kindly. “Peter was concerned about your safety at a hospital. That’s why he brought you here to the convent.”
Convent? Nikki was about to ask for clarification, but she didn’t get the chance.
“That’s enough, George,” a low, commanding voice said from the doorway.
Nikki turned to see the man—Peter?—who had saved her life the night before. He stood at the threshold of the room, his hair and goatee well groomed, his smile white and wide. Handsome and intelligent and soft-spoken and kind in a way that so few men were. Those were all her impressions of him from the night before, from the minutes before the . . . attack, and from the chaos itself.
She didn’t smile back, though. Instead, Nikki shivered and turned away, pulling herself up into a fetal position. Her heart raced the way it had when she was a little girl afraid of the dark. The sun shone warmly through the window of the bedroom. She wondered if it was his bedroom, and closed her eyes against the light.
“Miss Wydra?” the old doctor said, and she fought the urge to block her ears.
Peter was an illusion of a good and decent man. A mirage. Reality was as deadly and unforgiving as the desert. Reality was, he was a dead man. A monster. A vampire, who preyed on human beings to survive long after nature and God had decided his time was up.
“It’s all right, George,” she heard him—it—say. “Nikki’s got a lot to deal with right now.”
Then he was gone. She didn’t turn to watch him go, but she knew he had gone just the same. For an instant, she regretted having been so cold to him, after he’d done nothing but enjoy her music—and then save her life. But he wasn’t even . . . human.
“Miss Wydra?” the doctor ventured.
A chilling thought struck her, made her breath catch in her throat. But she had to know.
“Are you—Are you like him?” she asked, still not turning to face him.
The doctor chuckled softly.
“No, dear,” he said. “There’s really nobody like Peter. But I do know what you mean. And no, I’m just an old man, a mortal man. I’m not a shadow.”
“A vampire, you mean,” she corrected, her voice heavy with indictment.
When she heard the old man’s heavy sigh, she did finally turn around. He looked worn, and tired, and far more decrepit than her initial impression had implied.
“I understand,” he said, and she stared at him quizzically.
“I’m sorry?”
“I understand,” he repeated. “How you feel. How you all feel. But I’ve known Peter Octavian since you were in grade school, young lady. He isn’t a vampire.”
She stared even harder at that.
“None of them are,” he added.
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” she asked, angry now.
“You’d be surprised,” he said, and finally a small smile returned to the old man’s face. “You can learn more later, if you’re so inclined, but what it comes down to is this: there is no such thing as a vampire. Not the way you think of them. But these people, these undead, shapeshifters, whatever you want to call them . . . they are the root of all the legends.
“And they’re at war with one another.
“It’s a civil war, you understand,” the old man went on. “Ever since Salzburg, when the United Nations and part of the Shadow Justice System fought together, and against one another, it’s been a war. The lunatic in the White House isn’t helping matters any, either.
“You see, the world is changing because, for far too many centuries, the shadows lived the myth. And when the myth was exposed, some of them didn’t want to change. Some of them—sadly, most of them—liked the old ways. Liked the power of terror and the taste of death. Hannibal leads them, now, and his ‘family’ is spreading across the globe. The cities where people fear the dark, his power has done this.
“But New Orleans is different, you understand. For this city is where Peter Octavian makes his home. Octavian’s coven is vastly different.
Convent? Nikki was about to ask for clarification, but she didn’t get the chance.
“That’s enough, George,” a low, commanding voice said from the doorway.
Nikki turned to see the man—Peter?—who had saved her life the night before. He stood at the threshold of the room, his hair and goatee well groomed, his smile white and wide. Handsome and intelligent and soft-spoken and kind in a way that so few men were. Those were all her impressions of him from the night before, from the minutes before the . . . attack, and from the chaos itself.
She didn’t smile back, though. Instead, Nikki shivered and turned away, pulling herself up into a fetal position. Her heart raced the way it had when she was a little girl afraid of the dark. The sun shone warmly through the window of the bedroom. She wondered if it was his bedroom, and closed her eyes against the light.
“Miss Wydra?” the old doctor said, and she fought the urge to block her ears.
Peter was an illusion of a good and decent man. A mirage. Reality was as deadly and unforgiving as the desert. Reality was, he was a dead man. A monster. A vampire, who preyed on human beings to survive long after nature and God had decided his time was up.
“It’s all right, George,” she heard him—it—say. “Nikki’s got a lot to deal with right now.”
Then he was gone. She didn’t turn to watch him go, but she knew he had gone just the same. For an instant, she regretted having been so cold to him, after he’d done nothing but enjoy her music—and then save her life. But he wasn’t even . . . human.
“Miss Wydra?” the doctor ventured.
A chilling thought struck her, made her breath catch in her throat. But she had to know.
“Are you—Are you like him?” she asked, still not turning to face him.
The doctor chuckled softly.
“No, dear,” he said. “There’s really nobody like Peter. But I do know what you mean. And no, I’m just an old man, a mortal man. I’m not a shadow.”
“A vampire, you mean,” she corrected, her voice heavy with indictment.
When she heard the old man’s heavy sigh, she did finally turn around. He looked worn, and tired, and far more decrepit than her initial impression had implied.
“I understand,” he said, and she stared at him quizzically.
“I’m sorry?”
“I understand,” he repeated. “How you feel. How you all feel. But I’ve known Peter Octavian since you were in grade school, young lady. He isn’t a vampire.”
She stared even harder at that.
“None of them are,” he added.
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” she asked, angry now.
“You’d be surprised,” he said, and finally a small smile returned to the old man’s face. “You can learn more later, if you’re so inclined, but what it comes down to is this: there is no such thing as a vampire. Not the way you think of them. But these people, these undead, shapeshifters, whatever you want to call them . . . they are the root of all the legends.
“And they’re at war with one another.
“It’s a civil war, you understand,” the old man went on. “Ever since Salzburg, when the United Nations and part of the Shadow Justice System fought together, and against one another, it’s been a war. The lunatic in the White House isn’t helping matters any, either.
“You see, the world is changing because, for far too many centuries, the shadows lived the myth. And when the myth was exposed, some of them didn’t want to change. Some of them—sadly, most of them—liked the old ways. Liked the power of terror and the taste of death. Hannibal leads them, now, and his ‘family’ is spreading across the globe. The cities where people fear the dark, his power has done this.
“But New Orleans is different, you understand. For this city is where Peter Octavian makes his home. Octavian’s coven is vastly different.
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