F Wilson - Midnight Mass

She smiled. "I'm sure." She waved her hand. "Step back, gentlemen. Gregor and I have private matters to discuss."

They did, albeit reluctantly.

Gregor shook his head as he watched the ten form a rough circle around Olivia and him. Considering recent events, he should have taken comfort in the number. That didn't make them any less of an inconvenience. One or two get-guards at all times were a nuisance, but four—he felt strangled. And Olivia with six tonight. How did she manage?

"You've come about Angelica, I suppose," he said in a low voice.

She nodded. "You knew Franco would send someone."

Yes, he had. Somehow, some way, someone had killed Angelica last night. Gregor—over the objections of his get—had personally tracked down her remains before dawn and had them removed to a place where they could be burned. Secretly burned. It wouldn't do to let the cattle know that one of the undead elite had been brought down while on the wing.

But Angelica's death was no secret among the undead. Gregor had been expecting an emissary from New York tonight, but Olivia of all people. Raw ambition from a rival get-line. This would not do.

"It could have been an accident, you know."

"I doubt that," Olivia said. "Angelica was too experienced."

Angelica—Gregor had never liked her, and hated her now. The old bitch had to go out and hunt alone. Not that any of her get-guards could have accompanied her—none of them had wings. No reason for Angelica to hunt. With her status she could have had cattle brought to her every night.

Gregor pressed his point. "It's not as if Angelica was shot down with a crossbow or the like. She was pierced with a tree branch, one that was snapped off a tree not a dozen feet from where we found her. It was quite evident that she flew into the tree and—"

Olivia smiled, showing her fangs. "I certainly don't believe that, Gregor. And neither, I dare say, do you. The situation around here has been precarious for some time, what with some sort of vigilante group running around killing your serfs. How many dead now—four?"

Gregor stiffened. "Where do you get your information?

"That's not important. Franco is concerned that the situation is getting out of hand."

"Nothing of the sort." He was sure she was overstating Franco's concern. "Everything is under control. As for these so-called vigilantes—"

"Four serfs in four weeks, Gregor. Not just killed—their throats are slit and then they're strung up for all to see. Bad enough. But now these vigilantes have taken down Angelica."

"We don't know if it was the same group."

"That's the trouble. You don't know a thing about the perpetrators, do you."

Too true. Whatever group was killing the serfs—an older term; Gregor had become used to calling them cowboys—wasn't announcing itself. No fliers, no graffiti, no name, no identity. Just a corpse twisting in the wind. They did their dirty work and then faded away.

"Some of the killings could be by copycats," Gregor offered.

"Even worse! Our hold is fragile, Gregor. We need our serfs. We can't have the night if they don't hold the day for us. The carrot-and-the-stick approach is usually sufficient, but they're as loyal as cockroaches, and if someone else comes along with a bigger stick, our carrot may not be enough."

"Scum," Gregor growled.

"Of course they are. Who but scum would sell out their own kind? But they're our scum. And we need them. Without them guarding our daysleep, we're vulnerable. If we can't protect them, they won't protect us."

"I hardly need a lecture on this, Olivia."

"Maybe you do." She pointed a long-nailed finger at him. "Because if you don't straighten this out, I'll have to do it for you."

Gregor glared at her. He knew what that meant: he'd be sent back to New York where Franco would demote him to some sort of low-level functionary.

He was a veteran of the battle of the Vatican, damn it. No one could humiliate him like that.

His thoughts drifted back. What a week that had been. Vatican City was immune to the ferals because of the plethora of crosses—crosses everywhere, on the walls, the ceilings, even the floors. The priests and the Swiss Guard had fought valiantly against the serfs. It was not until turned military commanders and soldiers began shelling the buildings with tanks and artillery that they made any progress. Vatican City eventually was reduced to rubble. That was the good news. The bad news was that the Pope had died in the shelling. It would have been such a coup to turn him and make him an icon for the Catholic undead.

Gregor missed those good old days of head-on assault: Prague, Berlin, Rome, Paris, London. They'd all fallen in days. But that approach had run into unforeseen problems. Franco was trying a new tack. Gregor agreed that it made more sense, but it lacked the heady rush of the blitzkrieg. And it allowed upstarts like Olivia to rise.

If Olivia had her way and Gregor was called back to New York, she would remove all his get—which now included the mayor, the councilwoman, the priest, and the reverend among others—and install her own in their place. Olivia's domain would expand while his would contract to near zero.

Gregor would not allow that. These vigilantes would be found and run to ground if he had to do it himself.

ZEV . . .

After a few hours their talk died of fatigue. Father Joe gave Zev the flashlight to hold, then stretched out across a couple of crates to sleep. Zev tried to get comfortable enough to doze but found sleep impossible. So he listened to his friend snore in the dusty darkness of the cellar.

Poor Joe. Such anger in the man. But more than that—hurt. He felt betrayed, wronged. And with good reason. But with everything falling apart as it was, the wrong done to him would never be righted. He should forget about it already and go on with his life, but apparently he couldn't. Such a shame. He needed something to pull him out of his funk. Zev had thought news of what had happened to his old parish might rouse him, but it seemed only to make him want to drink more. Father Joseph Cahill, he feared, was a hopeless case.

Zev closed his eyes and tried to rest. He found it hard to get comfortable with the cross dangling in front of him so he took it off but laid it within easy reach. He was drifting toward a doze when he heard a noise outside. By the dumpster. Metal on metal.

My bicycle!

He slipped to the floor and tiptoed over to where Joe slept. He shook his shoulder and whispered.

"Someone's found my bike!"

The priest snorted but remained sleeping. A louder clatter outside made Zev turn, and as he moved his elbow struck a bottle. He grabbed for it in the darkness but missed. The sound of smashing glass echoed through the basement like a cannon shot. As the odor of Scotch whiskey replaced the musty ambiance, Zev listened for further sounds from outside. None came.

Maybe it had been an animal. He remembered how raccoons used to raid his garbage at home... when he'd had a home ... when he'd had garbage ...

Zev stepped to the window and looked out. Probably an animal.

A pale, snarling demonic face, baring its fangs and hissing, suddenly filled the window. Zev fell back as the thing rammed its hand through the glass, reaching for his throat, its curved fingers clawing at him, missing. It pushed up the window, then launched itself the rest of the way through, hurtling toward Zev.

He tried to dodge but was too slow. The impact knocked the flashlight from his grasp and it rolled across the floor. Zev cried out as he went down under the snarling thing. Its ferocity was overpowering, irresistible. It straddled him and lashed at him, batting his fending arms aside, its clawed fingers tearing at his collar to free his throat, stretching his neck to expose the vulnerable flesh, its foul breath gagging him as it bent its fangs toward him. Zev screamed out his helplessness.