SIXTEEN

“You’re going to eat us?” I say.

“Drink, actually…”

“After we broke you out of jail?”

Neil shrugs. “It’s awkward, I know. But I’m not really who you think I am.”

Charlie brings his shotgun up. “An impending homicide victim?”

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie … first of all, technically I’m already dead, or at least not living. You can’t kill a corpse. Second of—”

And then he’s gone.

One of the things I’ve apparently forgotten is just how fast pires can move. Neil hasn’t. In fact, his assured tone of voice seems to indicate that he’s adapted rather quickly to his new circumstances.

“—all, I’m rather quick,” Neil continues. His voice is coming from somewhere in the pews, but I can’t see him, and the echoey acoustics make it hard to pinpoint the sound. “Third, I’m more than simply undead; I know a little about magic, too.”

I look around. The trap that killed Zhang was most likely a crossbow, and the direction it came from means it must be in the upstairs gallery. The cross is throwing orange light and flickering shadows across the pews, but the fire doesn’t seem to be spreading. “Terrance,” I whisper. “Get upstairs. We’re going to need all the weapons we can get.” I hope he doesn’t just bolt, but I’ll have to take the chance.

“I won’t have to worry about competition now, in either category,” Neil says. “In the instant before Jimmy died, I could tell he was once a reasonably competent shaman; whoever brought us here must have blocked that knowledge from his brain, of course. I can tell my memory’s been tampered with, too.” I think he’s moved since the last time he spoke, ducked down between the pews. “But the kind of sorcery I practice has always had very porous borders—harder to quantify than many kinds of magic. Oneironmancy tends to shift and flow, depending on the situation and the one dreaming it.…”

A shaman. Oh, this just keeps getting better and better—the word better in this context meaning “well and truly screwed.” But he hasn’t actually tried to kill me yet, so that’s something.…

“Uh, Neil?” I say, moving toward the windows on my right. “You seem fairly rational … this doesn’t have to be confrontational. We’re all stuck in the same situation and trying to figure a way out of it, right?”

Charlie sees what I have in mind and edges toward the other side of the church.

“Absolutely,” Neil says. “Tell you what: both of you go stand in the center aisle, away from the curtains covering the windows, and I’ll take that as an indication of good faith.”

I freeze. So does Charlie. After a second, I walk back toward the middle of the room and a little way down the aisle. Charlie shakes his head but joins me—I can always count on him to back my play.

“Excellent. I just needed a minute to finish the conversation I was having with the floorboards of this church.…”

I’m remembering how shamans do magic. They talk to the spirits that live in everything, from inanimate objects to rivers to weather systems, and convince them to act in a particular way. From the creaking and groaning all around the room, it seems Neil is very persuasive.

The wood of the floorboards underneath the windows sprout rapidly thickening stalks. They grow within seconds into tall, straight shafts, sending out branches to the sides that link to one another and turn the whole thing into a grid. Every curtained window is now trapped behind a thick-barred wooden mesh.

“A little insurance,” Neil says.

“Understandable,” I say. “And impressive.” For a pire to get wood to listen to him, he must be pretty damn powerful.

His chuckle echoes around the room. “Oh, it’s not as difficult as all that. Buildings dream, too, you know. Especially ones that have had ritual magic performed in them.”

Ritual magic. I remember what Stoker told me, that Father Stone and Maureen Selkirk spent a lot of time with Old Man Longinus. They were also the first three murder victims; I’ve assumed Stone and Selkirk were part of the cult ever since, and this seems to confirm it. But Longinus’s basement was clearly used for ritual purposes—why two locations?

Maybe because this one has a lot more room.

“So this is the headquarters of the cult, huh?” I say. “Yeah, I know about that. Funny, I could have sworn I heard actual hymns being sung here on Sunday mornings—well, that one Sunday morning I got up before noon to walk Galahad.”

“Oh, that was real.” I realize he’s standing behind the pulpit, the burning upside down cross behind him. “This place is fully consecrated. Before this cross was turned into a funeral pyre, it was mounted in the standard position. The heavy black curtains covering the windows, now … well, I can’t say for certain without interrogating them directly, but I believe they’re a fairly recent addition. Seems someone was anticipating some changes around here.”

Could that be it? Was Stone prepping his church for a new congregation, one that consisted of pires instead of cultists? Was that why Ahaseurus was murdered—because Stone was planning some sort of takeover? It almost makes sense.…

I wonder if Terrance has made it upstairs, or if he’s just taken off. I realize now the crossbow won’t do much good, not unless there’s a handy cache of arrows right next to it.

Neil vaults over the pulpit. He’s going for Charlie, who lets off a blast from the shotgun but misses; guns aren’t his strong suit. Neil clocks him with an uppercut that lifts Charlie off his feet, and he comes down in a boneless heap.

“Charlie!” I yell, and bolt toward him. He’s not far away, only the width of the aisle, but Neil manages to get between us before I reach him.

“Sorry,” he says, picks me up like a doll and tosses me down the aisle.

I slam into Terrance going backward. My skull hits his and the world explodes in an instant fireworks display of pain—then everything gets very dark before I have a chance to applaud. Good night, brain.…

*   *   *

I hate the disconnect that happens when you get knocked out. The first thing you say—the first thing everyone says—when you wake up is “How long was I out?” It’s as if everyone has the same secret fear, that they’ve slipped into a coma and missed the last fifty years.

Not me, though. First, there are things that scare me way more than that; and B, I hate being predictable. So—considering how often I seem to get my lights turned out—I decided a while back I wasn’t going to utter that particular phrase ever again.

“How long,” I mutter groggily, “is a football player.”

“Excuse me?” Neil says.

“Howie Long. Football player. Did a bunch of commercials for Radio Shack with Wonder Woman.”

“I think you mean Lois Lane, not Wonder Woman. The Terri Hatcher version, as opposed to Margot Kidder.”

I sit up, still woozy. Neil’s crouched beside me. The cross is no longer on fire; the light in the room is coming from candles. I’m still in the center aisle of the church. Charlie and Terrance both lie a few feet away, trussed up side by side with rope.

“Are they all right?” I ask.

“So far. Both unconscious, but breathing. I’m still working out what to do with them—and you.”

“You have anything you’re leaning toward, or are you just spitballing? ’Cause I’d love to jump in with a few ideas I think you’d find really exciting—”

He holds up a hand and I stop. “Well, on the face of it things seem quite straightforward. I drain one of you—I’m parched—turn the other two, then use this church as a base to take over the rest of the town. Exponential infection rates mean it’s all over in a night. But something’s stopping me. A spell—or, more accurately, a series of them.”

“They were cast by Old Man Longinus,” I say. “He’s dead now. They’re degrading.”

He nods. “Yes, I can feel that. But only some of them; the deeper ones are long-lasting. And the one that’s causing me to hesitate is definitely one of those. Unfortunately for you.”

I nod, then wish I hadn’t. Ouch. “Let me guess. You really don’t like me, do you?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “If only it were that simple. You see, at the very core of my being, there’s a motivating force. Regardless of what trappings might be layered over this force, it’s really what defines me. And that force is concerned with only one thing: making you very, very unhappy.”

“What a surprise. Know what I really hate? When the bad guys do something totally unexpected, like letting me and my friends go instead of throwing us into a deep—well, you get the idea.”

He studies me. I wish he’d take those damn sunglasses off. “I do indeed,” he says softly. And then he drags me to my feet by one arm and pulls me toward the back of the church.

“Hey!” I say. “Where are we going?”

“This is a very old church, Jace. I like old things. They’ve always got such interesting things hidden away in their depths.”

He takes me through a door and down a hall. “I have memories of this place from when I was a teenager. Of sneaking in through unlocked doors late at night to indulge in a cigarette, of creeping around exploring. I’d like to show you one of the things I found.”

And now I start to fight back in earnest. Kicking, flailing, biting. Neil ignores all of it, of course.

We come to a door that looks ancient, made of thick wooden planks held together with strips of hammered iron. He yanks it open, and I see a flight of stone steps leading downward. I redouble my efforts to get away, but he’s got a grip on my right wrist that’s unbreakable. He goes down the steps and I’m forced to go with him. The door slams shut behind us.

It’s very dark down there. The air smells musty and dank.

“Everyone has things they’re afraid of.” Neil’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Oneiromancers are very attuned to that. It’s because we deal with nightmares so often, of course.… “

He’s right. Dark, earthen cellars held a special terror for me, for many years. I used to have bad dreams about them all the time, and Neil can sense that.

“This must be especially terrible for you. Standing here in the pitch black, not knowing what’s around you.”

“I know where you are just fine—”

He releases my wrist. Hurray, except I’m still trapped underground in complete darkness, with a vampire sorcerer who’s been marinated in hatred for me. Nice going, Jace.

“I’m quite enjoying this,” Neil says. His voice is somewhere to my right. “Not that I have any choice, of course. But one takes pleasures where one can.…”

There’s an old trick I know. If you’re going into a place where there’s very little light, close your eyes as tightly as you can. Keep them that way. Your pupils will expand in response to the darkness behind your eyelids, so when you open your eyes they’ll already be adjusted for low light.

I’ve had my eyes squeezed shut since the top of the stairs.

Pires can see in the dark, so Neil can see me just fine. I’ve tried to keep my face turned away from the sound of his voice—the flailing helped cover that up—and now I open my eyes and turn toward him. I stretch my arms out like a blind woman, but in fact there’s a tiny bit of light in the cellar, coming through the crack beneath the door at the top of the stairs. It’s just enough to let me see Neil’s outline, and a few vague features of the room around me: stacks of boxes, some shelves, an ancient furnace turned off for the summer and not fired up yet for the fall.

And there, in the northwest corner, is a rounded, waist-high structure made of stone.

“You—you don’t have to do this,” I say. There’s a little tremble in my voice, which is mostly faked. Mostly.

“Yes, I really do,” he replies. “I understand your strategy: this is the part where you try to convince me that I’m the one in control, not the spell, that I can overcome my implanted urges. It’s what the heroine always does in situations like this, isn’t it? But you shouldn’t bother, Jace; it won’t work, and I’ll tell you why. First and foremost, I’m not the person you think you know. I’m a hybrid, a former human being who grew up on this world and had his own life and dreams, combined with the selected memories and persona of a vampire from another reality altogether. These two elements are being held together by the same spell that makes me want to hurt you; should I manage to undo or nullify that spell, I’ll come apart like a rag doll ripped in two. I’ll cease to exist. Now, I may be a fairly new entity—and not an entirely original one, I’ll grant you—but I do know that existing is very much something I would like to continue doing.

“And second—as I said earlier—I’m quite enjoying this…”

He backhands me casually. He’s not moving at superfast pire speed, so I’ve got plenty of time to get out of the way—but that would let him know I’m not as sightless as I seem. I take the hit instead, letting the impact send me staggering in the direction I want to go. I fall against the stone lip and scrabble around until I find a handle, then yank upward and whirl around. I’ve got a shield now, a wooden disk about three feet in diameter.

“Oh, well done,” Neil says. He’s constantly moving as he talks, circling, darting back and forth, trying to keep my sense of where he is confused. “You’ve armed yourself. What is that, a serving tray? My doom is sealed.”

He plucks it out of my hands like a parent taking a frisbee away from a toddler, and tosses it aside.

I back up. I stop when my butt hits the lip of the stone structure behind me. “Got it all figured out, huh? Funny, Father Stone thought the same thing, and look how he ended up.”

“Oh, I don’t think the Gallowsman will come after me. You can’t hang a pire, after all.”

“No, but there are other ways to deal with them. Stone knew that. That’s why he prepped this church. See, Stone belonged to the same cult a bunch of the people in this town do, a cult that’s supposedly all about using the Gallowsman to inflict despair and bad luck on others. But it turns out the cult was just a cover for Old Man Longinus to transform this town into the Let’s Torment Jace theme park—and when Stone found out that part of the plan was to fill the town with werewolves and vampires, he wasn’t happy about it. That led to him getting killed, but not before he’d made a few preparations of his own.”

Neil takes a step closer to me. “What sort of preparations are you talking about?”

“Here’s something you might appreciate. Isn’t it funny how people can compartmentalize their lives? As a profiler, I run into that all the time. Guy’s a devoted dad and proud member of the community five days a week, and a serial killer on the weekends. Father Stone belonged to an evil cult, sure … but every Sunday he still gave a sermon praising the Lord and all his saints. I’m talking about the Catholic kind, not the sports team.”

“Your point being?”

“What makes you think I have one? I’m just tired of hearing you monopolize the conversation. Blah, blah, blah … if you’re going to bite me, do it already. You were an irritating wannabe poser musician when you were following Terrance around, and now you’re an annoying supervillain wannabe with a pretentious accent. Also, I got over the whole I’m-scared-of-root-cellars thing a long time ago, so this lame attempt to terrorize me is more pathetic than anything else—”

And then his hand is around my throat, cutting off my air. That particular move seems to be genetically ingrained into every new vampire’s brain, and my windpipe’s still sore from last time. “Urk,” is about the only sound I can manage in response.

He leans in close. “I think I know what I’m going to do to you. I’m going to turn you, then chain you up down here forever. You won’t die, but there are all sorts of things I can think of doing to make your existence extremely unpleasant. Garlic stuffed down your throat. Wooden stakes driven through your limbs. Something clever and intricate involving tiny little mirrors and sunlight.”

“You … forgot … one,” I manage to choke out.

“Really? Do tell.”

Showing is always better than telling. I bring my legs up, clamp them around his waist, and throw my weight backward as hard as I can. We both topple over.

And into the well.

Ever seen what happens when you throw a chunk of raw sodium into water? It catches on fire. That’s apparently the same thing that occurs when you dunk a vampire into a well full of holy water.

Neil screams when we hit, and bubbles explode from every submerged inch of his body. He shoots up to the surface like a rocket, with me still wrapped around him. I can feel the heat through my clothes, but the water is having an insulating effect, leaching away some of the thermal energy at the same time it’s causing it. Supernatural chemistry 101.

I grab his tousled hair, take a deep breath, and yank both of us underwater again. It’s like holding on to a giant Alka-Seltzer tablet. He fizzes and flails, but he’s in too much agony to fight back coherently, and after a few seconds he stops. I surface, treading water, and see that the only thing left of him is some glowing, sudsy-looking bubbles.

I’ve done some rock climbing, and the shaft is narrow enough to wall-walk up. I put my feet flat against one side and my back against the other, and start the process of inching my way to the top.

I’ve been cursing my memory since this whole affair began, but I’m ready to forgive it now. I remembered the well from looking at the blueprints Gretch showed me, which were quite detailed about underground structures.

But it was the water font near the door that made me realize this was a Catholic church, and the covered windows that convinced me Father Stone was preparing a trap of his own for the impending invasion of pires. Lure them in, then hit them with sunlight; and if that doesn’t work, you’ve got a well full of holy water stashed in the basement.

I make it to the lip of the well and tumble over it to the basement floor. I lie there for a moment, gettting my breath back and thinking about what I’m going to do next.

Then I get to my feet and head back upstairs.

I know who the real monster is. Time to go prove it.