugged at the priest’s hand. “I cannot. My friend is still back there.”

“The woman and the boy,” Father Jack said, gesturing past her. “The other priests have them.”

Sophie turned and saw the two clergymen who had been with Father Jack helping Antoinette and her son into the back of the troop carrier. A medic was with them, already looking at Antoinette’s wounds.

“Not them,” Sophie said.

The priest put a hand on her arm but she pulled away. She glanced around for a vantage point that would allow her to see the melee without putting herself between the soldiers and the demons again, but the only point she could see was the tank in front of her. Without hesitation, Sophie started for it.

“Wait!” Father Jack called, grabbing at her. “You can’t go up there!”

Sophie spun and glared at him. “I have to make sure he’s all right. I . . . I need him here with me, safe. He wouldn’t leave me behind. I won’t leave him.”

For a moment the pale man only gazed at her from behind his spectacles. Then he nodded. “All right, but not up there. Come this way.”

He led her around behind the tank and on the other side of it was an open Jeep and a second tank, both vehicles surrounded by soldiers who were strafing the bridge and the rim of the Cleft with gunfire to keep new Whispers from joining the others. The demons were swarming though and some of them slipped through the hail of bullets. A chill ran through Sophie. There were buildings all around. The broad intersection was flanked on either side by military vehicles and soldiers, with Whispers in the middle of the street and on the bridge and coming up from the Cleft, but she knew from seeing them before that these weren’t the only ones. Her gaze ticked to the windows of the buildings around them.

There were other Whispers, she was sure. She wondered what they were waiting for.

The storm was coming on, the wind blowing so hard that her hair whipped at her face and her clothes flapped against her body and she had to work to keep her balance. Her hair was drenched with that viscous rain and she reached up to wipe it out of her eyes as Father Jack hurried her over to the Jeep. The soldiers ignored them, smearing the rain across their faceguards between firing off rounds of bullets. The staccato gunfire ripped the air and pounded her eardrums.

Sophie squinted through the storm and the chaos and in the orange-black light she saw two men standing in the back of the Jeep. One of them was a formidable-looking military man in commando garb but without the helmet and mask the others wore. The second man was a slim, elderly, white-haired priest. The old man’s face was lit up as though he were in the midst of the rapture.

“Destroy them!” the priest was shouting, the words cutting through the rain and the report of weapons fire. “Kill the devils!”

Father Jack dragged Sophie up beside the Jeep and he reached up and tugged at the sleeve of the older priest. The man glanced down and a different kind of light gleamed in his eyes now, not the fervor of religion but the arrogance of superiority.

“Bishop Gagnon!” Father Jack shouted to be heard over the gunfire, spitting out some of the vile rain that had gotten into his mouth. “Michel, this woman needs help! Her friend is still out there! Tell the Commander that—”

“Her friend?” the Bishop cried, a kind of hysteria in his voice and his eyes now. “Her friend, you say?” And then a terrible, sneering rage transformed his features and the old man stepped down from the Jeep. In one swift motion he cracked the back of his bony hand against Father Jack’s face, knocking off his glasses. The priest fell to his knees in shock and in pursuit of his spectacles.

Startled, Sophie took a step back and stared at the Bishop, whose name and accent were French.

“What is wrong with you?” she shouted through the storm in her native tongue, not caring at all that it was a clergyman she was talking to.

The old man turned on her. “Get out of here, girl!” he snapped. Then he, too, lapsed into French. “Let the soldiers protect you. All the souls in Hell should be so fortunate. Demons surround us, and your friend is only a demon with another face.”

Sophie stared at him, her mind reeling. She had thought them unaware that Kuromaku was out there among the Whispers. Now she realized that wasn’t the case at all. They had seen him, all right, and they knew what he was. In the midst of all the chaos they had seen him transforming as he did battle with the Whispers.

“No,” she whispered. Then she shouted it. “No! He is not like them! Not a monster! You cannot just leave him out there!”

The smile that spread across the Bishop’s face then unnerved her more than staring straight into the cruelly blank countenance of a Whisper demon.

“Leave him? We’re not going to leave him there. Trust me on that, my dear.”

A phalanx of soldiers rushed around them, hurrying to provide support to their comrades. The eruption of gunfire seemed even closer and Sophie winced. Someone nearby screamed and she glanced over and saw that two Whispers had somehow made it past the soldiers and climbed atop the tank. They were ravaging one of the men who stood atop it, slashing at him as two other soldiers on top of the tank shouted in panic, trying to get a clean shot at the demons.

Talons slashed down and the soldier’s left arm was severed, his throat was torn out, and then his head was ripped violently from his body, leaving only ragged flesh and muscle and a stump of the man’s spine. Blood splashed toward Sophie and the Bishop and spattered Father Jack as he stood, at last having recovered his glasses.

Sophie screamed and seemed to sink into herself. Her entire body seemed to curl inward and she wanted nothing more than to disappear. She flinched away from every gunshot, and from the presence of the Bishop and Father Jack. Pressure built up inside of her until at last she screamed again, letting it out, letting it all go. Fresh tears streamed down her face, but for the first time, a terrible truth had lodged itself in her brain.

If she wanted to survive all of this, it was up to her. Not Kuromaku, and not any soldiers. Her.

When she glanced up, she saw several Whispers leaping out from the top of a building to land on the tank. But the soldiers were taking no more chances. Bullets strafed the air, ripped apart the demons, with little regard as to whether or not one of their own might get hit. On the street beyond the line of soldiers, however, she knew that other men must be dying. There were simply too many of the Whispers. Too many of them.