Private Demon

With them came Hightower's assistant, Father Carlo Cabreri, who smoothly performed the formal introductions. "Your Eminence, may I present Archbishop August Hightower. Bishop Hightower, Cardinal D'Orio, Lightkeeper of the Brethren."

August came forward and bent over D'Orio's proffered hand, pressing his lips with reverence to the older man's ring of office, a diamond cut into the shape of an hourglass. "Your Eminence, we are blessed by your presence."

"Such optimism. You've got crumbs on your mouth." D'Orio turned to the entourage, "Go count some candles." He glanced at Cabreri. "You too, Carlitto, and no listening over the intercom." As soon the bishop and the cardinal were alone, D'Orio sat down. "You're fatter than I thought you'd be. Have you tried the Atkins diet?" Before Hightower could answer, he gestured toward the nearest chair. "Sit, August. I have a lot to do on this trip, so we need to make the most of the next seven minutes."

Hightower didn't know whether to feel cheered or dismayed as he sat down. "You're an American."

"Born and raised in Brooklyn. My first parish was in Chinatown." D'Orio smiled, showing excellent dentures. "I'm older than you think, too. I was a priest when you were in diapers. Men in my family usually live past ninety with all their brains and most of their parts still working."

"I'm glad to hear it," Hightower said cautiously.

"I'm glad one of us is getting good news." D'Orio settled back in his chair and folded his hands over his sunken belly. "I'm told you met with Father John Keller yesterday. What I want to know is, why didn't you deliver him to us?"

"John Keller was my protégé," August said. "I've been bringing him along for nearly thirty years. When Cardinal Stoss decided to use him, I asked that he not be wasted. Stoss ignored my counsel, used him in an atrocious manner, and proceeded to throw him away."

D'Orio's laugh had a faint, metallic ring to it. "So you played catcher." He made a casual gesture. "You know how this works. Whatever the boy was to you, he's a threat to the Order now. Have him brought to the facility for processing."

"Please, Your Eminence." Hightower felt sweat bead on his face. "John Keller is the only connection we have left to his sister, Alexandra."

"The plastic surgeon."

"Precisely. You must know that she has gone over to the maledicti, and her talents will interfere greatly with our mission." Hightower chose his next words carefully. "Alexandra has also become the lover of Michael Cyprien, the one we believe will be Tremayne's successor. John Keller led Stoss and the Brethren directly to his sister and Cyprien in New Orleans. If Stoss hadn't planned the attack so poorly, we might have captured all of them alive."

"You would use your own protégé as bait." D'Orio's eyes glittered. "You've got very cold blood running through those veins, August."

"I am loyal only to the Order, Your Eminence, and for the Order I would do anything. You say that John no longer has any value to the Order." Hightower shrugged. "I disagree."

D'Orio nodded slowly, and turned his head when a gentle knock sounded on the door. "That is my two-minute warning. Where is Keller now?"

"I've arranged a counseling position for John at one of our recruitment shelters. He has no money, and no other sanctuary, so it is as good as a holding cell." The bishop tried not to let the relief he felt show in his voice. "Once he's settled in, he will want to make contact with his sister."

"He'll be monitored around the clock?"

August nodded. "Naturally."

"All right, August. I'll let you fish with a live worm." D'Orio stood as another knock sounded and the office door opened. "If Keller doesn't produce something in the next eight weeks, he's finished." He held out his hand.

It was less than Hightower had expected, but any reprieve was better than none. He had bought more time for himself and John. "Thank you, Your Eminence." He bent over and touched his lips to the diamond hourglass.

Father Carlo Cabreri returned to Hightower's office as soon as he had escorted the cardinal and his men to a limousine waiting outside. "His Eminence is not what we expected."

"His Eminence is a tenement boy from Brooklyn." Hightower rang the kitchen downstairs cook and ordered lunch be served an hour early. "That he came to see me personally is what concerns me now."

"You must be highly regarded in Rome," Cabreri said. "It is perhaps a show of appreciation for your many contributions to the mission."

"I am unknown in Rome," Hightower corrected him. "What's more, I have worked very hard to stay that way. This fiasco of Stoss's has ruined more than my plans for the Kellers."

"We have another, more immediate problem, Your Grace," Cabreri said. "Luisa Lopez has undergone eye surgery. A corneal transplant, and it seems it was successful."

"What?" Hightower glared. "Why was I not informed of this?"

"It was privately arranged by the mother. Our people in the hospital knew nothing about it until after the procedure had been performed." The bishop's assistant looked uneasy. "Jema Shaw has also become actively involved in Lopez's case."

"Jema?" Hightower went from furious to astounded. "What in God's name is she doing in the middle of this?"

"The museum job you obtained for Lopez," Cabreri reminded him. "While the girl was working there, apparently Shaw became friendly with her."

"Jema Shaw, friends with Luisa Lopez? Hardly."

"Jema Shaw has also been moonlighting as a forensic consultant for the coroner's office," Cabreri told him. "Last week she requested copies of all the Lopez case evidence reports. Our men in the department have managed to stall the paperwork, but he can't shuffle it forever."

"How many lambs must I sacrifice, Lord?" August muttered. "How many hopes must I burn?"

Jema was part of another of August Hightower's special projects, although she had never offered much promise. Jema Shaw had come to his attention after her famous father's death in Greece; August had hoped to make use of her once she had come of age. Her poor health kept her from being of any constructive use as a breeder for the Order, but her inheritance would have certainly enriched the Brethren's treasury—as well as his own.

"Our people could make an anonymous report and lead the police to the grave sites," his assistant suggested. "Once the bodies are recovered, they will be quickly identified and the case closed."

"Not if the police show Luisa mug shots," Hightower said flatly. "She won't identify them as the men who attacked her."

"She has always refused to give a description to a sketch artist," his assistant pointed out. "Perhaps she does not know."

She knew, August thought. "Luisa will never give the police a description, but she won't identify the wrong men, either." He paced for a few moments, turning over the possibilities in his mind.

"I've never understood why you permit Lopez to live," his assistant said, rather bitterly. "She has caused us nothing but trouble since they pulled her from that fire."

Luisa Lopez was August Hightower's personal insurance policy, but he would never tell Cabreri that. "You don't have to understand, Carlo. You merely have to assure that the girl is not touched."

"What about Jema Shaw?"

When God demanded a sacrifice, He wanted the best, not the most convenient. August sighed. "She is expendable. Arrange it."

"There was an inventive fellow who used a chainsaw the other night," Cabreri said, almost cheerful now. "He's dead, but his accomplice is still at large. We have a description of him."

Hightower shook his head. "Too dramatic. Make it something simpler, so that it will not attract undue attention. A traffic accident."

Chapter 7

Valentin Jaus waited by the seawall that bordered his compound, as he did every evening just after dusk. More often than not he stood watching the private, empty stretch of rock that hemmed Lake Michigan, and used the time to sort out his tasks for the night. Occasionally he would walk a few yards down the uneven shoreline, always looking at the charcoal-gray water, never at the houses beyond the seawall.

Pride kept Jaus from doing many things another, weaker man might not be able to resist.

The jardin bodyguards did not accompany their suzerain to the lakefront, but remained near the house within earshot. The jardin did not usually take such chances with their leader, but Jaus had insisted on spending this interval each day alone. He was not foolish, and he was never unarmed, but he needed the space and opportunity to think. More so now that there was a chance he need never be alone again.

If it is as she says, my lady can truly be mine.

Cyprien had told him of Alexandra's determination to prove the Darkyn were not under a curse. The surgeon believed their condition was some sort of genetic disorder, originally caused by, of all things, a viral blood infection. It seemed incredible—unthinkable—but if she proved correct, it could mean that the centuries of hopelessness were over.

Hope, after so many years of accepting that there would never be any, was a kiss to the soul and a dagger to the heart.

Alexandra Keller was also seeking answers as to why she herself had survived exposure to Cyprien's blood and had become Darkyn. If she discovered how, and more humans could be safely changed, the Kyn could grow stronger. They would have to. If the Brethren discovered that the vrykolakas could once more breed, then there would be nothing to prevent a full-scale war between the ancient enemies.

Jaus had a more selfish reason for wanting Alexandra to succeed. A safe method to change human into Darkyn would not only give him a future with the woman he loved; it would save her life. And there, now, as if summoned by his very thoughts, his lady appeared, moving through the half-light toward the water. Jaus tensed the moment he saw her, and yet he felt a deep relief. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">