miracle in itself.
Jamie pulled on his black duster and picked up his duffel, which clanked with weapons. He’d packed his two special guns—the one with silver bullets and the one he was building that would fire wooden ones. Talking was shite, and it was time to take action. With one foot past the threshold, he froze as Father Juan called to him.
“Jamie, one moment, por favor ,” he said, carrying his own small gym bag. Because Father Juan asked politely and—oh, hell —because he was Jamie’s priest, Jamie huffed loudly and shifted his weight on his hip.
“ Gracias , my son. Thank you.” Father Juan set the bag on the marble floor. “My friends, please listen.”
Jamie blew air out of his cheeks. Jenn’s ma and that African bint so fond of garlic—Sade—sank down on a redvelvet sofa like refugees, the ma’s eyes all bloodshot and Sade patting her hand, her own eyes vacant, like a doll’s. Holgar had been fixing the zipper on Jenn’s grandmother’s flak jacket, and he turned to give the two fathers his full attention. Such a nice little werewolf. Give him a pat on the head and get him some goat entrails.
“We’ve had a message from the Brotherhood of Saint Andrew,” Father Sebastian announced. His eyes and cheeks were sunken. Despite the fact that he’d made it clear he was on their side, he gave Jamie the shudders. “They’re Romanian. They’ve heard of you, Antonio, and they admire you deeply. With Father Juan’s permission, I told them something of your struggles, and they’ve offered their help.”
The vampire was all ears on that .
“They’ve helped many souls overcome the devil’s temptations,” Father Sebastian said. “They’re located deep in the family seat of the legendary Vlad Tepes—you would know him by his other name, Dracula. They know much about vampiric evil.”
“Dracula?” Jenn’s mother cried.
“Myth,” Jamie assured her impatiently. “Well, the real Dracula was a warrior and he impaled people, but he wasn’t a vampire.” He pointedly cleared his throat. “But is this the right time for that?”
“Jamie’s right,” Antonio said, shocking Jamie by agreeing with him. “We have more important things to do.”
Yeah. We should stake you and be done with it, Jamie thought.
“But . . . could they make him not a vampire?” Jenn asked in a soft voice. Her cheeks were blazing red as coals.
Oh, yeah, she still loves the sucker. American girls—who can understand them?
“No, unfortunately not,” Father Sebastian said gently. “As for Dracula being a myth, I wish that were true.”
“The lad’s real ? Get on with you,” Jamie said, incredulous. “But to get back to the point: We should be looking for Skye.”
Jamie was a son of the Church, a cradle Catholic, but his obedience only went so far. If Father Juan wanted to hit the road, well and good. But Jamie would be damned if he was going to do anything to help Antonio while Skye was unaccounted for. Jamie’s entire reason for going to the bloody academy to learn to fight vampires in the first place was to become the Hunter. He’d trained in hopes of receiving the elixir that bestowed heightened strength. He’d planned to then hightail it back to Northern Ireland to settle a few scores and take care of his own folk.
And if there was anyone among this sorry crew he called his own, with Eriko gone, it was Skye York. English, yeah, but for the love of Mike, why the hell wasn’t Holgar tearing the world apart to find her? Holgar was Skye’s fighting partner.
Because of Antonio, that was bleedin’ why. Sodding bastard. It was clear everyone thought he was more importantthan Skye. And more important than any of the rest of them. But he was a vampire , and he would always be a vampire—evil, disgusting, soulless. Damned in every sense of the word.
Antonio had fooled Father Juan with his seminary studies and his prayers, but Jamie knew that sooner or later the Curser would drop the act. And
Jamie pulled on his black duster and picked up his duffel, which clanked with weapons. He’d packed his two special guns—the one with silver bullets and the one he was building that would fire wooden ones. Talking was shite, and it was time to take action. With one foot past the threshold, he froze as Father Juan called to him.
“Jamie, one moment, por favor ,” he said, carrying his own small gym bag. Because Father Juan asked politely and—oh, hell —because he was Jamie’s priest, Jamie huffed loudly and shifted his weight on his hip.
“ Gracias , my son. Thank you.” Father Juan set the bag on the marble floor. “My friends, please listen.”
Jamie blew air out of his cheeks. Jenn’s ma and that African bint so fond of garlic—Sade—sank down on a redvelvet sofa like refugees, the ma’s eyes all bloodshot and Sade patting her hand, her own eyes vacant, like a doll’s. Holgar had been fixing the zipper on Jenn’s grandmother’s flak jacket, and he turned to give the two fathers his full attention. Such a nice little werewolf. Give him a pat on the head and get him some goat entrails.
“We’ve had a message from the Brotherhood of Saint Andrew,” Father Sebastian announced. His eyes and cheeks were sunken. Despite the fact that he’d made it clear he was on their side, he gave Jamie the shudders. “They’re Romanian. They’ve heard of you, Antonio, and they admire you deeply. With Father Juan’s permission, I told them something of your struggles, and they’ve offered their help.”
The vampire was all ears on that .
“They’ve helped many souls overcome the devil’s temptations,” Father Sebastian said. “They’re located deep in the family seat of the legendary Vlad Tepes—you would know him by his other name, Dracula. They know much about vampiric evil.”
“Dracula?” Jenn’s mother cried.
“Myth,” Jamie assured her impatiently. “Well, the real Dracula was a warrior and he impaled people, but he wasn’t a vampire.” He pointedly cleared his throat. “But is this the right time for that?”
“Jamie’s right,” Antonio said, shocking Jamie by agreeing with him. “We have more important things to do.”
Yeah. We should stake you and be done with it, Jamie thought.
“But . . . could they make him not a vampire?” Jenn asked in a soft voice. Her cheeks were blazing red as coals.
Oh, yeah, she still loves the sucker. American girls—who can understand them?
“No, unfortunately not,” Father Sebastian said gently. “As for Dracula being a myth, I wish that were true.”
“The lad’s real ? Get on with you,” Jamie said, incredulous. “But to get back to the point: We should be looking for Skye.”
Jamie was a son of the Church, a cradle Catholic, but his obedience only went so far. If Father Juan wanted to hit the road, well and good. But Jamie would be damned if he was going to do anything to help Antonio while Skye was unaccounted for. Jamie’s entire reason for going to the bloody academy to learn to fight vampires in the first place was to become the Hunter. He’d trained in hopes of receiving the elixir that bestowed heightened strength. He’d planned to then hightail it back to Northern Ireland to settle a few scores and take care of his own folk.
And if there was anyone among this sorry crew he called his own, with Eriko gone, it was Skye York. English, yeah, but for the love of Mike, why the hell wasn’t Holgar tearing the world apart to find her? Holgar was Skye’s fighting partner.
Because of Antonio, that was bleedin’ why. Sodding bastard. It was clear everyone thought he was more importantthan Skye. And more important than any of the rest of them. But he was a vampire , and he would always be a vampire—evil, disgusting, soulless. Damned in every sense of the word.
Antonio had fooled Father Juan with his seminary studies and his prayers, but Jamie knew that sooner or later the Curser would drop the act. And
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