Phoenix Contract: Part Two (Fallen Angel Watchers) (5 page)

Aiden’s head bowed, her face hidden beneath a nimbus of flame-hued hair. She sank to her knees on the braided rug before the fire, fingers digging into the textured cloth.

“Aiden, it happens to all of us sooner or later. I’m an old man, and I’ve lived my life. I have no regrets,” he said in a soothing tone.
No regrets.
Oh, he had a great many regrets. The lie filled him with a chilly bitterness that turned his blood to ice—the venomous caress of regret. He’d lived his life. He’d loved and he’d lost. And oh, what he wouldn’t give to do it all over again...

He thought there was no harm in telling another white lie. After all, he’d already offered so many other falsehoods. What was one more? She was too young to burden with such harsh truths so he lied to protect her. He lied to assuage Aiden’s pain and to alleviate her grief and guilt, because in spite of his many great failings, he loved her. He loved her more than anything in heaven or on earth. She was the most important thing to him.

Even though it had been over a decade since he’d possessed the spiritual clarity necessary to act as a minister to a flock, Matthew knew just what to say. Like an actor playing a priest, he had his lines all memorized and knew exactly what to say when given the right cue.

A muffled sob escaped Aiden. Matthew extended a trembling hand toward her bent head, but she stood just out of reach. He knew his daughter well, sensed her feisty desire to argue, to fight, and to deny the inevitable. He could tell from the set of her shoulders and the implacable force of her will which radiated from her like a crown of exclamation points. He felt her denial, frustration, and grief, and he hurt for her, because she had never suffered great loss.

“All right. Suppose we don’t discuss the inevitable nature of death and taxes for the moment,” Aiden grated out, struggling to form words through the pain. She rubbed hard at her eyes, trying to erase the tears. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? I want to know everything about Daniel Adams, about what happened at the hospital, and especially about that pushy know-it-all.”

Matthew smiled, gently amused. “Magnus isn’t so bad.”

“I don’t like him.”

“That’s obvious, Aiden.”

“I don’t trust him either.” Her unrelenting expression suggested Aiden wasn’t about to forgive or accept Magnus’ many flaws.

Matthew sighed. “Give him a chance. He’s a lot older than you, so I’m not surprised there’s a generation gap.”

Her brow furrowed. “How old?”

The priest waved an absent hand. “Old. Old enough to make most of my antiques look new.”

“And how old is that?” Aiden asked.

“Older than the hills and twice as dusty,” Matthew quipped. His feeble attempt at humor was rewarded with a scowl rather than a smile. Seeing that he wasn’t going to distract or discourage her curiosity about Magnus, Matthew finally capitulated. “Fine, you win. His people were the Averni, a Celtic tribe that once occupied Gaul in the 1st century B.C.”

“By people, you mean his ancestors?” Aiden asked.

“By people, I mean his contemporaries. His Father’s name was Vercingetorix, a Averni chieftain, and his mother was Alea, a slave. Vercingetorix united and led the Gauls against the Roman troops of Julius Caesar. Their final battle is still an epic tale. Vercingetorix and his Celts took refuge in the city of Alesia. Caesar laid siege, erecting not one wall, but two around Alesia. The inner wall protected his front, the outer his flank, and both were riddled with ditches and traps.”

Familiar with the course of history if not the specific battle, Aiden asked, “I take it that Caesar won?”

“In a word, yes.” The historian in him found the concise summary to be unpalatable. Matthew preferred an embellished and grandiose story. However, to save time, he reluctantly stuck to the basics.

Aiden's eyes widened. She touched her throat and then dropped her hand quickly. She managed a speechless nod, so Matthew continued to recount what little he knew of Magnus’ mortal life.

“Following their defeat and his father’s capture, Magnus headed north into Germany. Since then he’s lived as inconspicuously as possible as far as I can tell, not taking any active part in history.”

“He’s immortal,” Aiden said, disbelief in her voice.

Father Matthew nodded.

“How is that?” Aiden asked. “How can it be?”

“That I don’t know,” Matthew said.

Skepticism crossed his daughter’s lovely face, causing her features to harden, but the priest lifted his hand to stave off her protest. Aiden might want specifics, but because of the nature of his friendship with Magnus, Matthew could not provide them. The best of friends, they kept and respected each other’s secrets.

“No, it’s the truth. Magnus keeps his secrets and guards them well. I can tell you much of his character, but very little of his past. He despises the Romans with a passion, and he is in love with the cinema, particularly those atrocious science fiction movies. He’s vain, arrogant, prideful, and an unparalleled warrior. He suffers from extreme claustrophobia. His word is his bond. I’ve never seen him break a promise. He’s my best friend, and I trust him.”

His recitation ended, and silence settled upon them. Matthew stared across that short gulf of distance to his daughter, noting how she struggled to absorb what she’d been told. It made him feel old and small and ashamed to have kept such a momentous secret from her.

“This is not the end of what I need to tell you,” Matthew continued. “I have secrets too, a confession to make concerning my health, which isn’t easy. But before I begin, I must ask one thing of you.”

“Go ahead,” Aiden encouraged with a knit brow.

“I will do my best to provide complete explanations to your questions with one exception. Whatever else we discuss, my past involvement with Daniel Adams and Niall Talcott is off-limits,” the priest said. “This is non-negotiable, and it’s for your own good.”

The prohibition did not go over well at all. Aiden’s entire countenance hardened, her jaw and fists clenched, and she leaned forward to glare at him through narrowed eyes.

“Fine,” she said irritably, not really agreeing but willing to put the matter off until later.

Matthew knew that she’d ask him about it again, and he knew that his answer would still be the same. No.

“Where to start?” Matthew mused. What he had to tell her was momentous and horrific. There was no easy, simple way to just come out and say it.

“Start at the beginning,” Aiden suggested in her ever practical manner.

Matthew chuckled. “To start at the beginning, I have to go back to the day I met Magnus.”

Aiden inclined her head in encouragement. She had the implacable demeanor of one who would not, and could not, be denied. It was unnecessary and amusing, because the priest had no intention of refusing her this.

Matthew laughed as his thoughts turned toward the past, and his sedated mind became submersed in the reverie of recollection. “Good God, how can I reduce forty plus years of friendship to that one crucial point in time? There were so many pivotal moments when Magnus and I could have just as easily become enemies. For the first decade, Magnus and I were constantly at cross-purposes. Though, oddly, we always seemed to come out on the same side in the end.”

Wearing a smile, Matthew lifted his decanter. Pinching the long, graceful stem between two fingers, he rotated his wrist so the wine swirled inside of the full rounded bowl. He held up the decanter and peered through it at the fire until the burgundy glowed with a warm red aura—his rose-colored looking glass.

“It was the summer of 1958, and I was a very arrogant, very stubborn, very foolish young man...”

The wave of August heat blistered Detroit, causing unbearable suffering by baking sidewalks and cinder block. At night the denizens of the slums climbed onto rooftops and fire escapes in search of even the most minimal relief. The city’s factories poured fire and smoke into the muggy summer air. The rising sparks and ash mixed with the thick humidity to create awful smog—a living hell.

From dawn to dusk, Father Matthew Bunson patrolled Detroit’s streets, preaching God’s word to the desperate masses that needed to be saved. Beneath a priest’s austere attire, he sweated profusely, his throat always parched. His body ached from countless hours on his feet. As a young and foolish man, his vision was myopic. He perceived only faces, not individuals, in need of salvation.

Night brought relief from the heat and drew people into the streets. Matthew made his way along a tight, crowded side street, keeping his limbs close to his body. He moved with exaggerated care to avoid knocking over a fellow pedestrian.

A man of average height and considerable bulk, his powerful build was solid and blocky, muscles toned just shy of bulging beneath the neat, black suit. Neither handsome nor ugly, his face was crafted of angular lines. His eyes were his most notable feature, dark and discerning, because he possessed a terrible knowledge and the grim resignation of a man driven and possessed by a greater purpose.

He passed a row of rundown storefronts composed of adult bookstores and theaters displaying garish XXX signs selling girls and sex. Across the street, a hotel rented rooms by the hour. Moving toward a small gathering of prostitutes, Matthew spotted his quarry and picked up his pace. He didn’t call out until he was too close to be evaded.

“Eve!”

The woman’s head jerked up. Her eyes widened and darted to either side when she recognized him. He charged closer, and resignation filled her wary brown eyes. That didn’t bother Matthew, because he believed in his cause.

“Father Bunson, how nice to see you,” Eve greeted with a forced smile. In her early-twenties, the young woman of mixed racial heritage had dusky skin and light reddish brown hair that fell straight to her shoulders. Her pretty face could have been striking, but she’d already lost her shine.

“It’s good to see that you’re well, Eve. We’ve missed you these last few weeks,” Matthew began, broaching the reason he’d been looking for her. She’d missed Mass for the last three Sundays, and he’d had genuine concern for her absence. Too often women in her profession turned up in the hospital or the morgue.

Eve crossed her arms. Her expression closed up, and her stance grew defensive. “I’m sorry, Father, but my mama’s been sick, and we’ve had a tough time of it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How are Jimmy and William? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, really, everything’s fine, Father, but thank you.” She moved away from him, retreating like a guilt-stricken child before a parent.

With bull dogged persistence, Matthew followed. “Eve.”

From a short distance away, a blood-curdling shriek filled the night and then abruptly ended.

Matthew whirled toward the scream which originated from a narrow alley between two old cinder block buildings.

“Go get help!” Matthew ordered.

Eyes rolling with fear, Eve’s head jerked once, and she turned to run. From what he knew of her, he doubted that she’d seek out the police for assistance, but he held onto the distant hope that she’d prove him wrong.

Flickering street lamps provided dim illumination, but the source of light at Matthew’s back cast the entire alley into shadow. Upon entering the narrow passage, he hesitated for a split second and allowed his eyes to adjust to night vision. He then proceeded cautiously until he came upon three forms.

Matthew drew to a hard halt when disgusting sounds associated with eating—slurping, lip smacking, gulping, and gnawing—filled the alley. Disorientated and confused, it took him several precious seconds to focus on and process the scene before him.

Two ghostly figures crouched over a mound on the asphalt, their long and spindly limbs spread wide in a posture that reminded Matthew of drinking giraffes. The pair’s faces were buried in a fleshy mass as they fed. Matthew took another step forward, and the odor of blood and perforated bowel struck him. The overwhelming and nauseating smell made his stomach clench and heave.

Gagging, Matthew staggered to a halt and stared at a scene he couldn’t process. His disbelieving mind rejected the image that his eyes provided. The creatures, too alien and insect-like to be human, were shaped like men, but obviously were not. Their heads were malformed, as were their limbs. Both arms and legs were long and spindly, bending in the joint at irregular angles which gave the impression of branches bent taut to the verge of snapping. Their movements were ungainly, sharp and jerky, as they hovered over their meal. Tattered remnants of clothing hung from their sparse frames.

Their flesh glowed phosphorescent in the murky light. Leathery skin stretched taut over the underlying bones. Dark contusions—streaks of black and blue and indigo—marred their exposed flesh, bordering hollow gaps where chunks had rotted away.

The feeding creatures hadn’t noticed Matthew, and he remained frozen for fear that any sudden movement would draw their attention. The smallest of the pair scuttled closer to the body on all fours, and the larger one’s head jerked up. Hissing, it drove its rival off and then returned to its meal, massive jaws crunching open one of the heavy femurs so that it could get at the marrow.

Matthew shuddered as he came to a sudden, cognizant understanding of what he was witnessing. He’d interrupted a feeding! That mound of shredded flesh and blood and bone—it had been a person!

Heart jumping and body convulsing, the priest jerked away.

Matthew’s mind rejected the term, but he forced himself to accept the reality. The mound on the ground had been
a man
, and now he was just meat.

The assailants hadn’t sensed him yet, and escape became the imperative, because he could not help the wretched soul who’d become their unwitting meal. Already, his throat and chest cavity had been ripped open and chunks of rib meat torn out to serve as a meal to the fiends.

Matthew took a hesitant step backward, deciding that an orderly retreat was warranted. Unfortunately, his shin caught a fragment of broken board, and he stumbled. His entire body flailed for balance. Cursing, Matthew kicked the piece of wood away, causing a great clattering commotion. He cringed, but the damage had already been done.

Both of the creatures reacted. Heads jerking up to glare in his direction, their eyes—a mix of gold and green, the cornea the color of tarnished copper, and the sclera a lighter yellow—seethed with malevolence.

Matthew’s mind reeled as he strove to match their identifying characteristics against the teachings of his arcane education. What were they? Demons? No. Too base and plebeian to be of the Fallen whose power was said to be immense. Vampires? While vampires dined in dark alleys and lived in the night’s shadows, they did not partake of the flesh, only blood.

What then? Zombies?

A thunderous roar interrupted his frantic musing as the larger beast sprang forward from its crouched position. It landed in an apish stance, two yards from Matthew. Its thin, bloodless lips peeled back in another threatening snarl, and it considered him, looking for weakness.

The dominant creature’s rumbling growls summoned a chorus of answering calls—angry hisses and gnashing teeth. The priest’s head jerked toward the far end of the alley. His eyes widened with fearful horror as one, then three, then a half-dozen more of the nightmarish creatures emerged. They appeared out of the shadows, staring at him with hateful, hungry eyes.

Another growl from the dominant beast warned the priest that he shouldn’t have averted his gaze. Matthew instinctively leapt backward, crying out as he did, but a heavy shape struck him and knocked him to the ground. Mouth open to bite, the creature’s deformed visage descended toward his face.

The startled priest reflexively threw up his arms for protection and managed to block the attack. Snapping loudly just inches from his face, its teeth closed on air instead of flesh. The ghoul snarled and lunged again, struggling to close its massive jaws around Matthew’s face while fetid breath stinking of carrion and decay huffed up his nose.

Fear hammered Matthew’s heart as he struggled to keep the beast away, barely managing. “Dear God, help me,” he prayed, fighting with animalistic desperation.
He didn’t want to be eaten alive!

The beast bore down. Grabbing hold of his forearms, it used its superior weight to gain leverage. Matthew’s arms weakened, and he redoubled his efforts to hold it off, expending precious energy in panicked thrashing. Inevitably, his strength gave way, and the ghoul lunged again for his face.

In desperation, Matthew thrust his arm forward and shoved his hand into the ghoul’s mouth. Its heavy jaws closed on the outer side of his right hand and sank deep into his flesh. As the ghoul’s desiccated yellow eyes glared at him, it chomped down repeatedly on the priest’s hand as if it intended to chew its way through. Drops of his own blood splattered Matthew’s face, and his arm started to collapse.

A strong downdraft of air passed over them, but the priest barely felt it rush over his face. Unsurprising, since he had more pressing concerns at that moment. The definitive and distinct sound of steel blades cut the air, but Matthew failed to put a name to the noise.

A pair of swords crossed the creature’s neck with the singular sound of steel on steel. The twin blades sliced cleanly through the sinew and bone, and the very tip of one cut a long, thin scratch upon Matthew’s wrist.

“Dear God.” The priest gasped, and the fiend’s head dropped onto Matthew’s face, the wide-open mouth coming into contact with his cheek. Matthew shouted at the top of his lungs. Grabbing the severed head, he heaved the loathsome thing as far from him as he could. It whizzed down the alley, bouncing as it rolled away. The priest tore out from under the slack body atop him and kicked and thrashed his way to freedom.

“Ghouls. They’re always losing their heads.” The swordsman possessed both a dulcet brogue and an eminently smug arrogance. When combined with the terrible word play, it irritated Matthew immensely. “How fares your own head, Father?”

Blood dripping from his twin blades, the swordsman stood over him but made no move to lower his weapons and assist the priest to his feet. Considering the continued presence of the other ghouls, Matthew found that to be most wise.

“I find you cut it uncomfortably close,” the priest replied with both ill humor and gratitude. His fingertips touched the cut, and came away wet with blood from a thin and shallow wound that had grazed the inside of his wrist, alarmingly close to vital arteries.

“I take it you like to cut it close?” Matthew demanded.

“The closer, the better,” came the amused reply.

“I’m not sure I can agree with that sentiment,” Matthew said. With an effort, he climbed to his feet.

“My apologies.”

“Apology accepted.” Matthew felt patronized, though he had no proof since he couldn’t see his savior’s expression.

Suddenly, he noticed his hand and realized it hurt much worse than his wrist. The sharp and throbbing pain cut through him. Hastily, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the injured appendage.

“You saved my life, and I’m grateful, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but
who
are you?” Matthew asked.

The swordsman hesitated, a significant delay, because it told the priest the answer needed to be weighed. “A hunter,” the man finally said, from which Matthew learned absolutely nothing he did not already know.

“That doesn’t tell me—”

“Excuse me a moment, Father.” He whirled away and intercepted a pair of charging ghouls who’d gathered the courage to attack in the face of their alpha’s death. Another four or five hung in the shadows, awaiting the outcome of the conflict.

The swordsman struck with lazy precision and sliced open the first ghoul from shoulder to sternum. With the other blade, he swung at the ghoul’s midsection and hacked through the ribcage. The twin swords met and clashed, and the ghoul fell away in pieces, hitting the ground with a cascade of soggy
thunks
. The wetness of the sound made Matthew feel ill.