I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2) (32 page)

“Who…” Mark stared down into the trunk.
“
What
is that?”

“It’s a vampire.”

“I see it…” Mark continued to stare, the
vampire looking back at him. “But I can’t believe it.”

“The Christ said to Thomas, ‘Do you believe
because you see me?’” Easy was looking up, right into Mark’s eyes,
he could see how fixated Mark was on the creature, knew what it was
trying to do to the priest. “‘How happy are those who believe
without seeing me!’” Easy shut the trunk and Mark continued to
stare. “Mark.” The Asian held up his hand, snapping his fingers.
“Father Mark.” Mark blinked, looking around. “Bet you’re happy not
to have to look at that anymore.”

“What—” The comment was lost on Mark. “What
just happened to me?”

“It tried to get inside your head.”

Mark’s palm went to the side of his skull.
“How?”

“You’re familiar with the myth about
vampires, how they’re able to hypnotize humans with their
gaze?”

“I watched all the Hammer films when I was a
kid…” Mark rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re showing me this
in…” He averted his eyes from the car, even now feeling the draw of
the thing trapped in there, forcing his mind from it, gazing at his
surroundings, “…in the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts.”

“Father. Let me ask you a very simple
question.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Do you believe that Jesus Christ is your
lord and savior and that through Him and through Him alone you will
have eternal life?”

“
What
? Yeah.”

“And you find this monstrosity,” Easy rapped
on the top of the trunk with his knuckles, “hard to believe.”

“Why are you showing
me
this? Where’d
you…”

“We took it last night. Outside the woman’s
house.”

Things started to click into place in Mark’s
head. “Outside the—who’s house?”

“Come on, father. We’re brothers in the blood
of Christ. Please, none of this subterfuge between us.”

“I just don’t know—”

“
Yes
, yes father you
do
. You’ve
been parked outside your friend Boone’s sister’s house, keeping an
eye on it. You’re a true friend.”

“I didn’t see that thing…”

“You didn’t know what to look for. We did.
And now you do.”

“Now I do…”

“What you should do now, Father, is return
home and minister to your flock. We’ve got this.”

“
We
?”

“Let’s just say you and I have mutual
friends.”

Mark looked at the back of the car, imaging
the thing there. “What was it doing?”

“Keeping tabs on the house. Like you were.
Like we are.”

Mark looked at him, the question on his
face.

“We won’t leave the house unguarded. I
promise you.”

“And I’m, what, supposed to go back to St.
Ann’s and act like none of this ever happened?”

“Go back to St. Ann’s, yes. Act like none of
this ever happened?” Easy had his arms crossed, leaning against the
trunk. “That you’ll find impossible to do, because now you
know.”

“Now I know?”

“You’re aware of the extent of the evil that
walks this earth.”

“He asked me—”

“—to protect his family. Yes, Father, we
know. And know by this,” Easy palmed the trunk behind him, “his
family is protected.”

“Vampires. I saw it but I can’t believe
it.”

“Now you know, Father. And now that you know,
we’ll have need of your services in the near future.”

“My services…hey wait! What are you going to
do with it?”

Easy smiled but didn’t answer.

Mark walked around to the side of the
Monsignor’s car and stood next to the door, trying to process the
events of the last few minutes. Easy had gotten into the sedan,
which came to life. The bald man in the driver’s seat—Sam—pulled
the car out of its spot, raising a hand to Mark, greeting him,
before putting the car in drive and pulling out of the parking
lot.

Mark swallowed, popping the plastic top on
his coffee, watching the steam from the insulated cup rise,
dissipating in the air.

Boone stood on a bridge on the Muntplein,
staring fixedly up at the Munttoren tower. He’d left the apartment
and wandered the streets of Amsterdam, following the canals,
exhausting his meth supply. He drank a Space Tea in a coffeehouse
and bought a pack of mushrooms at a headshop on the Thorbeckeplein.
He ate the mushrooms and when he started to trip he found himself
in front of a Rembrandt in the Rijksmuseum.

Its size had attracted him. He’d turned into
a hallway and there it was, nearly twelve feet across and fourteen
high, a contrast of light and shadow. Crowd of bearded men in the
background with their instruments of war: a drum, a pike, a yellow
and blue banner. A shaft of light on a small girl center-left,
looked like she had a chicken clipped to her waist. A fuckin’
chicken. The man in the lead dressed in black with a red sash, guy
next to him in yellow with a white sash. They looked like they were
moving, going places. Man in red loading his musket, holding the
long gun a funny way, hand
on
top
of the barrel,
ahead of the breech.

Yeah, a fuckin’ chicken.

The men with their ostrich plumes reminded
Boone of Big Duke, reminded him of the fucking cowboy hat that
stunk like the man himself.

The thought brought him down as the walls of
the museum expanded and threatened to close in on him with each
breath. Boone left the
Night
Watch
and went back
outside, crossing the grass, away from the Museumplein. He walked
for awhile, not sure of the time or where it was going, where he
was going, looking up on the building’s stepped gable facades, at
the small boats on the canals. Walking until walking proved
difficult and he’d settled down in a square with his back to a
brick wall, watching the sky turn color. When he grew restless and
anxious he walked again, through the Quays, the oldest part of the
city, down the narrow Kalverstraat shopping street, finally
arriving at the Muntplein, the widest bridge in Amsterdam.

The tower caught his attention at once, its
eight-sided top half and open spire, its four clocks. Its lower
half red brick banded, its upper half dark grey. Something about
the tower resonated with Boone. He’d never visited Amsterdam—in
fact, he’d never left America before—but he felt like he knew this
place, knew it intimately. The connection puzzled him. Had he
dreamt of this place?

Big Duke had had to go.

Fuck rubbed him the wrong way for a number of
reasons, chief of which was his telekinetic ability. Boone liked to
think he was a pretty good master of the poker face. Some
motherfucker could get inside your head and tell you what you were
thinking,
that
motherfucker was dangerous. Boone thought the
best thing, you could read minds, you keep that shit to
yourself.

Kind of thing was bound to piss a lot of
people off, make them feel uncomfortable.

Damian was a bit more low-key than Boone had
thought he’d be. Not that Damian was loud or even particularly
talkative at the Hellfire Club the few times Boone had seen him
before. Could handle himself with a cleaver though. Back at
Enfermo’s, the guy seemed to have relished it. And he’d requested
an axe for this job.
An
axe
. Boone wondered what that
was going to be like.

Figured he’d see soon enough.

One thing about Damian though…it was almost
like Enfermo recognized the big blonde.
Ask
him
or
something the vampire was saying when Damian waded in and lopped
his hand off. That stuck with Boone. He’d have to talk to Damian,
see what that was about.

And then there was Kane. Boone had never
known nobody named Kane before. Sounded like a Sunday school
teacher. Man didn’t look nothing like a Sunday school teacher
though. Man looked like straight up bad news. That scar, skin
creased and wrinkled from hard livin’. Hands and forearms like a
boxers, looked like they could hurt you. Looked like someone you’d
call the Wrath of God, someone who’d earned the name.

The vampires Boone could give a fuck about.
Colson trying to teach him a thing or two. And Boone had learned.
Oh, he’d learned. He’d watched the vampires as they’d trained him,
he’d perceived weaknesses in each that hadn’t been apparent at the
very beginning, and he wondered if the weak points were unique to
each individual or to bloodsuckers as a whole. Halstead was all
smug, probably felt for Boone exactly what Boone felt for him and
his ilk. And Boone had gotten a vibe off Pomeroy—was the fag vamp
really gonna ask him to keep an eye out for Halstead?

Good thing he hadn’t.

Big Mike was just another undead black
bloodsucker from the city, a dime a dozen. His sheer size might
intimidate most, but not Boone. Boone was pretty sure all he’d have
to do is bleed on Big Mike or any of the others and the vamps would
go
poof
, just like that. How ironic
their
subguns
were going to be firing Boone’s blood on their own kind.
That
was fuckin’ epic.

As he looked out over the Sigil, Boone
thought of someone who wasn’t here with him. Gossitch. Guys like
Dickie Nicolie and Johnny Spasso called Gossitch
Frank
.
Frank or Gossitch, whatever he was called, whatever the man’s real
name was, he wasn’t here in Amsterdam. But there was the slightest
chance that in coming to this place, Boone might find him, so here
he was.

Boone had seen what they’d done to Maddy at
the warehouse. Seen Bowie’s head. And Dickie had shown him Frank’s
hands, his
goddamn
hands
for Christ’s sake. He
couldn’t imagine what kind of shape his friend would be in,
wherever he was.

What would he do if he found Frank? What
could he do? The man had taught him so much. Like a father to him.
Boone watched the water flow past below, looked up to the tower,
the sky dark behind it.

Where had the day gone?

Maybe he’d find Frank. Maybe he’d come out of
this alive and get to Jennifer and his niece and nephew before
Rainford could. And maybe he’d get a chance to wipe the old dead
fuck out of existence once and for all.

Boone was still standing there, thinking
about what might be and what might be done, when the woman walked
over and stood next to him, closer than she needed to, their backs
to the canal. She looked up towards the tower, then at Boone
looking up at the tower.

“You know,
Munttoren
translates to
‘Mint Tower’ in English.” She was tall and striking, her lips full
and red, painted that way. “In the 1600s it served as a mint.” She
wore a black pantsuit, jacket over a chic blouse. “In 1672, the
Dutch were at war with England and France.” Boone was no
fashionista, but he didn’t figure her suit for being off the rack.
“Gold and silver couldn’t be transported easily, so coins were
minted here, in the guard house.”

“That what that is?”

“That guardhouse was built in the late
1800s.” She was as tall as he was in her pumps, but older than him.
“This square is the widest bridge in Amsterdam.” Her hair was
pulled back in a bun on top of her head. “Before it was known as
the
Muntplein
it was the
Sophiaplein
…” He had to look
away from her because looking at her was too easy. “…before that
the
Schapenplein
.”

“You know a lot about this city.”

“And you?”

“No, nothing.” Boone felt outclassed, out
matched. Thought the way to play this older broad was to do more
listening than talking. “This is my first time here.”

“You are American?”

“Yes.”

“And what brings you to Amsterdam?” Boone
thinking she was probably old enough to be his mother, but no
mother he’d ever known looked like this. “Business or
pleasure?”

“My business is my pleasure.”

“Then you are a lucky man.”

“Sometimes. You?”

“Business. But I always allot time for my
pleasure.”

“Smart.” A tram pulled away from the
Muntplein. “So, what’s your pleasure?”

“A fine glass of wine. Conversation.”

“I like to talk.”

“You’ve been standing here for some
time.”

“I feel…drawn to this place.”

“
Mmmm
,” like she’d heard that before.
“Are you familiar with the concept of a spirit animal?”

“No.”

“The idea is rooted in shamanism, that there
are spirits helping and protecting us.”

“You come to help me out?” Boone looked her
over, thinking what he’d like to do with her.

“No.” A thin, bemused smile. “Some believe
there are places of spiritual significance, like the Pyramids or
Machu Picchu.”

“So maybe that’s what this place is for
me?”

The bells in the tower chimed and they
listened together until the carillon silenced. She said, “I must be
on my way.”

“So soon?” He didn’t want her to go.

“My business.”

She was walking away from him when he called
out after her. “Hey! I didn’t even get your name.” She smiled back
at him, coy. He watched her merge into the foot traffic on the
Muntplein and soon lost sight of her. Boone sighed.

“
But
that
a
man
shall
have
the
truth
in
his
heart
…” Boone looked over and found Kane leaning
back, elbows on the rail, hair pulled back in a pony tail, smoke
from a cigarette wafting to the sky. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.
“…
that
a
man
shall
have
the
truth
in
his
heart
,
the
flame
will
burn
,
everlasting
,
eternal
.”