The sun slipped below the horizon, and the lights of the city looked festive against the purple sky. Music wafted from the restaurants and cafés by the docks. It was getting colder, and the wind told her the storm would pick up again soon; this was just a momentary calm.
She was going to run out of gas soon, but she made one last round. The night before, she and Jack had made a promise to each other. Whatever happened today, they had agreed they would not wait for the other if they were separated. The journey must continue, regardless of who kept on the path. Whoever remained would carry on Lawrence’s legacy.
Okay, Jack, she thought. This is it. You’d better show up or I’m leaving.
She didn’t want to think of what it meant, leaving him. She was terrified of being alone, now that she knew what being with Jack was like. He would want her to continue, though. He would want her to leave him, to go ahead without him. She had already wasted enough time.
She would ask Ghedi to help her get to Florence, where Lawrence believed the Gate of Promise was located; she would hike through the mountains as they’d planned. There would be no trains, no little pensiones, no rental cars, nothing that would leave a trail. Jack would be able to meet up with her later . . . maybe. . . .
Schuyler tried not to think about it too much. She felt numb from the cold and from what she would have to do. The enormity of her task felt overwhelming. How could she go on alone without knowing what had happened to him, without knowing if he was dead or alive?
Finally she saw it—it looked like driftwood but something about it caught her eye. Anxiously, she came up on it and saw that it was indeed just a piece of driftwood. But clinging to the center of it was a white hand, while the rest of the body was submerged underwater. Schuyler pulled up next to it; she recognized those long, thin fingers, and her heart beat against her chest, the cold creeping through her entire body. Fear. Abject fear.
Jack can’t die. He can’t die, but he can be harmed. He was immortal, but if it was too late to revive his physical shell, she would have to keep his blood for the next cycle. By the time he was reborn she would be at the end of hers. Who knew if he would love her then? If he would even remember her? In any event, where would she even take his blood? They were fugitives from the vampire community.
She leaned down and grasped his hand, pulling it gently from the branch. The hand was practically frozen in place, but it returned her grasp and squeezed. He was alive. With all her strength she pulled Jack out of the water in one quick motion and positioned him behind her on the Jet Ski.
He fell against her, his body as cold as an iceberg, and she could feel the weight of his exhaustion against her back. He was barely able to keep his arms around her waist as she pushed off into the darkness.
If she had been just a minute later, who knows what would have become of him. . . . Who knew what would have happened. . . . Who knew what . . .
Stop your doubting, my love. I knew you would find me.
Schuyler maneuvered the Jet Ski between two fishing boats and harnessed her craft next to the one that smelled marginally better than the other. The boats were empty, as fishing season was over. The owners would not return until next year. She helped Jack onto the deck of the boat and into its small cabin, which held a ratty couch. How ironic that they had started their day planning to escape from a boat, only to end up in another one.
She helped Jack out of his wet clothes, stripping him of his shirt, pants, socks, and shoes, and covered him with one of the thin ragged bath towels she’d found in the hold. “Sorry. I know it’s not great, but it’s all we got.”
She rummaged around for supplies, finding a small kerosene lamp in the galley kitchen. She lit the lamp, wishing it would give out more light, or at least more heat. Inside, the boat was almost as cold as it was outside.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked.
He nodded, still unable to speak, either in words or in her mind.
She turned her back and peeled off her own wet things, feeling shy around him, and wrapped herself in a towel as well. The nautical shower was working, probably left with a few gallons of water from its last trip, and she was glad for the opportunity to wash after such a long day. She was also thankful the boat contained a few dry clothes for them to change into: sailor shirts, swim shorts. They would have to do.
After she showered and dressed, Schuyler then helped Jack walk down the few steps into the small bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. It would rain again soon. The wind howled, lashing against the portholes. Schuyler made sure the latch on the cabin door was secure.
When Jack limped out of the shower, Schuyler was glad to see that he looked a little better. The color had returned to his cheeks. He picked up a blanket from the couch and threw it over his shoulders. “Come here,” he whispered, opening his arms so that she could huddle against him, her back against his chest. She could feel his body begin to thaw, and she pulled his arms around her tightly, massaging his hands until they were warm again.
In a soft voice, Jack told her what had happened to him. He had stayed a beat longer on the boat to give Schuyler a head start, and had guided it straight at the Jet Skis. But the Venators had taken that as an opportunity to jump on board, and he had fought them off. One of them had gotten away—the woman who had come after Schuyler. The other one had been a fight to the death.
“What do you mean?” Schuyler asked.
“He had a black sword with him,” Jack said slowly, raising a hand to the fire and making the flame leap. “I had to use it. It was him or me.” He looked so anguished, Schuyler put a protective hand on his shoulder. Jack bowed his head. “Tabris. I knew him. He was a friend of mine. A long time ago.”
Jack had called the Venator by his angel name. Schuyler sucked in her breath. She felt guilty for everything—all this killing—it was all her fault. She had been the one who convinced Jack they should seek refuge with the Countess. She was the one who had brought them to Europe. This quest was her legacy, not his—her responsibility she’d latched on his shoulders. She was the one who had planned their escape—no one was supposed to be hurt. She hadn’t realized that the Countess would take it so far—the black sword—dear God. If Jack had not bested the Venator, then he would be the one whose immortal life was finished.
He drew her closer to him and whispered fiercely in her ear. “It had to be done. I gave him a choice. He chose death. Death will come to all, sooner or later.” Jack pressed his head against hers, and she could feel the veins throbbing below his skin.
Death will come to all? Jack of all people should know that wasn’t true. The Blue Bloods had survived for centuries. Schuyler wondered if he was thinking of Mimi—Azrael—just then. Death will come to all. Would it come to Jack? Would Mimi exercise her right to a burning and extinguish Jack’s spirit forever?
Schuyler wasn’t as concerned about her own mortality as she was for his. If he died, there would be no life for her. Please, God, no. Not yet. Give us this time still. This small sliver of time that we have together, let it last as long as it can.
FIVE
Breaking Bread
Schuyler had fallen asleep in Jack’s arms, but she woke up, blinking her eyes, when she heard a rustling noise. The fire in the lamp was still flickering, but the rain had stopped. The only sound was the lapping of waves against the hull. Jack placed a finger to his lips. Quiet. Someone’s here.
“Signorina?” A dark figure hovered by the doorway.
Before Schuyler could answer, Jack had sprung from his seat and held Ghedi by the throat.
“Jack! Wait, what are you doing? It’s Ghedi—he helped me! He was the one who got me out of the water, Jack! Let him go!”
Ghedi’s dark face had turned several shades of gray. He was holding a basket in his hands, which was now shaking slightly.
“Bossing . . .” he protested. “I bring food. Bread. Dinner.”
“You serve us well, human,” Jack said
coldly. “Maybe too well. Tell us, who do you truly serve?”
Schuyler felt indignation burn her cheeks. “Jack, please! You’re being ridiculous!”
“Only if he tells me who he really is and who he’s working for. A Somali pirate wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about two American kids, especially once he was paid. Why did you follow us? Are you a servant of the Countess?”
Ghedi shook his head, and looked them straight in the eye. “Have no fear, my friends, for I am a friend of the professor.”
Schuyler was surprised to hear the Somali speaking perfect English, and no longer with the African intonations he’d affected before.
“The professor?” Jack asked, relaxing his grip slightly.
“Professor Lawrence Van Alen, of course.”
“You knew my grandfather?” Schuyler asked. “Why didn’t you mention it earlier? At the market?”
Ghedi did not reply. Instead, he reached into the basket and brought out sacks of flour, salt, and a small jar of sardines. “First we must eat. I know you do not need it for sustenance, but please, for the sake of companionship, let us share a meal before we discuss.”
“Hold on,” Jack said. “You speak the names of our friends, yet how do we know you are truly a friend to us? Lawrence Van Alen had as many enemies as allies.”
“All you say is true. Yet there is nothing I can show or say that will prove I am who I say I am. You will have to decide for yourself whether I am telling the truth. I have no mark, no papers, nothing that may attest to my story. You have only my word. You must trust your own judgment.”
Jack looked at Schuyler. What do you think?
I don’t know. You’re right to be cautious. But I feel in my heart he is a friend. But that is all I have. A feeling.
Instincts are all we have in the end. Instincts and luck, Jack sent.
Jack said, “We will trust you tonight, Ghedi. You’re right, you must eat, as must she. Please . . .” He released his hold and motioned to the fire.
Ghedi whistled while he pounded out the injera dough into small circles in the small galley kitchen. He found a metal skillet and fired up one of the gas burners. With the other, he grilled a few sardines on an open flame. In a few minutes, the bread began to rise, puffing with small indentations. The fish began to smoke. When it was ready, Ghedi prepared three plates.
The bread was a bit sour and spongy, but Schuyler thought it was the best thing she had ever eaten. She didn’t even realize until she smelled the fresh, delicious aroma filling the room that she was hungry. Starving even. The fish was excellent, and along with a few fresh tomatoes Ghedi had unearthed, it made a satisfying meal. Jack had a piece or two, to be polite. But Schuyler and Ghedi ate as if it was their last meal.
So it wasn’t a coincidence, then, their meeting Ghedi at the market, Schuyler thought, appraising their new companion as she dipped a piece of bread into the small pool of ghee on her plate. When she thought about it a little more, she remembered that it was the pirate who had approached them. And now, on further recollection, it seemed that he was waiting for them. He had practically ambushed them when they had walked past his stall, asking if there was any way he could be of service. He had been quite persuasive, and somehow Schuyler had managed to communicate the specifics of their confinement, and they had finally agreed to trust him with getting them a motorboat.
But who was Ghedi after all? How did he know Lawrence?
“I know you have many questions,” the Somali said. “But it is late. And we must all rest. Tomorrow, I will return and tell you what I know.”
SIX
Motherless Boys
I was six years old when they took my mother,” Ghedi told them the following morning with their breakfasts—cups of espresso and fresh bread in a brown paper bag.
Schuyler raised her eyebrows while Jack looked grim. They sipped their coffee and listened. Outside, the seagulls were greeting the dawn with their mournful screeching. Fishing season was over, so there was no worry of the boat’s owner finding them, but they wanted to move on as early as possible.
“The raiders had never come so close to the coast before, but we had heard about them from neighboring villages. They always took the womenfolk—young girls, usually.” Ghedi shrugged his shoulders as if to apologize. “I was told my mother was getting water by the creek when they took her. She was very beautiful, my mother. When she came back, she was different.” Ghedi shook his head, a hard light in his eyes. “She was . . . changed. And her belly, swollen.”
“She had been raped, then?” Schuyler asked gently.
“Yes and no . . . She did not remember any violence. She did not remember anything, really. My father had died in the wars, a year before, and when the baby came, it took her life with his. Neither survived. I was the only one left. My uncle took me to the missionaries. They ran an orphanage in Berbera. It was full of lost boys like me—war orphans, motherless boys.
“One day Father Baldessarre came.”
“Baldessarre, did you say?” Schuyler asked, looking startled. “How did you know him? We are looking for him as well.” When she had left New York she’d taken Lawrence’s notes with her. The papers that she carried from his files named a Father Baldessarre in conjunction with the Gate of Promise, and finding the priest seemed a good place to start their own journey.
Ghedi explained. “Father Baldessarre was the head of the Petruvian mission. He was very kind, and he chose several boys to take back to Italy, to send to their school in Florence. I was one of them. At first I did not want to leave. I was scared. But I liked going to school. And I liked Father B. He taught us to speak English and sent most of the boys to new lives in America. I thought that was where I would end up as well. Somewhere in Kansas. Going to community college.” He smiled ruefully and rubbed his shaved head.
“One day after class, Father B. pulled me aside. I was eleven years old—old enough, he decided, to help them with their true mission. He told me he was entrusted with a powerful secret. The Petruvian Order was not an ordinary brotherhood; they were guardians of a sacred space.
“Two years ago, when I had formally joined the order and was ordained as a priest, Father B. received a letter from a Professor Lawrence Van Alen, requesting a visit. The professor seemed to know many things about our work, and Father B. believed the professor would be able to help with our mission. Certain things had begun to happen that could not be explained, dark omens that worried him. We prepared for this meeting, but the professor never arrived, and Father B. began to get agitated. He began to worry. He was ill, Father B.; he had been diagnosed with cancer the year before and he knew he didn’t have much time. And then last year, out of the blue, Christopher Anderson came to visit us.
“He told us the Professor was dead, but his legacy lived on in his granddaughter, and that she would help us with our task. He showed us your photograph, Schuyler. He told us to keep an eye out for you, to help you when you came into our region. We have been waiting for you since, especially when we heard you had left New York. Of course, we had no idea that you were in the custody of the Countess. That we did not count on.”
Ghedi wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Father B. could not wait any longer. The wrongness was growing, he said. He told me to come find you instead, and to bring you back to our monastery. I apologize for not identifying myself sooner, but I was wary of approaching you as a Petruvian until you were safely away from your imprisonment.”
“Where is Father B. now?” Schuyler asked.
At this, Ghedi’s face changed again. Now it looked weary. “I am sorry to tell you, Father has passed away.”
“When?” Schuyler looked stricken. So close, but always a dead end—literally—when they got there. Jack continued to look at Ghedi keenly, never taking his eyes away from their new friend’s face.
“Two weeks ago, on one of the missions to Africa, they were all taken—slaughtered by raiders. I escaped by joining the Somali Marines for a short while. Don’t worry—I
’m a priest, not a pirate. The minute I was able to get back to Europe I resumed my search for you.”
“You’ve found her,” Jack said sharply. “So what now?”
“You’re going to take us to the Gate of Promise, aren’t you, Ghedi?” Schuyler asked, throwing her cup in the trash, marveling that Lawrence’s instincts had been right as usual. “With Father Baldessarre gone . . .”
“I am the gatekeeper.” Ghedi nodded. “And I will take you to Florence. That is where you are headed, yes?”
SEVEN
The Trail
Schuyler estimated that at Velox speed, it would take them a little over a week to get to Florence, a hundred miles away. Since Ghedi could not keep up, he would accompany them only until Sarzana, then take the train to Florence to prepare for their arrival and meet them in town. Meanwhile, Jack decided they would stay off the main road, and use the mountain footpaths instead. It was safer that way; the hills were rocky and remote at this time of year. Less chance of bumping into one of the Countess’s spies or henchmen. Since it was illegal to camp in the mountains, they would have to be extra careful to avoid other hikers or park rangers.
Nothing more had been said about Ghedi’s surprising announcement, as the logistics of their trip took all of their attention. But even as she went through the motions of packing, Schuyler continued to mull about the turn of events, how quickly it had all come together. As much as they had been searching for him, the gatekeeper had been searching for them. It seemed almost too easy.
Most unsettling of all, however, was something neither she nor Jack had yet to address. Ghedi professed to be the gatekeeper. There was just one hitch. Ghedi was human. There was no way he could be who he said he was. It was impossible, as only a Blue Blood vampire, a fallen angel, could guard one of the Gates of Hell.