Darkyn - If Angels Burn Part 13

White teeth flashed as Tolomeo started the car. "Prego, prego." With a twist of the wheel he roared back into traffic.

The hot soup was delicious, once John could taste again, but he concentrated more on not spilling it than drinking it. He wished he had more knowledge of Italian, so he could speak to the young priest, but he had been so upset over his last meeting with Alexandra that he hadn't even thought of obtaining a phrase book.

Tolomeo didn't seem to mind. In between gulps of his own soup, the priest zipped through a grid of narrow, cramped streets, muttering what were probably mild obscenities in his native language now and then under his breath, but otherwise leaving John alone to his thoughts.

Thoughts that had grown more dismal by the hour. He had tried to call Alexandra twice before leaving the States, with no luck. She wanted nothing to do with him, and he would have to accept that. If he could only banish the guilt he felt over their last meeting.

You're hurting me, Father.

He hadn't meant to grab her. It had been a reflexive action, nothing more. No, I was angry, and some part of me wanted to hurt her. Had he left bruises? Some of the foster parents they had stayed with before the Kellers had adopted them had done that.

She'd had a bruise on her cheek that day they had stood on the curb by the HRS office building, looking into the big Lincoln Town Car where Audra and Robert Keller sat waiting for them to get in. Alex had clung to him, almost plastering herself against his side, her small hands twisting in the dirty T-s.h.i.+rt hanging from his skinny torso.

Johnny, I'm scared. She looks strong.

John had been grimly prepared as always to do whatever it took to protect his sister. But Audra had been as gentle as she was kind and generous, and Alexandra had been safe with the Kellers. Before he had left for the seminary, John had made sure of that. And when they had been killed, he had used the insurance settlement to put her in one of the best private schools in the country, and later to pay for medical school.

Alexandra had never thanked him. Not once. After the funeral, she had reverted to the little girl at the HRS office, crying and clutching at him. She had begged him to stay. Even screamed filthy obscenities at him when he had pushed her into the taxi taking her to the school.

Alex's small, knotted fists pounding on the window. G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Johnny, don't you f.u.c.king leave me like this!

John knew he should have stayed and explained why she would be better off without him. But to Alexandra, there were no logical explanations. She wanted her brother, and there was no arguing with her.

His short-term visa did not allow him the luxury of staying and comforting his devastated sister. He had been released from the prison in Rio only for compa.s.sion reasons, only long enough to attend the funeral and settle his family affairs. If he had not returned voluntarily, the American government would have happily extradited him.

John had never wanted Alexandra to know about the charges levied against him in Brazil, or how much time he had spent sitting in that stinking pit of a cell. To this day, she believed he had gone back to minister to the poor, not sit in prison while the archdiocese attorneys dealt with the tangle of lies spun by one disgruntled, vengeful menina do doce.

The whole thing had been an ill-timed, messy affair. International attention on the few pedophiles among the Catholic priesthood inflamed the Brazilian government, which subsequently put any suspected s.e.x offender under a microscope. It had taken eight long months for the church to wheedle the government into releasing John. He was escorted from the prison to the airport, and put on a plane. He had not even known where he was heading until the plane landed in Los Angeles, and he was met at the airport by yet another attorney.

The scandal had sullied John Patrick Keller's spotless record as a priest, and the church wanted him to meditate on his mistakes. As penance, he was sent to a Trappist monastery in the mountains, where he stayed until he was transferred five years ago to Chicago.

"You no say much, eh?" Tolomeo commented.

"No, not much." All those years among the Trappists, who were bound by vows of silence, had definitely had an effect on John. Silence wasn't golden-it was a horrible, empty vacuum that weighed on the soul with each pa.s.sing day spent in it-but it had burned the chatter out of him. He looked down into the soup container, surprised to see it was empty. "Good soup."

"Si, the best." Tolomeo turned a corner and pulled in through a bay door into what appeared to be an empty warehouse. He gestured for John to leave the container on the floor of the car. "This the place. We go down now."

Down is how they went, in a freight elevator that groaned and shuddered with every foot it dropped. John saw through the open iron grating that they pa.s.sed six different floors, and felt the air change and press on his eardrums. A vaguely unpleasant odor grew stronger the lower they went.

"Where are we?" he asked Tolomeo.

"Down." The elevator came to a shaky stop, and the priest threw open the grating. "This way now."

John followed him down a dimly lit corridor made of tufaceous stone blocks so old they were crumbling in places at the stress points. He guessed they must have once been white, but centuries of candle smoke and seeping groundwater had turned them parchment yellow, streaked brown where the water even now ran in narrow rivulets from the ceiling seams.

Despite overhead ventilation shafts, the wretched odor came in waves, stronger whenever they pa.s.sed one of the open archways leading into some sort of gallery.

At last Tolomeo stopped at a single wooden door. Around the frame the Greek letters chi and rho had been painted over and over, the X- and P-shaped letters entwined in a familiar symbol representing Jesus Christ's name. He smiled once more at John before he rapped his knuckles on it three times. Someone unlocked it from within, and Tolomeo gestured for John to walk inside.

The room was some sort of chapel, a simple altar beneath a wooden cross, filled with fresh flowers and candles that banished the unpleasant smell from outside. Six short pews, three on either side of a narrow center aisle, were filled with men wearing simple brown robes and cowls. Their heads were bent, their eyes closed, their lips moving in prayer.

No one looked up at John.

He turned to ask Tolomeo what to do, but the young priest had not come in behind him. Obeying a lifetime of training, John paused at the edge of the nearest pew to genuflect. The man sitting at the end of the pew glanced at him before returning to his prayers.

The look wasn't friendly.

Another monk emerged from a door set off in a corner behind the altar. He wore the same simple cowled robe as the other monks, but his was black with a red cord tied around the middle. Over his left breast was a square of white cloth quartered by a red cross with ends that were split in two. With a glance, John saw that the other monks had the same symbol on their robes; some had two and three of them grouped together.

The simple, splayed-ended red cross of martyrdom, a symbol of the Knights Templars.

The a.s.sembly rose to their feet, silent, respectful, but John still wasn't sure what to do. These men operated outside the Catholic church; he couldn't apply what he had learned in the priesthood here. The black-robed monk helped by gesturing with a square, brown hand, beckoning John to come forward.

"Welcome to les Freres de la Lumiere, Father Keller." The voice was a smooth tenor, but accented with German, not Italian. The brown hand tugged back the cowl, revealing a round, genial face and a scarlet skullcap over a tonsured scalp. "I am Cardinal Stoss."

John nearly went down on a knee again. Cardinal Viktor Stoss, one of the most powerful men in the cardinalate, was being considered as a candidate for the papacy. Yet one did not kneel before man, only G.o.d, and this little chapel was still a house of G.o.d. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Stoss seemed amused. "Bishop Hightower tells me you are very interested in becoming a soldier of G.o.d. We are in grievous need of soldiers, Father, who are pure in mind and soul."

John stiffened. "Then you will wish to recruit from heaven, Your Grace, not the slums of Chicago."

Amused, the cardinal nodded. "You are everything August said and more." He looked past John at the a.s.sembled monks, and his expression turned serious. "Here is one who would join our ranks. One who is deemed pa.s.sable and to be proved worthy. Be there any objections, make them known."

No one moved or spoke.

Stoss nodded and made the sign of the cross in the air before him. "We accept our brother in Christ, John Patrick, as a novitiate of the Brethren."

How odd, John thought. Like a marriage ceremony.

One of the brown-robed monks stepped out of the pew and came to stand beside John. He pointed to a side door.

"Wait in there, Brother."

John moved into the adjoining room, which was s.p.a.cious, lit by electricity, and set up with equipment that would have been found in any modern business office. The walls were not stone here, but huge marble slabs decorated with ornate carvings and miniature recesses for oil lamps. The only sign of true age was the brownish, uneven water stains dotting the plastered ceiling. More flowers spilled from gigantic urns set at even intervals at the base of the walls.

Through the closed door John could hear Latin being spoken, although he didn't recognize the prayer. It sounded more like an exchange than the chants he knew. The door made it hard to make out the words, so he leaned against it.

As soon as he did, the prayer ended, and the sound of footsteps pa.s.sed by the door.

"Curious, Brother Keller?"

John turned to see the cardinal standing just inside the room. He scanned the walls but saw no other entry. "Your Grace, how did you-"

"Slip in here?" Cardinal Stoss put his hand on a limestone panel, which swung soundlessly out. "This was once the arcosolium of a politically dangerous family. Visitors used this panel when they did not wish to be seen entering through the church."

"Where am I, exactly?"

"You are standing seven hundred feet below the city, in the center of La Lucemaria." Stoss took a moment to remove the black robe and hung it in a small armoire before donning the traditional scarlet and gold vestments of his office. "There are more than sixty catacombs surrounding the city, but this one does not appear in any tourist guide or on any map. Sit down, Brother."

John sat. The cardinal went behind the desk and made a brief call, during which he spoke only in fluent Italian, and then hung up the phone and regarded him. "This is not what you expected, is it?"

"I didn't know what to expect." He looked around the room. "Why are you based here, in this mausoleum?"

"An underground cemetery, to be more precise, made up of a labyrinth of tunnels leading to galleries, burial niches, and secret chapels. It was built by Christians in the time of Nero."

John glanced at the ceiling. "I didn't realize it was so old." The watermarks looked much larger than before, and he wondered what lay above the ceiling, and if it was made entirely of plaster.

"During that time, people of our faith existed in an unfriendly, largely pagan society. Emperor Nero completely distrusted Christians and allowed them to be hara.s.sed, imprisoned, exiled, and slaughtered without just cause. The poor souls brought their dead down here by the thousands, so they might be buried in imitation of Christ. As you can tell from the lingering bouquet." He waved a hand around as if to disperse the air. "The Brethren uncovered the catacomb when they relocated to this region in 1417, and decided it was best to establish our order where few, even our brothers from the church, would dare trespa.s.s."

He hadn't come to Rome for a history lesson, but he squelched his impatience. "Did the vampires dare?"

"August told you of the demons we battle, and showed you the video from Dublin." Stoss didn't sound as if he approved. "You do not believe the evidence."

"I know that the bishop believes these vampires exist." He shrugged. "The film appeared to be very realistic. It could fool many people."

"Yet you are not convinced."

"No, Your Grace. I am not."

"Still you have come here to join us. To debunk us, perhaps?" Stoss's smile widened. "Do not feel uncomfortable with your goal, Brother Keller. I joined the Brethren for the same reason, to disprove what I considered medieval and dangerous superst.i.tions that threatened the foundations of the church. Suspicion of diabolism has long been the ignorant reaction of certain branches of our faith, mostly those who feel helpless to turn the tide of disease, poverty, and non-Catholic governments. What better demon to blame for today's myriad forms of corruption than a secret society of vampires? I am an educated, discerning man, Brother, and yet here I am, leading renegade monks to fight against Satan's minions."

John wondered if the cardinal and the archbishop shared the same mental disorder. It was unlikely, but it might explain why two such respected men would indulge in superst.i.tious nonsense. "Do you plan to show me one of these minions in person, so I can be convinced and brought into the order?"

Stoss chuckled. "No, Brother. You must train many long and wearisome hours before we dare expose you to the maledicti."

"Train? How?"

"There are forms of physical conditioning you must undergo, and some spiritual counseling and discipline. This is done here, in La Lucemaria. However, there are two things you must know before you take the final step to join us."

There were always catches. "What are they?"

"The training is demanding and dangerous," the cardinal said, startling him. "Some of our novitiates have been crippled or killed. If you wish to preserve your life over your faith, you may leave now and return to Chicago."

John had always been tough, stronger than most boys on the street, and he had kept his body in prime condition.

"I'll take my chances in training."

"Excellent. When your training is completed, you will surrender your office of priest and join our ranks to become a soldier in the service of G.o.d." The cardinal leaned forward, his small dark eyes intent. "Be sure this is what you wish, for there will be no letters of resignation, no last-minute changes of heart. When you join the Brethren, no one outside the order can ever know what you do. This includes any ordained member of the Catholic church who is not Brethren."

The dramatic quality of the warning seemed a bit theatrical, but John was beginning to suspect these men thrived on drama. They had certainly set the stage for it. "You're saying that once I start, I can't quit, and I can't tell anyone, or I'll be punished."

Stoss watched him closely. "If you abandon or betray the order, you will be executed." John stared back at the cardinal for a long, silent moment. "You are serious."

"The Darkyn are desperate, and will use anyone they can to destroy us. We cannot risk even one brother being captured alive by these monsters." His eyes turned shrewd. "You do not strike me as a fearful man, John Patrick. You are a pragmatist, and a survivor. I tell you now, we need men like you to enlist in our cause. For centuries the Darkyn have been gathering and organizing their kind, and someday very soon they will move against the church." When John started to protest, he shook his head. "I know you do not believe, but let us say for the sake of argument that these demons exist. Will you help us send them back to h.e.l.l?"

"If they are real, then yes. I will defend the church and the living."

"That is all we ask of you." The cardinal rose. "I will escort you to your novitiate master, who will start your training."

Before she went off to work for her cousin the Korean podiatrist, Grace took care of removing Alex from the hospital call list and referring her last patient to another surgeon. Alex did her part by finis.h.i.+ng up the notes on her open cases and sending her records to the hospital, where they could be stored and accessed when needed.

She didn't close her office until she had finished running the last series of tests on herself: full blood screen, toxicologies, and an upper and lower GI. Doing it by herself took some finesse-administering the barium required for the GI series to herself made her sick-but she managed. Her intestines and stomach had shrunk so much that on the films she had taken, they appeared atrophied.

Alex hit the books and discovered via symptomatic a.n.a.lysis that she was no longer absorbing vitamins or producing the acid needed to digest food in her stomach. The books and blood screens helped her to rule out pernicious anemia and every other disorder that would shut down her digestive system in such a radical fas.h.i.+on.

She knew what wasn't responsible for making her puke up everything she forced herself to eat, but the disease Cyprien had infected her with remained totally elusive.

Her blood a.n.a.lysis was equally disturbing. Her white blood count had rocketed up and off the scale while her red blood count continued to plummet. Except for increasing exhaustion and continued weight loss, she had manifested no signs or symptoms of acute lymphocytic leukemia, AIDS, or any other disorder known to medical science.

Whatever it was, however, it was killing her. Slowly but definitely.

Alex took most of Michael Cyprien's money to the bank and opened a trust account to be used to pay for Luisa Lopez's treatment, and then went to see Sophia Lopez to explain how to get to and use the money. She also gave Sophia the name of a good attorney who would help her manage her new millions and find her a decent place to live closer to the hospital.

Alex felt bad enough, bailing on Luisa, but the echo of her mother's sobbed thanks behind her as she walked out of the housing project apartment made her cringe.

The only thing that kept her going was the card she had found tucked away in Cyprien's case. On it, he had written his name and a phone number with a New Orleans area code.

Alex couldn't check herself into a hospital, and her weight was dropping steadily. She rented a laboratory, ordered the supplies she needed, and locked herself in.

Three weeks later, Alex finally stabilized her condition enough to take the risk of traveling. She made two phone calls: one to book a red-eye flight to New Orleans, and then one to the phone number on the card.

The man who had answered Cyprien's number was terse and to the point. "Where are you, Dr. Keller?"

"I'll be in New Orleans in two hours. United out of Chicago. Have someone pick me up at the airport." She slammed down the phone.

"That's a lovely perfume," the travel agent said when Alex stopped by to pick up her ticket. "Lavender, isn't it?"

She nodded. It was light and faint, so faint only she could smell it most of the time, but it wasn't perfume. She had never been able to wear perfume without getting a rash. No, the fragrance was coming from her body. Like Cyprien's roses and Phillipe's honeysuckle. Le b.i.t.c.h hadn't smelled of anything, but Alex was betting that she wasn't infected.

They would need humans to do some of their dirty work.

Cyprien's driver, another dark-suited Frenchman who spoke no English, met Alex at her gate in New Orleans and delivered her by private limo to a lovely old Victorian mansion in a secluded section of the Garden District. Although she had never seen the outside, and it was still dark, Alex didn't have to be told it was La Fontaine. It was a little on the small side, compared with other mansions in the hood, but there were white roses and a whopper of a marble fountain in the front yard.

eliane met her at the door. For a moment, Alex thought she might slam it in her face.

"Don't even think about it." With some effort, Alex pushed past her. She was so weak she could have happily dropped to the floor, curled up, and died. Only pride and a need to know kept her shuffling forward. Phillipe appeared and, after a worried look at eliane, helped her down the stairs to Cyprien's private chamber.

"Miss me?" she asked the seneschal.

"Yes." He smiled down at her. "I learn the English."

"Teach me how to say 'f.u.c.k off' in French, will you?" she asked him. "It'll come in handy in a minute."

"h.e.l.lo, Alexandra." Michael stood in front of an easel. He had been painting something soft and s.h.i.+mmery on the canvas, and set aside his palette and dropped his brush in a jar of cloudy liquid. "I expected you to come to me long before now."

"Did you." She lowered herself into the nearest comfortable chair. Her body weight had dropped all the way to seventy-five pounds before she had found a way to stabilize her symptoms. She was on the plus side of ninety pounds now, but she still strongly resembled a refugee from a concentration camp.