Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Just as she carried Ivo's essence with her wherever she went. Her isolation was what made him so vital to her existence. Nothing else mattered but Ivo-and, of course, their prey. She and Ivo had sacrificed for one another, tended one another when they were ill. They had killed together, and when they came together it was with the incandescence of the sun.

The way ahead of her sloped downward toward a veil of weeping willows beyond which was the lake. There were three sets of footprints, prey followed by hunter. She followed them down the slope until she saw something that gave her pause.

Squatting, she ran her hand over the muddy surface where, she was certain, there had been a struggle. Immediately, her head snapped up and with narrowed eyes looked all around her. Then, her body tense, her gun cocked and ready, she rose, following the rolling trail down to the edge of the lake.

There she stood, the water lapping at her boots, while she stared out at the placid vista. A pair of ducks quartering in from the southwest landed with a small flurry, began to paddle across the water toward a group of nesting mallards. There came across the lake a brief quacking, and then all was still. The last of the afternoon light was reflected in the water, giving it a ruddy hue.

Suddenly, her attention was directed toward a disturbance just where the water was reddest, a stirring as of fish nearing the surface, preparing to feast on water spiders and gnats. A moment later, a curved shape broke the surface, wheat-colored and slick-looking. Then it rolled; a Roman nose appeared, then lips and cheeks.

Donatella stood absolutely still, but it seemed to her that the thunder of her heart must shatter her into pieces. No, she told herself, it couldn't be. But then the face turned its blank eyes toward her and she ran, unmindful, into the water. The muck of the bottom pulled at her, slowed her down, making her powerful thighs work all the harder. At length, she reached him, cradled his battered head in her hands. When she kissed his cold and rubbery lips an ice pick pierced her heart.

She opened her mouth and threw back her head. Air filled her lungs and his name was ripped out of her.

"Ivo!"

A void yawned inside her that could only be filled by blood vengeance.

Bravo and Jenny, on their way toward the cemetery's maintenance building, heard the animal howl, and their blood turned cold. They looked at one another but could not bring themselves to utter Donatella's name.

Hurrying along, they arrived without incident at the low brooding building. While Bravo stayed out of sight, Jenny went to reconnoiter. Bravo leaned against a huge chestnut tree and, despite the heat, shivered. Now that the shock was wearing off, the pain rushed through him like a tide, pulsing stronger with each beat of his heart. It was difficult to get Rossi's rage-filled face out of his head. He had never before encountered someone with the will and desire to kill another human being. A chilling memory he would take with him to the grave.

At the sudden throaty roar of a large engine his head snapped up. He saw a hearse moving slowly toward him, and he shrank back. Then the driver's side window rolled down-it was Jenny who was behind the wheel. The hearse slowed, and he loped out from behind the chestnut tree, opened the heavy door and slid in beside her on the bench seat. The moment he slammed the door, she took off in a spray of gravel.

She maneuvered the unwieldy vehicle out of the cemetery precincts. He did not ask her how she had managed to steal the hearse; he didn't want to know and, oddly, didn't much care. She had once again found them a means of escape, that was all that mattered.

"You said that Rossi was dead. What happened after he shot me?"

"I ran," he said. "I ran and like an idiot I fell. He came after me and I tripped him. We went into the lake. He was going to kill me, I could see it in his eyes, I could feel it with every blow."

Jenny let air out of her pursed lips. "Rossi's a trained killer. And yet you survived…"

"Maybe I was lucky, I don't know. I killed him, that's the bottom line."

"You did what you had to do. Your father trained you well."

He was sickened by the look of admiration she gave him, so he turned away, gazed out the smoked window. What was he doing here? He had been pursued, beaten up-he had killed a man. For what? This was his father's battle, but was it his? He realized that he could walk out of here now, buy some new clothes and fly back to Paris, resume his job as if nothing had happened. Everything appeared dark, behind a veil, part of another country through which he seemed to be shooting like a meteor. He wondered whether this feeling of separation was something his father had ever experienced. That was when he understood that something had happened, not only to his father but to him, as well. Strange as it might seem, he was no longer the person who had met his father in the Village for coffee.

"I told you this was urgent."

"I heard you, Dad."

But he hadn't heard his father, not really. And now, even from the grave, his father was again talking to him.

"The first time is always the hardest," Jenny said, misinterpreting his deep silence.

He stiffened. "I don't intend for it to happen again."

"An admirable sentiment, but did Rossi give you a choice?"

"Those were extraordinary circumstances. I don't foresee-"

"No one in his right mind foresees the taking of a life." Her eyes were focused on the road ahead. "But consider this. In the outside world there would be no reason to even have this conversation. You're no longer in society-the world everyone else inhabits, Bravo. You're in the Voire Dei, for good or ill, and believe me the sooner you come to terms with that, the better your chance of surviving will be."

He stared blankly out at the ribbon of landscape whizzing by. He did not want to think about that now-he simply couldn't process it yet, despite Jenny's warning. Instead, as was his habit when he was upset, he set his mind a specific task-that is, to understand why Rossi's gun had been loaded with rubber bullets. And almost immediately a memory popped into his head: Rossi pushing down the gunman's arm as they sped away from Jenny's house. He had not wanted them shot then, and he hadn't wanted to kill Jenny, either. And yet there was no mistaking the set grimace on his face as he'd grappled with Bravo in the lake-had Bravo pushed him over the brink?

He licked his lips, said to Jenny, "I don't think Rossi and Donatella had orders to kill us."

This comment caught Jenny's attention. "What makes you say that?"

"The rubber bullets for one," he said. Then he told her what he had seen as they had sped away from her house.

"Of course!" Jenny said. "They think you know everything your father knew. They want to capture you and get the information out of you."

"But I don't have any information."

"You know that and so do I," she said, "but it's clear they don't."

"Then we have to find a way to tell them."

Jenny laughed harshly and shook her head. "You heard Donatella back there. Do you really think she'd believe you?"

"But it's the truth!"

Jenny glanced over at him, her eyes hard. "In the Voire Dei, there is no truth, Bravo. There's only perception. Donatella and those who control her will believe what they want to believe, what best fits their perception of reality."

Was there another way out for him? he wondered. Or was he fated to continue on with this nightmare?

You're no longer in the world everyone else inhabits.

With the words echoing in his head, he rolled down the window and stared out at the passing landscape. Over the white noise of their passage, he said, "How do you bear such a terrible burden?"

She knew precisely what he meant. "Some like it, you know. The Voire Dei is the only place they feel safe. Others revel in it. In fact, they know of no other way to live. For them, society is pale, indistinct, of minimal interest. They feel privileged to be part of the Voire Dei."