Eric Lustbader - The Testament

But Rule had pulled the gun given him by Father Damaskinos, and now as Bravo looked on he shot Paolo Zorzi three times in the chest. Zorzi's eyes opened wide, his body recoiled violently backward. Still, his eyes were on Bravo and he continued to talk, but his mouth was full of blood, there was blood everywhere and there were no more words left to say.

Rule, a gleam of triumph in his eyes, was just turning away from his last look at Zorzi's corpse when another shot sounded. Rule spun around. A sudden spray of blood as he was shot a second time, and he flew into Bravo's arms as if he were Icarus, who dared too much and was now fallen from the sky.

Behind Rule came the Guardian Bravo had seen before out of the corner of his eye. The figure was smaller than the others, and when the hood of the robe was pulled back, Bravo saw Jenny's face. Jenny with a gun in her hand, Jenny who had shot Uncle Tony.

Bravo could feel Rule against him, shuddering, struggling to breathe, which was odd because he felt so warm, warm and wet, never more alive than he was now in his convulsions.

"Bravo, listen to me," Jenny began.

The sweet-copper odor of fresh blood clogged Bravo's nostrils. Uncle Tony was in his arms, gasping, coughing blood, dying, and a red haze obscured thought and reason. He lifted the SIG Sauer.

"I don't want to hear your lies."

"I'm asking you to listen to the truth-"

"The truth is you shot Uncle Tony dead. Were you also responsible for planting the bomb that killed my father?"

"Oh, Bravo, you know better than that."

"Do I? I feel as if I don't know anything-about you, the Order, the Voire Dei."

"I took one down." She pointed to a fallen Guardian. "I took one down to protect you."

Bravo aimed the SIG Sauer at her. "I don't believe you."

"God, how can I convince you?"

"Liar. Don't even try."

She bit her lip because she was a liar. She had lied to him from the moment he'd come to her door and she'd never stopped, and now the truth had become so incendiary that she knew she had lost her chance with him.

Feeling her failure like a millstone, she dropped her weapon. "You won't shoot me like this, I know this much about you." She held out a hand. "Let me at least help you put him down."

"Don't come any closer!" he shouted. "If you move I will shoot you." It was as if the words were being forced out of him like drops of blood. His face was white and stricken.

"All right, Bravo. All right. But you must know that I didn't kill Father Mosto. I was framed."

"With your own knife?"

Jenny squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. How else? she wanted to say, but the explanation, the situation seemed at this moment too much for her. And, in fact, she lacked any evidence, not to mention the crucial answer of who had murdered the priest. Her hesitation was a mistake.

"Back away!"

The harsh tone of his voice made her jump. Her eyes flew open. There was so much to say, but the look of hatred on his face strangled her, turned the words in her mouth to stones.

"I should kill you dead for what you've done."

"He was the traitor, Bravo. I know you don't want to hear this, but Rule was-"

"Shut up!" If he hadn't still been cradling Uncle Tony he felt sure he would have struck her with as much force as he could muster. He wanted to see her on her knees, swaying, dizzy with the blow he had delivered, the weight of his enmity. He wanted to see her pay for her unspeakable treachery, but it was not in him to kill her in this way.

Slowly, keeping his eyes on her, he lay Rule onto the cold stone. The anguish he felt at leaving Uncle Tony here almost finished him, but no matter what horror had occurred he was determined to remain strong. He did this for his father and because in the core of him he still could distinguish good from evil, even in the hell of the Voire Dei.

"I'm leaving now," he said in a cold, detached monotone, the only voice he dared summon up. "If you try to follow me, if I see you again, I'll kill you. Do you understand?"

"Bravo-"

"Do you understand?"

The fury of his voice went clear through her, robbing her of coherent thought. "Yes." She'd say anything not to hear that tone of voice again.

By some superhuman force of will she held her tears in check until Bravo, backing warily away, melted into the shadows that seemed to reach out long tendrils to embrace him. Then her vision blurred and, swept up by an almost unbearable loneliness, she sank to her knees, feeling like a blind woman for the last mortal remains of Paolo Zorzi.

In the soul-wrenching desolation of the aftermath, Father Damaskinos emerged from the shelter of the women's stalls. Leaning over the balcony railing he saw the human carnage and fell to his knees, his head bowed in prayer for the dead and the dying. He had no thought for the police or the laws of the world outside; the air in his church-the house of God under his stewardship-was black with the soot of mortal sins. The need for spiritual cleansing and forgiveness was the only thing on his mind as he sank deeper in prayer, first seeking forgiveness for himself, for his own role in the madness below him.

But in the midst of his holy work, his head jerked up, his eyes flew open, and slowly he rose and his gaze fell on a slim figure advancing across the floor like a fawn crossing a forest glade. His heart gave a painful lurch against his ribs, so that his left hand clawed at his chest.

It was the devil, the devil was in his church. All plans of forgiveness fled like a flock of startled birds before an onrushing storm. His house didn't need forgiveness, it required an exorcism. With this terrifying revelation, Father Damaskinos turned and fled.

Jenny was numb with shock. But gradually she became aware that a shadow had fallen across her. Someone was approaching. She lifted her head and, turning, tensed herself for the inevitable Guardian attack. But, instead, she recognized Camille Muhlmann. She breathed a sigh of relief, the floodgates opened and she began to weep. Camille knelt beside her, enfolding Jenny in her arms, rocking her back and forth.

For Jenny, her abandonment was overrun by the blinding pain of the past, which had begun with her meeting Ronnie Kavanaugh. It had been in London, fittingly enough, in a casino belowground, where high rollers, Kavanaugh among them, spent the night with bejeweled toys on their arms. He had been on assignment, had been playing roulette and chemin de fer for hours. She had been on leave, after chipping a bone in her arm running down a Knight in a speedboat on the Thames.

When Kavanaugh had approached her, Jenny was startled, and she was understandably flattered when he'd told her he'd noticed her the moment she'd walked in. He'd asked whether she was a gambler, and when she'd said she didn't understand the impulse behind it he'd laughed. His eyes glowed with a kind of feral light she felt rather than saw. He wore a thick-striped shirt and a midnight-blue tuxedo of handsome cut. Gleaming shoes, almost like slippers, clasped his feet. He smelled pleasantly of sandalwood and sweat. A faint halo of cigar smoke hovered above his curly-haired head.

Their affair had started that night, she supposed, though she hadn't allowed him to take her to bed, as he'd desired. She wanted him-his elegance, sophistication, charm, not to mention his fiercely handsome face with its enticing hint of cruelty, all drew her like a moth to a flame. But she was also a little afraid of him, afraid that she couldn't handle him, that his energy would simply absorb her and that lying next to him she would cease to exist. Despite these fears-possibly because of them-within a day of their first meeting she had succumbed to him.