Teferi and Mahmoud were dumped beside him. Six of the soldiers climbed in to ride with them, robbing him of the hope of an escape, even if the ropes’ knots weren’t so expertly tied. For the first time since the day his first daughter died, Dawit felt breath-stealing fear.
The Humvee began its bumpy journey.
The uneven mental streams Dawit picked up from the soldiers near him were useless. These were lawless mercenaries whose lives were a chaotic jumble of insults and poverty. Their commander, Raffi, was like a father to them. Soccer. Women. Movies. Their thoughts and conversations were maddeningly trivial, made nearly incoherent by the cocktail of mind-numbing drugs in their bloodstreams. Drugs helped them kill without conscience.
One boy who looked sixteen saw Dawit gazing at him and spit in his face. The others followed, and the vehicle exploded with laughter. The sixteen-year-old produced a pistol, and the soldiers dared each other to shoot him in the head, passing the firearm back and forth, pointing it.
Dawit stared into the gun’s barrel without blinking. They respected their commander too much to displease him; Dawit knew that without help from their mental streams. His stare unnerved them so much that their laughter turned to dead silence.
After ten minutes, the Humvee’s brakes groaned, and it lumbered to a stop. Dawit saw a glimpse of the church through the dusty rear window—an ivory-colored palace. The beauty made Dawit’s eyes ache. He had never understood the grand power of holy edifices until that instant, when he needed hope. The part of him that still clung to hope of finding Fana soared, freed.
Dawit almost felt at peace.
Then he heard a woman’s fear-stripped voice somewhere outside, only a few yards away.
“Please let us go,” she was begging someone in English. “They’re just children. Please.”
He couldn’t mistake the voice that had been imprinted on his soul since the day they’d met.
Jessica was here?
Peace was replaced by searing rage, his chest swelling as if to burst. Dawit fought to call out his wife’s name, wriggling against his ropes until his muscles were raw.
Jessica had never seen a church with a dungeon.
Outside, the stately church promised sanctuary, but inside, the labyrinthine underground walkways felt like ancient Roman catacombs for the dead, as if all of them were being buried. The lack of windows told Jessica they must be underground.
The large, bare room where they had been locked had uneven stone-brick walls and a solid oak door that looked at least six inches thick. Teka closed the door behind them, still their captor. The room had three twin beds with bare mattresses; Alex lay in one, and Bea in another, draped beneath a bedspread Teka had brought. Jessica couldn’t bear to leave her mother on the unpolished stone floor, even if her bed would be badly needed later.
Misery swamped Jessica, from the migraine headache that made her squint against the room’s feeble light to the stabbing pain she felt beneath her rib cage, the punishment of grief. The room’s dankness and the smell of paint and chemicals made her throat constrict. The children coughed between whimpers, huddled on the floor in a corner with Sharmila and Abena.
Jessica’s bladder ached, but she didn’t dare ask for a bathroom. Teka had offered her a private room, but she’d refused to separate from the others. The men who had met them at the church, dressed as monks, chilled her to the bone. They were killers; she could see that in their eyes. Soulless. Jessica had felt enraged since she’d realized Teka was kidnapping them, but the sight of men flaunting Christian costumes, hiding their evil inside a mimicry of God’s house, sparked a different kind of anger. Rage was eating away everything she recognized about herself.
Jessica could not remember ever wanting to kill anyone, but she did now. Teka. Jima. The monks. She wanted to kill them so badly that her joints shook.
Only Jessica’s active imagination calmed her: She closed her eyes and saw her mother safe and alive, standing over the kitchen stove stirring a pot of mustard greens. The image seemed real enough to touch; Jessica could almost smell the steam from the pot, scented with peanut butter and green onions. Bea was fine, at home waiting for her. That promise kept Jessica on her feet.
Jessica felt a warm palm around hers. “How you holding up, Jess?” Lucas.
Jessica squeezed, holding on. Lies cost too much, so she told the truth. “I’m not. You?”
“Been better,” Lucas said.
Jared huddled beside him, his face ashen, eyes red. Jared’s shoulders were hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his lips pursed inward. In shock.
“I’m sorry,” Jessica and Lucas said simultaneously.
“I did everything I could…,” Lucas said in a haunted voice. “I just wish—”
Jessica shook her head. “It’s my fault,” she said. “Everything. I d-didn’t know…”
No words were big enough. Instead, she, Lucas and Jared fell against each other, arms across each other’s shoulders. Miraculously, there were no sobs between them. They only swayed together, absorbing each other’s tremors.
Jessica hadn’t realized she would have to prepare her heart to lose another child. Despite her daydreams, her mother was gone. Dawit was unreachable. There was nothing left to cling to except each other—and how long would they have even that?
A loud sound from the door made them jump. Someone was turning a key in the lock.
They stepped away from the door. Jessica couldn’t guess what horror lay next.
Jared’s fists clenched as he pulled away. “I won’t let them touch the children,” he said.
None of us will, Jessica thought. Not this time.
When the door opened, Jessica blinked twice. Three times. Refusing to believe her eyes.
Dawit stood alone in the doorway, shirtless. Could that be him, only fifteen yards away?
Light shone from Dawit’s face. “Jess!” His voice cleared her confusion.
As the door slammed behind him, the lock clicking tight, Dawit ran toward her. Her quaking legs ran to meet him, with Lucas and Jared on her heels, shouting with relieved joy.
Jessica and Dawit hugged each other so tightly that they nearly lost their balance, swinging in a circle that took Jessica’s feet off the ground. So much blood rushed to her ears that she could barely hear him. She tried to talk, but she could only sob.
“It’s all right, Jess,” he said, stroking her hair. “I’m here, mi vida. I’m here with you.”
Her mouth fell against his, as if she needed to taste him as proof. He kissed her with sad fervor; long enough to last. Jessica touched Dawit’s face, still afraid to believe. He was bruised, with a bloody lip, but his scent was a homecoming.
“T-Teka…,” Jessica said.
“Teka could not have done this,” Dawit said. “I’ve probed him, and he’s not himself. Jima either. Someone used them to bring you here—someone powerful. It’s Sanctus Cruor.”
Someone who could control Teka? Jessica’s thoughts fogged over. How could that be? The only being she imagined with that kind of power was Khaldun, or maybe Fana. One day.
Sharmila, Abena and the boys flocked to Dawit. The boys shrieked as if it were Christmas morning, all of them grinning and scurrying to climb on Dawit’s back. Dawit sank to his knees to hug the boys, ruffling their hair and kissing their tear-stained cheeks.
“Where’s Papa? Where’s Papa?” they asked in a chorus.
Sharmila and Abena hung back, wide-eyed, watching Dawit’s face for news about Teferi. When Dawit hesitated before looking toward the anxious women, Jessica knew something was wrong. The spark of joy sloughed from his eyes.
“We were separated,” Dawit said. “I don’t know where Teferi is.”
Abena tsssked her teeth, muttering. Sharmila clapped her hands to her cheeks and stared at Dawit with a hollow-eyed gape, shaking her head. Dawit stood up to put one arm around each of them, and their foreheads rested together. From the grief in Dawit’s set jaw, Jessica wondered if they would ever see Teferi a
gain.
“Is everyone else all right?” Dawit said.
Jessica couldn’t give language to what had happened. Instead, Lucas leaned close to Dawit, nodding toward the bedspread. “Bea didn’t make it.”
The simplicity was a wonder. Jessica never would have thought of those words.
Dawit looked at Jessica, appalled. He blinked tears as he reached for her hands. “Oh, Jess…,” he said. His bloody lip trembled. “Oh, baby…”
No. No. No. Jessica shook her head, feeling her brain sink into numbness. Mom’s at home in the kitchen. I can smell the greens cooking. I can—
Dawit took Jessica’s unsteady hands and pulled her to him. He wrapped himself around her, stroking her back, her arms, her face, her shoulders. He stroked her as if she were afire and his caress could smother the flames. Finally, she had somewhere she could lay her sobs to rest.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Dawit said. “I’m sorry.”
“You had to look for Fana,” Jessica said, keeping her eyes away from the lump in the bedspread that used to be her mother. “David…do you have any idea where she is?”
Dawit grinned, his bright teeth an unexpected promise.
“Teferi led us here,” he said. “I think Fana may be right here at the church, Jess. She’s very close. Can’t you almost feel her?”
Jessica’s next sobs came from a different place entirely. She swooned with relief.
Yes, Fana, she thought. I can feel you, always. Be strong, sweetheart.
We have faith in you.
Thirty-two
Caitlin O’Neal couldn’t stop thinking about Father Garcia.
Father Garcia made everything fall out of place. Caitlin’s brain had been lost from her, but Father Garcia sliced through her haze because her memory of him was acute. She remembered crying for him, screaming as she’d watched him die.
His name was a lie. That was the first thing. And if Father Garcia’s name was a lie, there were other lies too. She was surrounded by lies. Sometimes Caitlin heard lies spilling from her own mouth. And if she wasn’t doing her own talking, then who was talking for her?
“No, Fana,” she heard herself say, her voice distant and distorted, a shout from the other end of a tunnel. “Neither one of us needs a babysitter. This room’s fine for me and Johnny. I’ll keep an eye on him. You go with Charlie.”
Caitlin blinked, jarred, as too-bright colors assaulted her eyes. In the brilliance, she saw Fana standing a foot in front of her, wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe over her clothes, ready to take a shower. When the bright colors stopped swimming, Caitlin realized that she and Fana were standing inside the doorway of an elegantly furnished bedroom. Johnny was just visible out of the corner of her eye, lying asleep on one of the beds behind her. An IV dripped into his arm.
Caitlin didn’t remember a doctor visiting Johnny.
Fana looked exasperated. “You really think it’s a good idea to split up?” she said.
No! The idea was horrifying. Please please don’t leave us, Fana.
Instead, Caitlin’s mouth said, “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it was a good idea.” Her tone was sarcastic and ugly. Hearing herself, Caitlin wanted to cry.
Fana looked annoyed, eyes flashing. Just when Caitlin needed Fana close to her, the distance between them was unfathomable. She might as well be dead already.
“But we still don’t know who we can trust, Caitlin.”
“Will you please grow the hell up? I need to sit and think—alone.”
Is that the way I talk to her? Caitlin was mortified by the lies from her mouth. His lies.
She must have conjured him. As soon as Caitlin thought about him, he appeared behind Fana in the doorway in a fluid sliding motion, as if his feet didn’t touch the ground. As he slipped his hands to Fana’s shoulders, Caitlin felt a flash of insight the way unusual thoughts and ideas came to her whenever she was near him: His name was Michel Tamirat Gallo, and he thought Fana belonged to him. Like Fana, he was immortal born.
But in most ways, Michel wasn’t like Fana at all.
Caitlin wanted to pull Fana free of his touch, but she couldn’t move. When his hands touched Fana, Caitlin felt his attention slip away—Fana mesmerized him—but not quite enough. Not yet. Caitlin’s mouth was not her own. Without Michel’s blessing, her lips were sewn shut.
“Fine,” Fana said. “I’ll give you some space for an hour. Then we need to make a plan.”
We won’t live another hour, Fana.
Romero and Bocelli would come for her long before then. They had grabbed Maritza on Alton Road, pulled her into their car, and slaughtered her in a warehouse. Their pitiless faces had been Maritza’s last sight. Fana’s father had never had anything to do with killing Maritza. Would that misunderstanding cost Caitlin her life too?
Romero and Bocelli were waiting in the library. A few drops of arsenic in the IV bag would take care of Johnny, but they had long, lingering plans for her. They wanted to punish her and enjoy her. Taking turns, or both at once. Afterward, they would kill her too.
Don’t leave us, Fana.
Fana only swayed gently back and forth, closing her eyes as Michel kneaded her shoulders. Michel had long, lingering plans for Fana, too.
“You two behave,” Caitlin heard herself say. Her voice surprised her as much as it did Michel.
Michel glared. “Mind your business,” he said. He didn’t sound like sweet Charlie at all.
Michel’s attention snapped back to Caitlin, and she felt her own hands fly up to brush through her hair, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She heard herself humming.
“Like you said, neither of us needs a babysitter,” Fana said. She flicked her tired eyes away from Caitlin, her chin upturned and defiant. Can’t she see?
No, Fana couldn’t see. Fana thought she needed Charlie’s touch. She wanted an anchor to keep her from flying away. She was afraid no mortal man could want her for anything except her blood, and she was too stubborn to let Charlie go, even today.
But he isn’t Charlie, Fana. It can’t be love if it’s a lie.
He had taught himself through the Shadows, and the Shadows were greedy. If Fana gave herself to Charlie, she would be entwined with Michel forever.
He’d killed all three of the Rolfsons with a thought. He had commandeered Fana’s teacher—and another immortal!—from thousands of miles away. Fana had not yet learned the lessons Michel had known since he was twelve, when the Shadows had first courted his dreams.
“Take care of yourself, Caitlin,” Michel said, and he leaned over to kiss Caitlin’s cheeks, one after the other. Her skin quailed at his touch. “If you need us, we’re right down the hall.”
That was what his mouth said. But she heard different words inside the loud rumbling sound that might be humming. THOU SHALT NOT STEAL, CAITLIN. THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH, REMEMBER?
Michel gave Caitlin a final smile before taking Fana’s hand and bringing it to his lips. Fana’s wrist went limp in his hand.
“Get some rest,” Fana said. “Hope you’re feeling better when we come back.”
Michel closed the door, and Fana was gone.
YOU HAVE TRIED TO PROTECT FANA, Michel said from out of her sight. YOU AND JOHN WILL NOT SUFFER A KNIFE’S BLADE LIKE MARITZA. I PROMISE YOU.
Michel’s mercy.
Caitlin stood captive by the door with a flailing heart, listening for her killers’ footsteps.
Thirty-three
The bedroom stopped Fana in midstride. It was the most beautiful room she had ever seen, even in a photograph. A bedchamber worthy of a queen.
The twenty-five-foot ceiling and Spanish chandeliers made the room look like a cathedral. Ten-foot palms in shiny, colorful ceramic pots swathed the clay-colored walls, shading the glorious tiled Moorish arch that led to the balcony. The four-poster bed, long dining table and hand-carved bookshelves were Spanish Colonial style, striking simplicity in dark, gleaming woods. Large canvasses of resplendent pain
tings adorned the walls. Was this a fine museum?
But museums didn’t have music! A lively Afro-Cuban son was playing—her father’s favorite music, after jazz. The chamber was filled with an earthy celebration of horns and drums. A trumpet pealed as she stepped over the threshold.
“You’re letting us stay here?” Fana said.
“Of course, bonita,” Father Garcia said behind her. He had been waiting for them beside the door when they’d emerged from Caitlin’s room down the hall. “Please enjoy our meager hospitality. The bathroom is through that second archway, and food is waiting on the balcony.”
Fana blinked. “But…”
“Welcome home, my child,” Father Garcia said and bowed low. Just like a Life Brother.
Fana had heard mostly static when she’d tried to get through to her parents on the church’s secure telephone line. She hadn’t been able to connect to her father either. The kitchen phone in the Big House had finally rung and rung, but no one had answered. She’d hoped it had meant that they had fled already, but what was wrong with Dad’s phone? Uncertainty was agony.
But Johnny was healing. The portly church physician—that was how he’d introduced himself, although Fana had never heard of that title—had given Johnny a saline IV, cleaned his wound, and declared that he would be fine with a couple days’ rest. No surgery necessary, he said. The doctor was familiar with Glow, so Johnny’s rapid healing hadn’t raised his eyebrow.
An hour to rest, at last.
Fana hoped to spend her hour washing away the grime from the tunnel and enjoying Charlie’s company, but the room’s paintings held her eyes hostage. Masking bled away some of her ability to perceive vivid colors, and Fana wanted to see. Her mind loosened, and the room jumped into sharp focus. A musician’s cowbell rattled its seductive call, and Fana’s heart danced.
The oil paintings, some European, some Mexican, others African, were rich, colorful tapestries laden with voice and history. Impressive sculptures were mounted on tables. Artwork crafted from aged leather or parchment were spaced between the paintings; two in glass cases looked faded enough to be hundreds of years old. Could that writing be Ethiopian Ge’ez?