The Graves of Saints (10 page)

‘I must hurry,’ Father Laurent said. ‘I can’t imagine the damage in the village, or in the city. I fear for Paris. There will be people who need my help.’

Last rites
, Hannah thought.
He’s not talking about digging through rubble. He’s talking about taking away their sin before they go to God
.

Somehow that made her panic worse, but she swallowed it down and just nodded, squeezing Charlie’s hand as they approached the light spilling in from the stairwell on the right. The ceiling
had buckled slightly above the gate, so that it could not be moved. If Father Laurent had closed it behind them, they really would have been trapped there. Her heart leaped as she glanced at the
stairs and saw that although some debris had fallen, their way out remained open.

The stink of something rotten filled her nostrils. Flinching in revulsion, she turned to look at Charlie. For a moment, her mind could not make sense of the thing she saw looming in the darkness
behind him, could not take in the multitude of sickly green eyes or the rotten, oozing splits in its flesh or the glistening red shards of bone or horn that protruded through its skin all over.

It wasn’t until it opened its mouth and revealed rows of teeth like hundreds of black needles that she truly
saw
it, and felt something inside her die . . . something that might
have been hope.

The demon wrapped long talons around Charlie, lurched forward, and bit off his head. Blood jetted from the stump of his neck, bathing the demon’s face and filling the air with the acrid
copper stink of it. Hannah knew she was screaming, felt her throat go ragged from her shrieks, but she couldn’t hear her own voice. All she could hear were Father Laurent’s prayers
behind her, as if he were whispering in her ear.

In front of her, the demon dropped Charlie’s twitching corpse, dragged itself over him, and reached out one long, black-taloned hand.

Charlestown, Nevis, West Indies

The breeze off the ocean was warm, as always. Kuromaku stood on the rough-hewn deck of the thatched-roof hut and breathed it in. A few light clouds lingered above the island of
Nevis, but otherwise the sky stretched on forever, a vivid, unbroken blue. On the horizon, it met the water of the Caribbean and the two merged into one. Every day he woke to find himself in this
place, his heart soared with the joy of life.

Every day but today.

The call had come during the night; Octavian, more anguished than Kuromaku had ever heard him. They had been friends for long centuries, had fought side by side, joining in savage wars and
regional skirmishes for no other reason than that there were oppressed people who needed something to help turn the tide. Sometimes that had meant fighting for lost causes, but Octavian and
Kuromaku – and a handful of other Shadows who had seen the world in the same way – had gone to war regardless. They were warriors, after all. In combat, they had managed to feel alive
long after their human lives had ended.

Over the course of those many years, they had each made human friends and taken human lovers, and even fallen in love. But entropy was the great curse of immortality. Things fell apart. Lives
and loves ended, and eternal warriors were forced to watch those who mattered the most to them grow old and pass from the world forever. Kuromaku had offered the gift of immortality – the
life of the Shadow – to more than twenty-five people since he had first become immortal, and all but four of them had chosen to age and wither and die, to follow the natural order of things.
Of those four, three now hated him, and one had given himself to the fires of the sun back in the days when Shadows still believed that it would burn them.

The longer he lived, the more he grieved, just as he did this morning. He had not spent a great deal of time with Nikki Wydra, but they had fought side by side more than once and she, being only
human, had proven herself brave and loyal. And Peter had loved her, and now he grieved for her, and Kuromaku grieved along with his brother.

‘Fly, spirit. You are free,’ he whispered to the warm tropical breeze.

A small smile touched his lips. He grieved, yes, but no matter how much pain and loss he had endured in his long life, he had found more joy than loss, more laughter than heartache. He still
embraced life. With his partner, Sophie, he still owned and ran a vineyard in Bordeaux, France, and when they felt they had worked long enough, they turned the management of the vineyard over to
his assistant and retreated to this simple hut on Nevis, a stone’s throw from St Kitt’s.

‘If you don’t get going, you’ll miss your flight.’

Kuromaku turned at the sound of Sophie’s voice and his heart filled with adoration. Once upon a time, her father had been his attorney, and Sophie had inherited the role from him. Kuromaku
had watched her grow from infant to gangly teen to beautiful, confident woman. It had been difficult for him to separate the girl from the woman at first, but they had been thrown together to face
otherworldly horrors that would have driven many people mad or caused them to curl up and weep in surrender. Sophie had proven herself not only a woman, but a formidable one, and during that time
he had realized that he loved her.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Kuromaku said.

‘Of course you don’t,’ Sophie said, arching a suggestive eyebrow. ‘Look at me.’

He did. Her light, silken robe hung to mid-calf and was tied loosely enough that her breasts were only partly covered. Her blond hair shone in the sun and her blue eyes sparkled with
invitation.

‘How could you want to leave this?’ she said.

But the playfulness drained from her tone before she had even finished the sentence and she faltered, swallowing hard and swiping at the moisture welling in her eyes. Kuromaku went to her and
held her, whispering love in both of their languages.

‘You know I don’t want to go.’

‘Part of you does,’ Sophie said. ‘Part of you can’t wait to draw your swords.’

He could have argued that he didn’t have his swords with him, but she knew all of his secrets, knew that his swords were no different from the clothes he wore when it came to the
shapeshifting abilities of a Shadow. They changed on a molecular level, and that extended to whatever they wanted it to, except for living flesh. He couldn’t shift and forcibly merge another
person into himself, but he could make his katana and wakizashi seem to vanish and reappear at will.

If he’d said he hadn’t brought them to the Caribbean with him, he’d have been lying.

‘I’m a warrior,’ he said.

‘And I’m her friend. We haven’t seen Nikki much, but I was her friend just as much as you were. I should be at her funeral.’

Kuromaku caressed the line of her jaw and lifted her chin so that she was forced to meet his gaze.

‘You should be, my love,’ he said, and kissed her softly. ‘But you cannot be. This Cortez that Peter spoke of . . . he killed Nikki because Peter loved her. It’s possible
that anyone who comes to mourn for Nikki will also be a target. We can’t be sure the funeral is safe.’

She put her palm on his chest and gave him a gentle shove, putting a bit of distance between them.

‘I can take care of myself,’ she said.

‘As much as any mortal can.’

‘And when I can’t, I have you.’

‘Yes. You do.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘But when the funeral is over, we are going hunting. And when we find the creatures we hunt, we are going to battle. It isn’t safe
for you to be with me, and it wouldn’t be safe for me if you were. Worrying about you could get me killed. Is that what you want?’

Sophie kept her hand flat on his chest, but she dropped her gaze. After a moment, she sighed deeply, and when she lifted her eyes again, he saw the tears streaming down her face.

‘I want this to have never happened. I want us to be here, warm and safe. I want to drink wine and make love on the beach. I want paradise.’

Kuromaku let her words hang in the air as he glanced around at their little piece of the island. Over the thatched roof of the cottage hut he could see the green hills at the center of the
island rising toward the perfect blue sky. To his right, their small dock jutted out into the water, the sailboat tethered at the end, bobbing in the water with the sail tightly furled.

‘This is as close to paradise as this world has to offer,’ he said, stroking her face, brushing her tears away.

Sophie slapped his hand away. Then, angry with herself, she wrapped her arms around him and laid her head upon his chest.

‘Not today it isn’t,’ she said through her tears. ‘Until you come back to me, this place is going to be Hell. Come back to me, you understand?’

‘I do, and I will.’

‘Promise!’

He promised, hoping that time would not prove him a liar.

Carlsbad, California

Santiago didn’t know how long he’d been staring into the glass. A final sip of whiskey remained but somehow he hesitated to tip it back. It had been long enough that
the sweet burn of the liquor had gone from his throat. His thoughts drifted into numb meditation, only partly brought on by the alcohol.

Twenty-four years. That was how long it had been since he had last heard from Peter Octavian, but the hard son of a bitch had apparently kept tabs on him. Enough so that when the time came that
he needed to reach out to Santiago, all it had taken Octavian was a phone call. The old warrior would have chalked it up to him having signed the Covenant, but he hadn’t given the damned UN
his correct address or telephone number. He was practical enough to know when the winds of change were blowing, so signing up had been a no-brainer, but he wasn’t stupid.

Octavian
, he thought.

The name brought a cascade of sounds and images into his head, gunshots and screams and flashing swords, hopeless causes and tight corners, their backs to the wall. Until the one time in Namibia
when they had found themselves on opposite sides of a fight. Things had never been the same after that.

Tonight, just before ten a.m. local time, his cell phone had rung. The conversation had been brief and Santiago had considered hanging up, fighting the urge to feel sympathy for his old
friend’s grief. But then Octavian had said the magic words.

There will be combat. Maybe war. And, if something isn’t done, maybe the
last
war
.

Octavian had been at the center of so many conflicts in recent years and he had never called before. Santiago had resented it. There were times when he knew he could have helped, especially in
killing Hannibal, but the call had never come. He could think of only two reasons why Octavian had reached out to him at last; either the situation truly was that dire, or the bastard son of the
last emperor of Byzantium had finally run out of allies.

Either way, Santiago knew what his decision had to be. He’d known it from the moment he’d picked up the phone and heard Octavian’s voice, but still, here he was, sitting on his
usual stool in Luna’s, a dive bar on Tamarack Avenue, on the southern end of the Barrio, staring into the last wet inch of whiskey in his glass.

‘Tio,’ a soft voice said.

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the voice, but the first time it had registered. Then he felt the gentle touch on his arm and he blinked, waking from a daze, and glanced up from
his glass. Anita with the storm-gray eyes stood beside him looking tired and worn – much too worn for a girl of only twenty.

‘Tio, please,’ she said.

He frowned, not understanding, and she glanced away worriedly, as if she might fear his reaction. This puzzled him. Santiago had been coming into Luna’s for years; they all knew him here.
Tio was both a play on his name and the Spanish word for ‘uncle’, indicating the protective fondness he felt for the owner, Ana Moon, and the people who worked there. His appearance
could be intimidating; he knew that. Though only five foot six, he was powerfully built, with ancient tattoos over corded muscles, and his bald head and long, pointed goatee spoke of menace and
violence, even when he didn’t want them to.

But these people knew him. The idea that Anita might be nervous around him would have made him laugh if not for the pang of hurt and disappointment he felt.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ he asked.

Anita smiled, but he could see that it was forced. ‘Tio. It’s three o’clock in the morning. We just want to go home.’

Santiago knitted his brow, trying to process that. He glanced around and saw that the bar was empty except for Anita and himself, and for Miguelito the cook, who sat slumped in a booth with an
empty beer glass in front of him. Even the bartender, Rubio, had gone home. The chairs had been put up onto the tables and the wooden floor was damp with ammonia-scented mop water. The music had
been turned off. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in near silence.

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and knocked back the final swallow of whiskey, setting down the glass. Then he slipped two twenties from his wallet and left them on the bar. When he
slid off the stool and moved toward Anita, she flinched back. It hurt him all over again.

‘No, no. Now, come on,’ he said. ‘A man just gets a little lost sometimes.’

Perhaps she saw the hurt in his eyes, for she stood still and let him kiss her cheek. He had to stretch a little to do it; Anita was two inches taller.

‘My apologies to you both,’ he said. ‘You won’t see me for a while.’

‘Don’t be that way, Tio,’ Anita said quickly. ‘It’s only that we’re tired.’

Santiago glanced at Miguelito, who looked so tired he didn’t even feel any of the anxiety that had been troubling the waitress.

‘I know,
bonita
. I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t mean I wouldn’t come into the bar. I’m just going away for a while, that’s all. Go home and get
some sleep. I’ll see you when I come back.’

Santiago headed for the door. His flight to Philadelphia was at 7:10, which gave him plenty of time to go home, shower, change, and pack a bag, and still make it to San Diego in plenty of time.
He could’ve flown out of McClellan, but changing planes would mean a layover, and he wanted the fastest route east.