contemplated his next move.
On the desk, Dan found Meaghan’s number and picked up the phone as he dropped into his leather chair. Mulkerrin memorized the number immediately. Benedict was nervous and dialed too quickly, making a mistake. On the second try, it went through.
“Chaykin and O’Neil.”
“Meaghan Gallagher, please.”
“I’m sorry, Meaghan’s left for the day. As a matter of fact, we’re closing due to the storm. Is there someone else who could help you?”
“No, no. I’ll try her tomorrow.”
The lawyer hung up, then spun through his Rolodex, stopping at Janet Harris: 685-2033. Mulkerrin memorized this number as well, and out on the street, snow blanketing his hair, a sneering smile crossed the priest’s face.
Benedict wrote the number on a piece of scrap paper and put it into his right-hand pocket. He grabbed his briefcase and left. He had never removed his coat.
Mulkerrin let himself drift out of Benedict’s head and blinked as his vision came back into focus. A young man smoking a cigarette stood and stared at him as he opened his eyes. Obviously he had piqued the man’s curiosity.
A few moments later Benedict came out. He began to walk away from the building in the heavy snow. Mulkerrin watched him go, frustrated. Now he would have to dispose of this private eye, whoever he was, and this Gallagher woman. He had no idea what they knew, but there was no room for security risks in this situation.
As he watched the lawyer disappear into the blinding white, he smiled in spite of his annoyance as he thought about what was in store for Daniel Benedict later that evening.
4
IT WAS STILL EARLY MORNING, YET PETER Octavian sat up in his bed. He stared into the darkness, not seeing his apartment but something else. He was not truly awake, yet neither was he dreaming.
Through the darkness of his room, across the city and the ocean and halfway across another continent, his mind’s eye looked upon a small room in southern Germany. A room in which his friend and onetime mentor, Karl Von Reinman, slept peacefully. Across his chest lay a young female Peter had never seen before.
Octavian had first met the German on the night of his own death, well over five hundred years earlier. Truth be told, Karl was his murderer, though it had been the result of a contract between the two men. Afterward, Peter became part of Von Reinman’s coven, following him all over the world with the other eleven. It was Karl who named him Octavian, the eighth.
Gradually something began to change between them. Peter was learning and growing, and though born to the life of a warrior, he had grown tired of it. He abandoned the coven in Boston on the eve of the twentieth century and struck out on his own to learn as much as he could about their kind. He did learn, and changed. He tried to convince Karl that he and the others were destroying themselves, that they were both far less and far more human than They cared to believe . . . or were able to believe. But it was hard for his old friend to listen. Though his mind had forgiven Peter, his heart still fell that betrayal.
Now Peter sat completely still, staring blankly at the walls of his Boston apartment, entranced by this vision of an old friend. He and the German shared a psychic rapport, a consequence of Peter’s initial transformation. He could see exactly what Karl was doing at any time, if he cared to look. This time, however, he had not looked. This was being shown to him and he had no idea why. He was a helpless witness.
It wasn’t a question of waking up. One moment Karl was asleep and the next he was simply wide-awake. He had sensed, far too late, the presence outside the front door. An ax crunched thick wood, the door. Quietly, he tried to wake the girl, Una. She was replacing number one, who had been brutally killed less than six months ago. Rut the new Una, formerly Maria Hernandez,, had been transformed less than a week earlier. Now she was too blood
On the desk, Dan found Meaghan’s number and picked up the phone as he dropped into his leather chair. Mulkerrin memorized the number immediately. Benedict was nervous and dialed too quickly, making a mistake. On the second try, it went through.
“Chaykin and O’Neil.”
“Meaghan Gallagher, please.”
“I’m sorry, Meaghan’s left for the day. As a matter of fact, we’re closing due to the storm. Is there someone else who could help you?”
“No, no. I’ll try her tomorrow.”
The lawyer hung up, then spun through his Rolodex, stopping at Janet Harris: 685-2033. Mulkerrin memorized this number as well, and out on the street, snow blanketing his hair, a sneering smile crossed the priest’s face.
Benedict wrote the number on a piece of scrap paper and put it into his right-hand pocket. He grabbed his briefcase and left. He had never removed his coat.
Mulkerrin let himself drift out of Benedict’s head and blinked as his vision came back into focus. A young man smoking a cigarette stood and stared at him as he opened his eyes. Obviously he had piqued the man’s curiosity.
A few moments later Benedict came out. He began to walk away from the building in the heavy snow. Mulkerrin watched him go, frustrated. Now he would have to dispose of this private eye, whoever he was, and this Gallagher woman. He had no idea what they knew, but there was no room for security risks in this situation.
As he watched the lawyer disappear into the blinding white, he smiled in spite of his annoyance as he thought about what was in store for Daniel Benedict later that evening.
4
IT WAS STILL EARLY MORNING, YET PETER Octavian sat up in his bed. He stared into the darkness, not seeing his apartment but something else. He was not truly awake, yet neither was he dreaming.
Through the darkness of his room, across the city and the ocean and halfway across another continent, his mind’s eye looked upon a small room in southern Germany. A room in which his friend and onetime mentor, Karl Von Reinman, slept peacefully. Across his chest lay a young female Peter had never seen before.
Octavian had first met the German on the night of his own death, well over five hundred years earlier. Truth be told, Karl was his murderer, though it had been the result of a contract between the two men. Afterward, Peter became part of Von Reinman’s coven, following him all over the world with the other eleven. It was Karl who named him Octavian, the eighth.
Gradually something began to change between them. Peter was learning and growing, and though born to the life of a warrior, he had grown tired of it. He abandoned the coven in Boston on the eve of the twentieth century and struck out on his own to learn as much as he could about their kind. He did learn, and changed. He tried to convince Karl that he and the others were destroying themselves, that they were both far less and far more human than They cared to believe . . . or were able to believe. But it was hard for his old friend to listen. Though his mind had forgiven Peter, his heart still fell that betrayal.
Now Peter sat completely still, staring blankly at the walls of his Boston apartment, entranced by this vision of an old friend. He and the German shared a psychic rapport, a consequence of Peter’s initial transformation. He could see exactly what Karl was doing at any time, if he cared to look. This time, however, he had not looked. This was being shown to him and he had no idea why. He was a helpless witness.
It wasn’t a question of waking up. One moment Karl was asleep and the next he was simply wide-awake. He had sensed, far too late, the presence outside the front door. An ax crunched thick wood, the door. Quietly, he tried to wake the girl, Una. She was replacing number one, who had been brutally killed less than six months ago. Rut the new Una, formerly Maria Hernandez,, had been transformed less than a week earlier. Now she was too blood
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