Jonathan Maberry - Assassin's code

He cut a look at the reeve. “Did anyone clean her off?”

“No, your lordship,” answered Faville. “This is ’ow she was. Stripped bare and bled white. Frozen stiff, too.”

“What about the surroundings? How much blood was on the ground?”

The reeve shook his head and touched the cross around his neck. His eyes were shifty and frightened. “None to speak of, milord.”

The crowd murmured. Sir Guy noted that although they were horrified, no one looked surprised.

“Her clothes?” he asked.

“Torn to rags and scattered among the bushes.”

Sir Guy bent close and probed the wounds. As is so often the case, the legends had it wrong. Not a pair of clean punctures-that was a fantasy spun by bad poets and liars-but rather a ruin of flesh savaged by many sharp teeth.

It was exactly as Father Nicodemus had described it.

Sir Guy dropped the cloth and turned to the reeve, who was fidgeting and frightened.

“How many others have there been?”

Faville looked uncomfortable and Sir Guy knew that it was because he was the law in these parts and murders were occurring unchecked. “Six, milord.”

“Where was the body found?”

Faville nodded toward the forest. “Near where the others were found, milord. She was in the fields up near the priory.”

Sir Guy ordered the man to give him a precise set of directions. “And recall all of your scouts and officers. No one else is to go into those woods until Brother Reynard and I have run this fiend to ground.”

“But… but, milord, at least let me send ten pikemen with you,” stammered the reeve.

“What use are pikes against the devil?” said Sir Guy, which left the reeve nonplussed. “No, Brother Reynard and I are armed with special weapons blessed by the Holy Father himself. Stay here and see to this poor child.”

Five minutes later he and the monk were galloping out of town.

When they eventually slowed their horses as they approached the scene of the murder, Brother Reynard asked, “‘Special weapons’?”

Sir Guy grinned. “Peasants love a good story.” He narrowed his eyes and studied the shadows under the trees. “Besides, in truth it is a weapon that we seek.”

The monk’s frown deepened. “Father Nicodemus sent us to find a monster.”

The Frenchman shrugged. “For our purposes, it is the same thing.”

CIA Safe House #11

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 1:07 p.m.

“Vampires…”

I repeated the word, trying to see how it fit in my mouth. It didn’t. Not in this context.

“Wait,” cut in Rudy, “are we talking actual monsters here?” I could only hear his voice, but I could imagine the way he’d look right now. Face tight, eyes dark and unblinking, his hand touching the middle of his tie, right over the spot where he wore a crucifix under his clothes.

“Dr. Sanchez,” said Church, “I don’t have the kind of answer you and Captain Ledger would like. Vampires exist, yes.”

“Perhaps you misunderstand my question,” said Rudy. “I’m asking if these vampires are-”

“Yes, Doctor, thank you for explaining the obvious to me,” said Church coldly. “I do understand the question. Are we talking about supernatural monsters or something else? Frankly, I don’t know. My tendency, as you well know, is to look for the scientific explanation.”

“The rational answer,” offered Rudy, but Church cut him off.

“Rational? You are a devout Catholic, Doctor. Is faith in an invisible God and invisible saints rational? Is it supernatural?”

“It’s religion,” replied Rudy. “It’s faith. And it’s not trying to kill my friend.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Doctor? That is, I believe, a requirement of Catholics, as it is of most religions. Ghosts, spirits, demons, all manner of creatures that cannot be quantified.”

“ Yo! ” I shouted into the phone. “Can we save this for some time when I’m not standing in a house full of dead people?”

There was a brief silence, and Mr. Church said, “Quite right. To the point then. We have known for some time that the Red Knights either are, or pretend to be, some kind of vampire. We know that they are unusually strong and fast, which are qualities ascribed to most species of vampires in folklore. We know that they have unusual dentition, specifically they have sharp teeth and pronounced canines.”

“Yup,” I said. “I can testify to all of that. Fucker didn’t turn into a bat, though.”

“That’s not part of the vampire legend,” said Circe, joining the conversation after what I can only assume was a shocked silence. “There are a lot of legends of vampires transforming into different kinds of things. Mist and fog, swarms of flies, birds-mostly black ones-and even balls of light. But bats aren’t on the list. It was made up for fiction.”

I heard Rudy mutter. “I can’t believe we are having this conversation.”

“The knight I fought didn’t transform into anything but dead meat after Violin put a bullet in his head. Maybe I watched the wrong movies, but I thought stakes were how you killed a vampire. Bullets in the head are zombies, and we’ve pretty much done zombies. And, I might add-they were the products of science, not black magic.”

“The stakes are questionable,” said Circe. “In most legends the vampire hunters use sharpened poles rather than stakes, and they don’t kill the vampire. The stake was used to hold the vampire down, pinning it to the ground or to its coffin, so that the full Ritual of Exorcism could be performed.”

“Dear God,” said Rudy, “what’s that?”

“They cut the vampire’s head off, fill its mouth with garlic, turn it backward in the coffin, then drive iron nails into the arms and legs of the vampire and rebury it. Or cremate it.”

“I’m here to tell you, Circe,” I said, “a bullet in the brainpan does a spiffy job of dropping your modern-day vampire.”

“I have found that a bullet in the brain works on most things,” Church said dryly, and I couldn’t argue with that.

“So, are we talking about something nonsupernatural?” asked Rudy. “If he could be shot and killed, doesn’t that mean-?”

“It means we know how to kill it,” said Church. “It doesn’t mean that we understand its nature.”

“Surely it’s more likely that this is some kind of genetic aberration,” insisted Rudy, “or at most an evolutionary sideline. We know that there were many kinds of human species evolving at once.”

“It’s very possible,” agreed Church. “And it’s the working premise I’ve maintained for many years. If these Upierczi are vampires, then we will want to ascertain whether that is a subspecies or separate species.”

“Wait, roll back a sec. You said ‘many years’?” I asked. “How long have you known about these Red Knights?”

He paused. “For quite a long time. I first encountered them in Europe, but that’s a story that we don’t have time for now, and it may not be relevant.”

“Getting back to the whole ‘stakes’ thing,” I said. “These jokers tried to use them on me.” I described the general size and design. “Each one has the same thing written on it. It’s Latin, so bear with me.” I pulled the stake from my belt. “ Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio; contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium- ”

“Ah,” interrupted Circe, “it’s the prayer to Saint Michael created by Pope Leo XIII in the late nineteenth century. The whole translation is, ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the battle, be our safeguard and protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil: May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.’” She paused. “An interesting choice, considering the scope of this situation.”