Forsaken (13 page)

It was quiet. Too quiet.

With arms laden with woolen blanket, pillow, and bread from supper, Hannah returned to the spring house. “Mister?”

There was no answer. Where was he? Had he left? Or expired?

Her heart pounding, she tiptoed toward the back of the spring house, past the old well her grandfather had used, following the circle of light from her flashlight as it slid around the edge of the room and scattered shadows. There, along the back wall, the stranger slept. Hannah kept the flashlight aimed at the ground, but even so she saw the man's color had brightened and he looked better.

She made a pallet, stretching out the blanket and folding the top back. Whispering, soft and mysterious, teased her ears, and the hair at the back of her neck prickled. She glanced back at her guest. Was he awake? Watching her? But he had not moved. His face looked as if it were carved from stone. His chest appeared still. Too still. An icy chill of fear wafted through her. What if he wasn't asleep? What if he were actually dead?

She edged toward him. Slapping her hem out of her way, Hannah knelt and reached toward him, hesitant, and yet when he didn't move she grew bolder and touched the backs of her fingers to his forehead. Heat radiated off him. In that instant, his eyes opened.

Hannah gasped, the sound filling the inside of the spring house, and she pulled her fingers away.

“I am still here, Hannah.”

Her heart thumped crazily in her chest. She attempted a smile and folded her hand against her skirt. “I am glad.”

“No need to fear, Hannah, I won't die.”

Her brow furrowed, and she pressed her hand to his forehead again. “You have a fever. I could…”

The muscles along his jaw flexed with what she imagined was discomfort, and he shifted, breaking contact with her, but his gaze remained, burning into her, making her insides shift and squirm.

She cleared her throat, rubbed her hand against her apron. “I could, uh, arrange to call someone…a hospital…someone better equipped to help you.”

“No, I'm better.” He sat up, his motions quick and fluid, proving the truth of his words. He closed a hand over her wrist, his touch like a fiery poker. “I do not want to put you in danger or you to get in trouble over me.”

“I will not be in trouble for offering aid to someone in need. We believe in helping others.”

“And that God is in control of it all. His will, right?” His mocking tone caused her eyebrow to lift but she felt the internal poke of truth in the sensitive area of her own doubts.

She unrolled cotton bandages that she'd brought in her apron. “Are you an unbeliever then? Not simply an
Englisher
?”

He chuckled in a derisive way. “Oh, I believe God exists. It is He who has rejected me.”

“God forgives. All you have to do is ask.”

His expression softened. “Sweet Hannah. So innocent.”

She felt a jolt straight through her at the familiar use of her name. Her insides quavered at the way he said
Sweet Hannah
, the way it reminded her of the texture of Jacob's voice, Jacob's hand cupping her chin, Jacob's mouth covering her own.

But this stranger didn't seem to notice her distress. “Some things,” he said in a contemplative tone, “can't be forgiven. But, you wouldn't know about that, would you?”

Her spine stiffened, and she wasn't sure if her irritation stemmed from his words or her chaotic emotions. “I may be plain but that doesn't mean I don't know the different types of sin.”

He leaned closer, his breath bathing the skin along her neck and causing a tingle along her spine. “So you know all types of sin, do you?” A smile played about his lips, curling them, making something curl inside her. Was he toying with her or simply amused with what he considered to be her innocence? “Tell me, Hannah, of this sin you know so well.”

Heat rose inside her and seared her cheeks. Images flashed in her mind of stolen kisses, intimate touches, whispered promises, and forbidden thoughts. “I do not have to commit a sin to recognize it as such.”

And yet she had sinned. She knew that as well as her own name.

“And do you see the sin in me, sweet Hannah?”

Sweet Hannah
. That part of her heart that had been closed, locked up tight as the chicken coop, was suddenly pried open. It was as if she recognized Jacob in the voice of this stranger. But he wasn't Jacob. He was a stranger. His eyes were black and dark and not her beloved's. His use of that endearment scraped along her nerves. “Do not call me such.”

“You are though. Sweet as the honeysuckle. Tender as—”

“No!” The forcefulness of her own voice startled her. She blinked as if her eyelids were keeping the rhythm of her heart, and she pressed a hand over her chest to quiet the erratic beat, surging to her feet. “I'm sorry.” Shaking her head, she backed away. “Jacob.” His name snagged on her vocal chords and her voice sounded huskier than usual. “He called me that.”

This stranger's playful smile vanished and something akin to satisfaction lurked in those eyes, but maybe she was reading something that wasn't there. How could he see what she felt? And why would that please him? “Ah”—his tone dipped low—“you are not over Jacob yet, are you?”

Her peace of mind or what was left of it wrenched loose. To cover her fraying emotions, she reached for a blanket, unfolded it, and settled it over his legs. “I will come and check on you later.”

“You are young still, Hannah.” He swept a twig off the floor, rolled it between his long, lean fingers. “You are in the time of
rumschpringe
?”

His use of Pennsylvania Dutch unnerved her even more. “How did you know…? Jacob?” Then she shook her head. “I am ready to take my vows.”

“Are you now?” His gaze brushed over her, lingering here and there and causing a shift inside her. “A faith untested…” He bent the fragile twig until it snapped.

She bristled. “I know what the Bible teaches. It does not take sinning to test a faith.”

“Is that what you think
rumschpringe
is all about?”

Her gaze fled the intensity of his, and she clasped her hands together, her fingers reddened from diligent work. “What do you know of this? Of running around? Of our faith?”

Her ire surprised her, and she drew a steadying breath. She should probably apologize, but instead she lifted her chin a notch and met his gaze solidly with her own challenge.

“More than you can fathom. But you explain it to me, Hannah.” He gave a confident smirk. “What does it take then?”

“Plain living. Obedience. Discipline.” Inside her chest, she felt the prickle of heat, her own awareness that she had already failed the test.

“And has your faith been tested, Hannah?”

She nodded. Tears sprang to the surface and she squeezed them back.

“You can't force it, you know. You can't make yourself have faith.”

Opening her eyes again, she studied him, wondered about his life, where he had come from, what he had seen and done. He looked young, not older than twenty, and yet he seemed as old as a rock with a hard, crusty edge of bitterness or disappointment.

“Don't you think there comes a point in someone's life when it's just too late? They've gone too far?”

A trembling started down inside her. She wasn't sure if the fear that welled up was for her or for this stranger. Maybe it was for both of them. “No.”

He sighed and closed his eyes, rested his hands over the wound in his chest. “If it's okay with you, I may hold on to your belief. It sounds better than what I know to be true.”

“Maybe you do not know the truth.” For a long moment, she watched him, wondered what had made him that way. The life of an
Englisher
was so far removed from her own, she could not even imagine what it must be like to not grow up with a faith, which seemed like a leaf falling from a tree, nothing to anchor it, nothing to hold it in place, nobody to care where it fell, and then it was tossed and tumbled about midair by every wind, then finally trampled under foot. Even when she had her doubts and the wind blew and made her shiver and quake, she was still secured to the root of her faith. She must pray for this man. But then she realized—“I don't know your name.”

“It's not important.”

“It will help me to pray for you.”

“You would do such for me?” A smile tugged at his firm lips and a ripple passed through her abdomen.

“Of course.”

“You may call me Akiva.”

“Akiva.” She tested the name on her tongue. Somehow it suited him, different and exotic. “Is that foreign? Are you from some faraway place?”

He laughed. “You could say that.”

“It's an interesting name, Akiva.” She watched him as he closed his eyes again and seemed to drift to sleep. Hannah's brow crinkled with concern not only for his wound but also for his soul. “I will pray for you to believe.” She clasped her hands together for affirmation. “I'm not sure at all who you are. But I will pray. For you.”

She rushed out the door, closed it firmly behind her, and leaned against the wooden planks, giving her pulse time to calm. “And I will pray for me too.”

The nun was dressed in pink.

Fog curled around the edges of St. Joseph's and crept over the grounds, giving the Philadelphia neighborhood an otherworldly charm. The nun seemed to float out of the mist like an angel rising from a cloud, as she walked at a slow, reverent pace along the stone steps from one building to the next. The white head-covering hid most of her face in the gray dawn hour.

Mesmerized by the sleepy and sepia quality of the early morning scene, Roc leaned against the Mustang parked along the curb and watched her for a moment, remembering back to his childhood when nuns were his teachers, his tormentors, his conscience, their black and white habits a reflection of their staunch views. But what manifested pink? He supposed if nuns could wear pink then the existence of vampires might not be so outrageous.

Before “Mother Theresa's” pink shadow could disappear through the doorway, he called out, “Excuse me!”

The nun's footsteps halted, and she turned toward him, waiting patiently as he jogged across the grounds.

“Hello. Sorry.” He crammed his hands in his pockets in a feeble attempt to stay warm. “Didn't mean to startle you or anything.” The nun's youthful features looked calm and serene as if she'd just come from a spa treatment rather than prayers. “I'm looking for Father Roberto.”

“He is usually in the garden at this early hour.”

“The garden?”

She gave a slight nod and inclined her head to Roc's right. “Around the back.”

“Great. Thanks.” He took a step in that direction and then paused. “You're wearing pink, right?”

She gave a tolerant smile. “Yes.”

“Good. Thought I'd really lost it there. Thanks.” Then he headed off in the opposite direction of the pink nun and rounded what looked like the main building. If his parochial school nuns had worn pink instead of black, maybe they would have looked like this one instead of just old and cranky. His breath puffed out before him as he strode along the edge of the stone cathedral, the domes, arches, and spires above looking bleak in the weak light. This early in the morning, the streets were deserted and empty, save for an occasional garbage truck rumbling along, but those inside the spiritual sanctuary were already bustling about the day in their do-good mode.

Passing the small rectory and then the school building, which still looked asleep, Roc came to an inner courtyard where several benches were strategically placed around a drained fountain, creating quiet spots for meditation and contemplation. As with everything else in Philadelphia, the grass was dormant, but some of the plants in the beds managed to remain green, exhibiting an optimism Roc had long lost; he sided with the withering, shriveled plants—realists—and huddled inside his leather jacket.

Along one flowerbed, where pansies braved the chilly breeze, a stooped gentleman crouched down. He looked frail; even through the black cloth, his bones protruded at jutting angles. But his hearing must have been acute because at Roc's approach, the priest turned. Even though he wore a white cleric's collar, he also wore tan trousers and a blue pullover sweater beneath his black jacket. He had piercing blue eyes that went from sharp and pointed like bits of glass to a softening shade of curiosity.

“Father Roberto?”

“Yes.” He remained in a kneeling position and Roc noticed how his gnarled hand curled around a trowel's handle. Beside him, plastic bubbled over several plants, at the base of which were strips of cloth wrapped like scarves, but the priest didn't seem in need of any such wrap himself. He held out his other hand for Roc's assistance in standing.

Roc clasped the frail hand but felt strength in the older man's grip. Bracing his other hand beneath the priest's elbow, Roc lifted. Father Roberto was light and his feet were unsteady until he had fully straightened and met Roc's gaze straight on.

“Should I know you?”

“I don't think so. Father Anthony suggested I come talk to you.”

“Father—”

“Anthony Daly…from New Orleans.”

The priest's eyes widened only slightly. “You must come inside then. Quickly. Please.”

Leaving all the gardening tools but the trowel behind, the priest shuffled along the sidewalk toward the rectory. Roc wasn't sure if the priest had forgotten that he carried the small pointed tool or if he did so on purpose. The older man did not take Roc through the front door but instead showed him a side entrance where Father Roberto pulled a set of keys from his pocket, a slight tremor shaking his hands, and he unlocked the first lock, the bolt sliding and clicking. But still he did not open the door.

He turned his attention to Roc, and those blue eyes looked suddenly weary. “How long have you known Anthony?”

“We went to kindergarten together.”

“Ah, that is a long time. And why did he send you to me?”

“He said you knew how to help me.”

The beeping of a garbage truck disturbed the quiet but didn't dissuade the priest's inquiry. “And what kind of help are you seeking?”

Roc always believed in the direct approach, which usually saved time. With a heavy sigh and shoving aside a hefty amount of lingering disbelief, he forced himself to say, “Killing vampires.”

The crepe paper skin around the priest's eyes tightened and his eyes darkened. He flipped his collar inside out and retrieved another key from a hidden pocket. This one opened the last lock. Turning the knob, he pushed the door open and whispered, “Hurry.”

The inside was like a gaping hole with stone steps leading down into total blackness. Was this the stairway to hell? Would he end up with a trowel stabbed between his shoulder blades? Never keen on walking into a dark, unknown place, Roc hesitated and glanced first at the priest, then pulled his Glock.

The priest shook his head. “Darkness is not what you should fear. And that gun will do you no good. No good at all. Now hurry. I will close the door behind us.”

Disregarding the priest's advice, Roc kept his Glock poised as he took a cautious step down first one step then another and another. The door closed with a
thunk
and darkness swallowed him whole. The priest's breathing had a whistling quality and reverberated off the walls of the narrow stairwell as he clicked and bolted the locks. Roc kept blinking, trying to see an outline, a shape, something, but it was like he'd walked into a black hole, one he hoped held the answers he desperately needed. At the moment though, he might be lucky to escape this one.

“Hold on a minute.” The priest's hand fluttered about Roc's shoulder, then patted him as if confirming Roc was still there. “Just a minute now.”

Irritation tightened the muscles along Roc's neck. Who was this priest that Anthony had recommended?

“Okay. There.” The priest acted like walking into total darkness and discussing vampires was a regular occurrence.

A light snapped on and the beam shot through Roc's retina, blinding him again. He squinted and raised his arm to block the flashlight's high beam.

“Oh, sorry.” Father Roberto slanted the light toward the steps. “Now if you'll just head down that way.”

With the path somewhat illuminated, except for the momentary spots in Roc's vision, he made his way down the stone steps. The uneven surface made him worry for the Father's safety, but the older man kept a hand on the wall and didn't seem bothered by the steep incline. A musty odor crept toward them as they descended. At the bottom, the stairwell opened into a small, cave-like room made even smaller by the shelves of books and haphazard stacks piled high on the floor and on a tiny rectangular table. In the corner was a small cot with still more books taking up space.

Father Roberto pulled out a rickety chair from the table, causing a stack to tilt and slide. He righted the tower and turned the chair to face the cot, where he backed up and sat down, the springs of the cot protesting and another stack of papers tilting precariously. “Please have a seat.”

Roc eyed the chair dubiously but then took a leap of faith that the chair's loose hinges would hang together long enough to support his weight. Still, he kept his gun securely in his hand. “Let me say first off, Father, that I don't believe in that vampire crap. Sorry. I don't mean to offend. But I don't. And…and…” His gaze snagged on a stack of books and their titles:
Vampire Lore
,
The Power of Blood
, and
Dark Angels
. “Uh…well, I just thought you should know that.”

Father Roberto did not seem offended, but he merely blinked and clasped his hands in his lap. “Then why are you here? Just because Anthony sent you?”

“Yes…no. Okay, look.” Roc stood. He shoved a hand through his hair. “I saw something…a few things…that I can't explain. And even though I don't believe in…all of this”—he waved toward a shelves of books—“I don't really know what to think…or believe.”

“Maybe you should start at the beginning and tell me what you have seen. Or what you think you have seen?”

“So you think I'm crazy?” He blew out a breath. “Because I'm thinking that.”

“You are not crazy, Roc Girouard.”

Something inside Roc hardened like an icicle and he felt the point jabbing him in the gut. “How'd you know my name?”

“Anthony called me. I'm not accustomed to strangers approaching me about vampires and, considering my beliefs, well, you can imagine the precautions I must take for the safety of those here at the St. Joseph's.” The priest had a slight accent, a rolling of the syllables in a way that made Roc wonder if he was a foreigner or had lived overseas for a time. He set the trowel on the bed as if deciding all was safe, that Roc wouldn't harm him. Not that a tiny gardening tool would stop a bullet or assault. “Anthony knows all of this about me. He did not want you wounded in any way.”

“Wounded?” This old man thought he could hurt him? Roc almost laughed but caught himself.

The priest slapped his forearms. “This old body may look weak and frail but I know how to take care of myself. I have been fighting vampires for almost fifty years. And their strength is far superior to yours or mine.”

“Uh-huh.” This had been a bad idea.

“Have there been killings?” he asked matter-of-factly.

That snagged Roc's attention. “What do you know?”

The priest shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all. But wherever there are vampires, there is death. That is a certainty I have come to know.”

“Uh-huh.” The nerves along Roc's spine quivered. “Have you seen a body killed by…you know…one of those?”

“Many times.”

Roc laid his gun carefully along the top of his thigh. Was this guy a loon? Or could he be something more? Maybe even a suspect?

“Each vampire has their own method, their own way of killing. Some like to break the neck before they drain the body of blood. But others like the fight, the fresh kill, the thrashing of the body as they subdue it.”

“And…?”

“It is not as Hollywood would make you believe, is it? The movies make it seem so romantic, two little piercings in the neck, neat and precise, like a rattlesnake bite or some such. But in reality, it is violent. Animalistic. As if a wild animal were set on a human…an animal that had not eaten in a long while.”

Roc swallowed hard. What exactly did this mild-mannered priest know? Roc's gaze shifted and he looked around the confines of the small room, up at the watermarked ceiling. Way down here, beneath the rectory, no one would hear a young girl scream.

“In South America, so many bodies disappear without the authorities knowing. The bodies decompose in the jungle or vanish in rivers. And in many places where wild animals roam, only the animals are suspected of such crimes. This is how vampires remain in one place for so long.”

“And you've been to South America?”

“Oh, yes, many times. Europe is more difficult with so many cities, which may be why the vampire colonies have dispersed to other parts of the globe. But they can still be found…if one is willing to look hard enough.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. I understand. Sure.” Roc stood and turned away from the priest, his fingers curling around the butt of the gun and his trigger finger sliding into place, while he scanned the bookshelves, the walls, the table, searching for any evidence. “That's all very interesting. Very interesting. And where else have you traveled?”

“On mission trips to the Far East and Africa to…I tell you this: I can go someplace and almost instantly know if there is vampirism in the area. It is a special sense I have developed over the years. I can sense evil deep in my bones like one who senses a storm approaching.”

“Have you been to New Orleans?”

Father Roberto did not answer.

Roc glanced over his shoulder, a paranoid glance. Father Roberto remained on the cot, his hands folded neatly together. Roc then walked a few steps toward a bookshelf near the stone steps. “You said you knew Anthony…I just thought maybe….”

“I met Anthony in Florida.”

“So you haven't been to Louisiana?”

“New Orleans is a place of much activity, a stronghold, if you will.”

Still not exactly an answer. Roc lifted a book—
Dark Days
—then set it down again. Over his shoulder, he slanted his gaze toward Father Roberto. “So how many have you killed?”

“Pardon me?”

“The vampires…how many have you…?”

“Oh, of course, thirty-one to date.”

Roc's heart set a heady pace, and his breathing became shallow, erratic. He fingered the Glock's trigger, eased off the safety. On the shelf sat Bram Stoker's
Dracula,
which almost made him laugh. Had all those books of vampires and evil stirred something in this man, made him a predator. No matter; this was the closest he'd ever get to a confession, and it would have to do. “Not a great track record, considering you've been at this…what did you say? Fifty years? And you feel—”