If Angels Burn (Darkyn #1) 5

"Half human, half Darkyn. A Halfling? That suits, I suppose." Tremayne perched on the window seat and looked out into the night. "Why did you keep knowledge of this treasure from me?"

Michael thought of a thousand lies. Yet with Tremayne, the closest thing he had ever had to a father for six centuries, it was simpler to tell the truth. "I knew you would want her."

"You were correct."

"You can't have her."

A laugh burst from behind the mask. "I most certainly can, and will. She will accompany me back to Dundellan, and there she will stay."

"Alexandra will kill herself first."

"She is still human enough to die easily; yes, that will present a problem." Tremayne considered it for a moment. "It would appear you have your work cut out for you, Michael."

"My lord?"

Richard gestured out toward the night. "You will go and find her. You will explain the glorious future awaiting her as the mother of a new army. Then you will bring her to me." He removed his mask and affected a ghastly smile. "Seigneur Cyprien."

One of Richard's guards knocked on the door and looked inside. "There is a human demanding to see the doctor. He is a priest, and says his name is John Keller."

Against his better judgment, John had stayed in his hotel all day. He watched game shows until he thought his brain would implode and he had to turn off the television. He slept in snatches, waking whenever someone walked past his door. One time he yanked it open and nearly gave the hotel maid a heart attack.

He waited for the phone to ring, for it to be the man who had called him at dawn, for news of Alexandra.

He tried the star-69 trick, but the hotel's phone system didn't provide that service. He dared tie up the line long enough to call down to the front desk and ask if there was any way he could get the phone number of his early-morning caller. The operator apologized for the fact that there wasn't, and suggested he call information.

Because there was no room service, John left the room door open to walk twenty feet to the only vending machine on the floor. No soda, but snacks aplenty. He bought bags of chips, packets of crackers and cheese, and candy bars. Most of them were stale, but he ate them, and drank water from the bathroom tap. He thought of what three men could do to his sister, and nearly threw up. To keep his belly settled and his imagination turned off, he turned the television back on.

Hope began to fade.

John had been about to call the police when the phone finally rang. He snatched up the receiver and held it to his ear. "Yes?"

"Do you have a pencil and paper, Father Keller?" The voice had less of a drawl, more of a clip to it this time.

"Yes." The man recited an address, which John jotted down. "Where is this?"

"La Fontaine, a lovely home in the Garden District. You'll find your sister there. Don't call the police. Don't take any weapons. Just walk up, knock on the door, and ask to see her. Ask politely. And John."

"What?"

"When she comes out, grab her and run. Don't stop running until you are out of the country." The caller hung up.

John was not familiar with the Garden District or any part of New Orleans, so he stopped at a convenience store long enough to buy a city map. He found a quick route to the address the caller had given him and drove directly there. It was a mansion, protected by a high wall, gated and locked up tight. It took a minute for someone to answer the gate call button and buzz him through. As soon as he stepped onto the property, he was flanked by two men.

"Arms out," one said in a distinct Irish accent.

John held his arms out and was searched from neck to ankles. He was startled to see that both men carried submachine guns slung over their shoulders, and pistols in both shoulder and hip holsters.

"Name?"

John looked up at the house. "I'm here to see Dr. Alexandra Keller."

"Your name, lad."

"Father John Keller. I'm her brother."

John was escorted up to the front door and told to wait there. One of the men stayed with him while the other went inside.

"Is my sister here?" John asked the guard, who gave him only a flat, disinterested stare in return.

The man who came out fitted the description given to John by the Atlanta shopkeeper: tall, handsome, dark except for the odd shocks of white hair around his face. Icy blue eyes returned the inspection and lingered on John's clerical collar.

"You are Father Keller?" The voice was smooth, unshakably French.

"I am." John stepped into the light. "Where is my sister?"

Chapter Twenty-Two

Wherever you go, my darling, Angelica had said, I will be waiting for you.

Thierry moved through the shadows, through the tiny gardens of the strange houses, silent, searching for her, for something that looked familiar. Where is she? Why is she not here?

The strangely accented French spoken by the two men he had killed getting out of the house gave him the brief hope that he had somehow been returned to his native country. He thought himself in some distant province where the dialect differed from his own. But the few cars that passed the houses were American models, and the street signs read in English.

Angel. My Angel. The sight of a fair-haired girl looking out her bedroom window caught his attention for a fleeting moment, but her face was too square, and her mouth too short. Angel would never have changed her appearance to look so common. Not her. Not her.

A newspaper stand on one corner gave him his location. The machine was locked, but he ripped it open and took out the bundle of newsprint. Hunger made him stagger back to lean against the lamppost. When he could focus on the small print, he found that he was in New Orleans, Louisiana.

America. How had he been brought here, and why?

Brethren.

He dropped the newspaper and moved out of the light. Escaping his prison had been remarkably easy, once he had dealt with the woman. He should have killed her, but at the time all he could think was to get out. He had to keep moving; the Brethren would send their butchers to hunt him, and he would kill himself before he let them take him back. They wouldn't catch him. He could climb. He could keep watch from above. His body was strong; his wounds were healed.

How is that? Why is that? He couldn't understand.

His mind wanted to run in circles, but there were black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and hunger burning deep in his gut. He looked around, found himself in an old part of the city. He climbed up the rain gutters of a house and looked at the surrounding territory. Houses, gardens, narrow streets.

A lit cross atop a steeple drew him like a beacon.

Killers. Murderers.

It was not Brethren, but it was. It was one of their temples, where they muttered their chants and stole from the living. Thierry circled around the little church, looked through the round, stained-glass windows. Burning candles. Empty altar, vacant pews.

Behind the sanctuary was a short, squat building connected to it, also marked with their signs. The locked side door splintered when he forced it open, but the hallway behind it was dark and silent.

Thierry sniffed the air. He smelled dust, antiseptic, and human sweat. He followed the third scent, tracking it to its source: a hallway of four doors, behind which men, human men, slept.

None of the doors were locked.

He walked past the first room and placed a hand against it. The portly man sleeping on the other side of it dreamed of giving mass in a large cathedral. The dream was as dull as the man's sermon.

Thierry moved on. The room behind the second door was empty, and the man in the third room was dreaming of standing nude in line outside his favorite restaurant, while crawfish snapped at his toes.

He could not tear out the throats of innocent men, but he could make them tell him where the butchers were hiding.

Thierry turned around and slipped inside the first room.

Alexandra didn't want to get into the car with Phillipe. But he had seen her walking and stopped, and after admitting he had not found any trace of Thierry, he started threatening to throw her in the trunk.

"I have a gun, you know," she warned as he guided her to the car.

"I have a sword." He opened the door and pushed her inside.

"You do?" She looked down, saw the hilt sticking out of his jacket. "Hell, you do have a sword."

"Copper. Very sharp." Phillipe rested his hand on the hilt. "Take off his head, one stroke. Only way."

"Not the only way." She showed him her tranquilizer gun. "Any sign of him?"

"No. Men patrolling. I go back to house." He glanced at her. "You go back, too?"

From the drop in her blood pressure and body temperature, Alex knew Cyprien's blood had done its best. She was dying. "Not yet."

Killers. Murderers. Tell me where they are.

The faint trace of Thierry's thoughts was still so strong, so violent, that it knocked her back against the seat.

"He's close by."

"Who?"

"Thierry." She closed her eyes to focus, opening her mind, pulling in the thoughts. "Stained glass. Candlelight. Broken door." She looked at Phillipe. "He's in a church. It's right around somewhere."

"I know it." Phillipe started the engine and hit the accelerator. At the same time, he picked up the car phone and hit one button, and said something fast and short in French. Then his eyes narrowed and he listened. Finally he put the phone down. "Master say stay away from house."

She frowned. "Now, there's a switch."

The church was seven blocks from La Fontaine, on a back road bordered by two apartment buildings. Phillipe parked a short distance away and turned to Alex.

"He's not in there." She looked from the sanctuary to the apartment buildings, trying to pick up a sense of Thierry. "I have to get out and walk."

As soon as she drew near the sanctuary, the thought stream smashed into her. She would have fallen, if Phillipe had not caught her in his arms.

"No." She put her hand to her mouth. "He has a priest." She broke free and ran behind the church. Phillipe drew the short sword he carried and followed her.