Darkyn - Private Demon Part 6

What John could not convince himself of was that Hightower was entirely aware of just how murderous his secret order had become, or that they were using Darkyn to hunt other vampires. I'm not sure I believe everything I saw in that church.

He had called Hightower before coming to Chicago. The bishop had sounded appalled and relieved when John had called him. We thought you had been killed in New Orleans.

I survived, John had told him. But had he? I have to see you.

The bishop immediately advised against meeting in his offices or anywhere near a church. There is a bakery around the corner from the Tribune. Meet me there tomorrow at two. I will be wearing street clothes. Sit outside.

It was at a small table outside the bakery that John now sat, staring through the window at the rows of fancy cakes and fruit pies, watching the cream-laced tea that had been served to him in a delicate porcelain cup grow cold. He could see his faint reflection in the window, his dark hair hanging past his collar; his skin, which had acquired a yellowish cast from spending too many hours indoors; the short beard he kept meaning to shave away but couldn't bring himself to do more than trim.

I look like I'm on the edge, he realized. The way I used to when Alex and I were living on the streets. John had turned his back on everything he had learned during his childhood to better himself. Now he was slowly reverting back to what he had once been. The skinny, angry kid he had despised. All I need is a shave and a job.

"Johnny." Hightower appeared as suddenly as a three-hundred-pound man could, and came around the small table to embrace him with both arms. "The Heavenly Father has heard at least one of my prayers. Welcome home, my son."

"Your Grace." John looked over the older man's shoulder, expecting to see Hightower's a.s.sistant, Father Carlo Cabreri, hovering behind him. The bishop was alone. "You came by yourself?"

"Under the circ.u.mstances, I thought it best." Hightower lowered his bulk to perch carefully on the small wicker chair across from John. Once the waitress had served him tea. he said, "Six months, Johnny. Six months I thought you dead, and not a single phone call to alleviate my suffering. Was that to punish me for my part in this?"

"No." John had never been comfortable with the bishop's affection for him, or the amount of insight he had into John's character. Hightower had also been the one to convince him to join his order. "Six months ago I watched Cardinal Stoss and one hundred of his followers attack a group of Darkyn in a church. The Brethren were slaughtered.

All of them."

"We suspected as much, but we have no eyewitness reports, and no bodies were ever recovered," the bishop told him. "Please, if you do nothing else this day, tell me precisely what happened that night."

John recounted the events as they had happened, leaving out only the part Alexandra had played in them.

Hightower might react worse than John had if he learned that Alex had become one of the Darkyn.

What he wanted now was the truth. "After it was over, Cyprien told me that the Templars had never been Brethren. He said that he and the others like him were the Templars. The same ones who had escaped the church when it tried to exterminate them in the fourteenth century. He said they had been cursed, or maybe brought back something from the Holy Land that had turned them into vampires."

Hightower frowned. "An incredible story. You must have been terrified. You didn't believe him, of course."

"After what I witnessed in that church. Your Grace, I don't know what I believe." John drained the cold tea from his cup. "Cyprien told me other things, such as the fact that my training in La Lucemaria was simply another form of Brethren torture."

"Stoss took things too far in Rome; that much is true," the bishop said. "We had no idea he was abusing novitiate brothers in such an outrageous fashion. Stoss used his position in the order to do many things that we would never have condoned. I knew him, John, and he was once a good man. Perhaps he fought the demons too long and lost sight of what we are trying to do. I can a.s.sure you that Stoss was an exception, not a rule, among the Brethren."

"What about Cyprien's claim that they are the Templars?" John asked softly. "It does fit the history. Warrior priests, already wealthy beyond imagining. Add immortality to that, and even the pope wouldn't be able to resist making them outlaws, to be hunted down and tortured for their secrets."

"No, you're wrong," Hightower said, his gaze open and steady. "Cyprien lied to you. The Templars who were exterminated by the old church were not vampires. They were only the last of the Crusader priests, wealthy and powerful men whose treasuries tempted a greedy French king and a corrupt pope. The few who escaped torture and death swore that no innocent would ever again have to suffer such unmerited persecution. That is why we became the Brethren and took up the fight against the maledicti, John. If we do not hold them back, they will sweep across this world like a plague to exterminate the human race."

Hightower sounded convincing, but he was one of the most persuasive men John knew. When motivated, he could probably make someone believe that the sun came out at night and the moon was made of Brie.

"I don't believe you." John took perverse pleasure in saying the words that had burned inside him since watching the Darkyn systematically execute Stoss and his monks. "They still wear the white tunics and carry banners bearing the Beau-cent. They have no reason to wipe out humanity-"

"You speak of these creatures as if they were still human and possessed their souls. These are demons sent up from h.e.l.l itself to torment mankind." Hightower removed a thick envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto the table. "They use whatever they can to manipulate us, to turn us against each other. Look inside."

John didn't want to open the envelope. He didn't want to be sullied with any more knowledge of the Darkyn or the Brethren's dirty secrets about them. Still he reached for it and took out the photographs inside.

The light was poor, but the images were clear enough for the two people in them to be identified. One was Angelica Durand, the shape-shifting vampire who had come to New Orleans to kill Alexandra and Michael.

The other was John Keller, drugged and crazed, in the process of raping her.

"The Darkyn have already infiltrated the Brethren," Hightower said, his round face pale now. "We took these from one of the priests they had operating in Rome. Read the letter with them."

The letter was only half a page, quite short and to the point. The Brethren were to release the Darkyn being held in custody, or the photographs would be sent to every newspaper in the world.

"Have they sent them?" John found enough voice to ask. "No. We were able to recover the negatives and what copies their operative had made. I have them all here, John. I have kept them safe until I could give them to you personally.' "

The bishop's sympathetic gaze appalled him almost as much as the photographs. "Is this how you intend to bring me back to the church? By blackmailing me?"

"Good G.o.d, is that what you think of me?" Hightower gripped his arm. "I'm giving them to you-all of them-so you can rest easy. I think you should destroy them, John, but whatever you do, don't make the mistake of thinking that this will be the end of it. The maledicti have targeted you now, and they won't rest until you are back in prison."

"Why?" John felt more tired than he had when he had walked out of the prison in Rio so many years ago. "I pose no threat to them. I'm not part of the Brethren. I'm finished being a priest. As of today, I'm a private citizen."

"Then why did they take your sister?" Hightower countered. "What possible reason could they have had for killing her?"

He almost didn't bother to correct the bishop. It was better that the Brethren think Alexandra was dead. "My sister is still alive. She's with Cyprien now." He wouldn't say she was one of them, because he didn't quite believe it. Could his sister really be a vampire?

"For G.o.d's sake, then, come back to us, John," Hightower urged. "I'll explain how Stoss and Cyprien manipulated you between them. If these creatures have Alexandra, then the Order is the only thing that can keep you safe now."

"I know what the Order can do." John shook his head and rose to his feet. "I'll take my chances."

"How much money do you have?" Hightower removed a slim wallet and opened it.

"I can't accept-"

"You said you're done being a priest, Johnny. As soon as I file the paperwork, which to respect your wishes will be today, your income will stop. The maledicti won't permit your sister to help you, and if you try to lay claim on her estate, they will make it vanish." The bishop held out a handful of bills until he saw that John wasn't going to take them. He grimaced and put them back in his billfold. "You can't do this on your own."

"I can." John expected to work, and he wasn't too proud to take any job. He couldn't afford to stay in hotels any longer, but there were efficiencies, and even homeless shelters. He didn't have to live on the streets again.

"Let me help you." Hightower lumbered out of the chair and rested a hand on John's shoulder. "I won't try to push money on you or talk you into coming back to the Order or the priesthood. I've made enough mistakes, my son.

From this point forth, I'll support whatever decisions you make."

"Why?"

"You're the closest thing to a son that I'll ever have," Hightower said simply.

John didn't trust the bishop entirely, but Hightower had come to meet him on his own, and he had never condemned John for his actions. The fact was, he would need some help to make a new start. "What did you have in mind?"

"Dougall Hurley is looking for help at the Haven," Hightower said. "Hurley manages the place, and he's an ex- priest, but he has no connections with the Brethren. The Haven is a shelter for runaway teenagers. The church provides some of the funding for it, but that's our only involvement. Hurley handles the place on his own with a small staff, but he needs more help for the kids."

John knew of the Haven, which was located a half dozen blocks from St. Luke's, his former parish. It had been in operation for more than twenty years, and had an excellent reputation. "I have no experience working with runaways."

"You took a couple of psychology courses in the seminary, and you've worked with troubled children in the past.

These youngsters are desperately in need of guidance." Hightower sighed. "Dougall does well with the practical side of things, but he needs someone to provide quality counseling. You would be a G.o.dsend, John."

The last time he had followed Hightower's wishes, he had been imprisoned in Roman catacombs, drugged, tortured, and driven to rape.

It has nothing to do with the Brethren, John thought. If it doesn't work out, I can walk away. "All right," he told the bishop.

"I'll go see Hurley and apply for the job."

Chapter 5.

A soft, polite tapping on the bedroom door dragged Jema from an exhausted sleep. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, miss," Micki, the upstairs maid, said from the hallway, "but your mother would like to see you downstairs."

The clock on her bedside table read 7:02 a.m., a full hour earlier than the alarm Jema had set to get up in time for work. She must be ready to read me the riot act. "I'll be down in five minutes, Micki," she called out, wincing at the rasping sound of her own voice.

"Thank you, miss." Footsteps retreated quickly.

She sat up and tried to yawn. "Ugh."

Someone had cemented Jema's tongue to the roof of her mouth, which tasted as if she'd been sucking on a dirty penny. Because she often experienced nosebleeds during the night, she checked for stains.

Five small reddish-brown spots marred the ivory case, right where her head had dented the pillow.

She felt her nose with cautious fingertips, but something made her lower lip throb. The source turned out to be two deep, small gashes on the inside of her lower lip. They only began to sting the second she discovered them with the tip of her tongue. Her chin itched; she scratched and looked at her hand. Flakes of dried blood were under her fingernails; streaks of the same reddened her fingers and palm.

That accounted for the spots, but not the mess on her hand. I must have bitten my lip and rubbed my face in my sleep.

That the victim she had examined at the crime scene the night before had done virtually the same thing made her shudder.

He was trying not to scream.

Dream of me.

Something about last night was... fuzzy. Unable to decide what, Jema rolled out of bed. Maybe she'd had a bad dream. She couldn't remember her dreams, which vanished like fog the moment she woke, but she had the feeling last night's had been a doozy. As for her cut lip, there couldn't be a connection to the murdered man. It was some unhappy coincidence, produced by a restless subconscious.

Dream of me.

Her muscles protested as she walked across the floor and into the adjoining bathroom. She felt battered and exhausted, and wondered if she'd tensed while sleeping. Is that why I'm so sore and tired? Did I have a nightmare? The unexplained cuts on the inside of her lip voted yes.

She eyed the shower. Because Meryl Shaw disliked hot showers, Shaw House's water heaters were set to a low temperature. In the morning it took forever for the shower to heat up. An icy shower would probably wake Jema up like nothing else, but the prospect made gooseflesh rise on her arms. She turned on the water in the sink to rinse the revolting metallic taste from her mouth, but before she bent down the visage in the mirrored medicine cabinet gave her a horrified look.

A grotesque mask of dark red streaks covered her face.

Water filled the sink as Jema stared. That can't be me. The image reached up and tugged at her lip to look at the cuts on the inside. Had it bled this much? They were deeper than she'd imagined, like punctures instead of cuts. The sound of the sink drain trying to gurgle down the water made her bladder swell and ache.

There has to be a reasonable explanation. Okay. She breathed in deeply, clearing her head. I rolled off the mattress and smacked my face on the floor. My front teeth cut my lip. I crawled back into bed without waking up or remembering- Golden eyes. She'd dreamed of them. He'd told her to. Dream of me.

She glanced down at the water filling the sink and saw the distorted reflection of her bloodstained face. A gasp burst from her as a sharp pain burned at the back of her head, in the same place the victim's skull had been crushed. Where his hand had cradled her head.

What's happening to me?

It took a moment for Jema to realize that pain was caused by a piece of her hair tangled around the collar b.u.t.ton of her nightgown. Moving her head strained at the roots just above her nape. She fumbled with the b.u.t.ton and then tore the hair free, swearing under her breath as several strands parted from her scalp and fell into the sink.

If you knew you were going to die, Detective, wouldn't you hold on to whatever pride you could?

Unb.u.t.ton your blouse, cherie.

Jema jerked down her panties and dropped onto the toilet. Just in time, too; fear had punched her in the belly with a quick jab. The urine burned as it came out, and she closed her eyes, rocking a little as she forced her cramping bladder to empty.

Please, G.o.d, not my kidneys.

She felt better as soon as she saw her urine was only cloudy, not tinged with more blood. The last time her kidneys had caused major trouble, her urine had looked like cherry 7UP for three weeks. There had also been the raging yeast infection the antibiotics Dr. Bradford had prescribed to cure the kidney infection had caused.

I need a pot of coffee. Coffee always clears my head. It might also chase away the dull throb of the headache that was now forming behind her right eye. She remembered that her mother was waiting for her. Maybe two pots.

Jema scrubbed her face and hands clean, took her morning injection, and quickly dressed. Before this last year, she'd always waited until after breakfast for her first shot of the day. That was no longer possible. The downside was that the insulin ruined her appet.i.te, so she ate less after the injections. If she didn't stop losing weight soon she was going to look like a skeleton.

Breakfast at Shaw House, like every meal, was held in the formal dining room. Meryl Shaw had redesigned the former reception room, ripping out the nineteenth-century olive-green wallpaper along with the antique Colonial banquet, table, and faded Persian rugs. Tall panels of burled walnut and molded bra.s.s wainscoting now bordered the room. The floor, a glossy jasper, had curious brown and green patterns within the stone that formed paisleylike patterns. Being stone, it was always cold.

The centerpiece of the room was the dining table, an endless expanse of dark oak that had once graced a castle in England and could comfortably seat fifty. The fussy crystal chandelier that had once filled the with room with its glittery, frivolous light had been banished to the attic. Recessed spotlights in the walnut veneer of the ceiling now provided more distant, anonymous illumination.

Jema didn't like the dining room-the windows, hung with ostentatious burgundy satin curtains, were always drawn-and she thought all the deep colors were depressing. At the same time, she knew why her mother gravitated toward dark, heavy decor.

Meryl Shaw knew how to work a room.

The owner of Shaw House sat at the very end of the table, a living ghost in the dark room. Jema's mother wore nothing but the iciest of white, which matched the colorless, ruthlessly cut cap of hair framing her pale face. Her eyes, as cold and clear as green marbles, delivered everything from disinterest to contempt with a single glance. Her thin lips, the only spot of color on her face, were carefully outlined with the same rose lipstick she had worn all her life.

"Good morning, Mother." Jema dutifully went to her place at her mother's left hand and sat down. A maid appeared to pour coffee and set down a bowl of oatmeal and a small plate with a bran m.u.f.fin. She picked up her gla.s.s of water and drank half before her thirst eased a bit.

Meryl did not immediately reply, concerning herself with adding some cream to her tea. She did not offer the tiny pitcher to Jema, who along with being diabetic was also lactose intolerant. "Did you sleep well?"

The cut inside her lip stung as she finished her water and started on the black, unsweetened coffee in her cup. "Yes, I did."

"I did not." Meryl picked up her fork and cut a small piece from her French toast. "Bradford had to give me a stomach treatment, and then I tossed and turned until dawn. Where were you last night?"

Jema accepted another gla.s.s of water from the maid and glanced at her. "Are you feeling better?"

"That is not the point." Meryl set down her fork. "I had thought the rebellious stage occurred only during adolescence, but your behavior indicates otherwise. What is next? Body piercings? Tattoos? Loud music played at ridiculous hours?"

"I'm twenty-nine," Jema said. "Too old for navel rings and Kid Rock."

Her mother sniffed. "Thank heavens."

"I wouldn't mind a tattoo, though." Jema held out her forearm and pretended to study it. "Maybe a little parrot on the inside of my wrist."

"I'd rather see Daniel amputate your arm," Meryl snapped.