Part 9 (1/2)
”I had no warning.” How easily and smoothly he lied now, as if the evil inside him took control of his tongue and spoke for him.
”Had I known that the maledicti meant to attack, I would have stayed and died fighting with my brothers.”
”You?” D'Orio made a contemptuous sound. ”You'd have squealed and tried to run away like a little girl. But that doesn't matter anymore. You survived; they didn't. Now the monsters are coming for you.”
Leary knew his transfer to the church in London had been only temporary, and that his days as a member of the order had been numbered. After Cardinal Stoss, the leader of the Brethren, had been murdered in America, the confusion within their ranks had been close to sheer chaos. Electing Cardinal D'Orio to serve as the new Lightkeeper had been a canny move by the Lightmaster; D'Orio was well-known for his dogged pursuit and elimination of traitors within the order.
But for all of D'Orio's zeal, the cardinal still did not know that Richard kept his stronghold in Ireland. If he had, the Lightkeeper would have moved heaven and earth to destroy it.
D'Orio was speaking to him again, Leary realized. ”I'm sorry, Your Grace, but our connection is poor. What did you say?”
”Get your head out of Saint Paul's a.s.s and listen to me, Orson,” the cardinal said. ”Your prisoners are free. That b.i.t.c.h surgeon may have put their pieces back together, but they remember what you did to them. They're going to want revenge.”
”They will find me.” Of that he was sure.
”That's why you're going to make excellent bait. Get a paper and pen and write this down.” D'Orio gave him contact names and numbers for Brethren in Ireland. ”You're taking over the parish in Bardow. Pack and go up by train. A rental will be waiting for you in Galway. Don't travel under your own name.”
Bardow was the name of a village not twenty miles from Dundellan Castle. ”Wouldn't it be better if I stayed in the city? I could-”
”No.” D'Orio's voice changed. ”You'll go where you're told, and you'll watch for them. Don't screw this up, Orson. It's your last chance to prove your loyalty to me.”
The line clicked abruptly.
Leary's fears bloomed inside him. He could not go to Bardow. He was too frightened now. Through fear he would be made clumsy, and he would betray himself to both the Brethren and the maledicti. Richard would never believe that he had been a.s.signed to Bardow for any reason other than to expose him to the order. If Leary could escape the Demon King's wrath, the order would provide no haven to him. D'Orio would never forgive him for what he had done, or what he had concealed from them.
Leary walked out into the church. He could not pray for an answer; G.o.d had turned His face from him. He could pray for death, but in his disgust Saint Paul would likely make him immortal, so that he could suffer on until the end of time. The scent of flowers closed around him, and he glanced at the altar, but the vases were filled with lilies, not roses and wisteria.
”Are you Father Orson Leary?”
He turned to face a tall gentleman in an exquisitely tailored suit. White hair framed the man's chiseled features and streaked the dark mane that he had pulled back into a neat queue. Behind him, a beautiful black-haired woman and a scarred-faced man stood waiting by the altar.
D'Orio would not send a Frenchman to him. ”I am.”
”I would speak with you.”
Leary looked past the man at the others. The dark-haired woman was not merely beautiful; she was stunning. Certainly far too lovely for the oversize brute standing at her side. He would have thought them tourists, but for the quality of their garments and the sweet, flowery fragrance coming from all three of them.
”You are Legion,” he whispered.The scarred-face one stepped forward, his eyes intent.
”We are from America,” the Frenchman was saying.
”I know what you are, and from where you come.” Leary backed away. ”Demons. Demons from the abyss.” He looked around wildly. ”This is holy ground. You cannot come here.” His voice rose to a shout. ”You trespa.s.s in the house of G.o.d!”
”Be calm, Father,” the Frenchman said. ”We will not harm you or your church.”
Leary turned to run and found the scarred-face giant in front of him. Someone screamed in horror and fear before shouting in Latin-was that his own voice?-and then a heavy hand landed on Leary's neck, and the air grew thick with honeysuckle. He tried again to run, but his body had turned to stone.
The scarred-face man's cool amber eyes moved to look past him. ”I have him, master.”
h.e.l.l-eyed demon. She sent him. Leary began to shake.
The Frenchman came closer. ”There is nothing to fear.” He placed his hand against Leary's throat.
Heat poured through the priest's body, burning away the honeysuckle that gripped him and the sourness of his own sweat.
Minutes, hours, an eternity later, the hands lifted, taking with them many things. All that had been muddled now had been made clear. The Mother, the Demon King, D'Orio, the order. The solution was so simple that Leary almost wept with relief.
Kill the women. All the women.
He smiled at his savior, the Frenchman. ”How can I help you, my lord?”
Nick knew it was ridiculous letting one bad dream get to her, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't forget what he'd said.
You were there. Come back to me.
He was at the chateau. Or in the village. Or maybe back in Paris. Wherever he was, she'd been there. He knew it. She knew it.
She'd felt it.
Or it was wishful thinking, she knew nothing, and the dreams were finally getting to her in the worst way.
Nick made a bargain with herself: She'd go out to the chateau one more time and see what, if anything, the old guy was hiding. If it was nothing, she'd laugh it off and be on her way. If her dream guy was there, being held prisoner, she'd set him free.
Either way she'd blow this village like a bad taco stand tomorrow.
Nick felt certain that after the little lesson she'd taught Bernard, he wouldn't come after her, but she spent the day in her room updating her computer anyway. A few years back she'd scanned and transferred her map onto the system, and now marked off the places she'd been with a software program designed for bikers who enjoyed riding off the beaten path. The flags told her it was time to move on to Provence. After that, she'd probably head back to England and lie low for the winter.
She glanced at the little painting the baker in Paris had given her. Unless I find him, and he turns out to be one of them. Then what do I do ?
Nick switched off the laptop and for a moment pressed the heels of her hands against her dry eyes. ”Quit thinking about it and get busy.”As she packed up the tools she thought she might need, she mentally reviewed the first and only trip she'd made out to the chateau. According to the villagers, Father Claudio was living in the cottage at the south corner of the property near the road; she'd do better to come in from the north. That meant riding at least ten miles out of the way, but she could park the bike out of sight in the woods and hike her way in.
Once she was inside the chapel, she'd check out the door behind the altar. It didn't lead into the collapsed side of the house, and the chapel's outer wall on that end was large enough to accommodate only a six-by-six-foot section. Based on her knowledge of old architecture, Nick was betting the door led to either a closet or a stairwell to a bas.e.m.e.nt level.
She watched the sunset from her window before dressing in her newest black T-s.h.i.+rt, jeans, and leather jacket. She carried the tools she'd stowed in her gym bag in one hand and her helmet in the other, and made her way down the back stairs, watching to see that the way was clear before she slipped out through the inn's back door.
She'd left her bike behind the innkeeper's garden shed, where she could get to it easily but where it wouldn't be seen by the locals. As motorcycles went, hers was a mongrel: a twenty-five-year-old stock BMW GS out of which over the years she had torn the rotors, the transmission, and most of the electrical system. Removing all the decals and detailing, and spray-painting black the aluminum panniers, in which she carried her gear, made the bike less flashy and therefore less memorable.
Nick would have preferred invisible, but no one had come up with stealth tech for motorcycles yet.
BMW bike suppliers were sometimes hard to come by, especially in the backwater parts of Europe, so she kept a small stock of replacement parts in one of the rear boxes. The other she used for her clothes and tools; whatever else she carried with her had to fit in her panniers, tank bag, backpack, or in her pockets.
It was a mutt of a bike, too ugly to appeal to thieves, and one that would have made her stepdad, Malcolm, proud. He had been tearing down and rebuilding old motorcycles since his teens; once he had discovered how much Nick loved messing around with tools he had made her his apprentice.
We'll make a proper grease monkey out of you yet, girl.
She unlocked one of the panniers and took out the wallet tucked inside. She carried a dummy wallet she'd stuffed with a handful of euros, some expired credit cards, and a condom. For some reason, the condom always convinced thieves and muggers that it was real.