Charming (27 page)

Dvornik glared at me then. “Isn’t it?”

I just stared at him. Did he know about Alaska? Had he been asking around? How much had Sig told him?

“Maybe we should just call these knights you all keep talking about,” Choo drawled. “This is starting to sound a lot more dangerous than anything else we’ve done.”

“We’ve talked about that,” Sig said, flashing me a half-guilty look. “But the nearest chapter of knights are Crusaders.”

My entire torso puckered.

“And that’s bad?” Cahill demanded. “I thought all the knights were crusaders. We’re talking about the Knights Templar here, right?”

One side effect of the Pax Arcana is that over the centuries, many sects and chapters and schisms have formed within the Templars. This is because the knights are human and the geas prohibits anyone from quitting being a knight. Even I, who am generally considered an outcast and traitor and abomination and all-around sign of the apocalypse, find myself still trying to fulfill the order’s mission statement to the best of my ability.

On a practical level, this means that knights can no longer settle policy disputes and personal issues the old-fashioned way.
Knights can’t leave the Templars to start their own orders, for example, or kill one another, or betray specific chapters to kings who are greedy to refinance their next war, and so on. The geas won’t let knights do so because weakening the order as a whole would directly endanger the Pax.

Human nature is human nature, though, and so there have been political factions and doctrinal disputes and personality clashes, and the order has been forced to accommodate a broader spectrum of opposing viewpoints than it otherwise would, often ungracefully. It’s a lot like being a Jew, except instead of being rooted in ethnicity, the knights’ bond is rooted in… geasnicity? Geasiprocity? Geasiness? Anyway, there are agnostic knights, atheist knights, religious knights, old-school knights, technology-loving knights, knights who believe the order should study magic, knights who believe that no magic should ever be studied, and so on. There are even some individuals with knight blood in their veins who believe that the order’s goal should be to go among supernatural creatures and make peace instead of keep the peace. These radicals are called
bug huggers
and tend to be marginalized and mocked relentlessly. And of all these splinter groups, the most religious and conservative is the Crusaders.

“In this context
Crusader
is a slang term,” Parth explained, enunciating precisely. “They are the most fanatical of knights.”

Choo looked at me. “Is that right?”

“It’s been a while,” I said. “I don’t exactly get the company newsletter anymore. But I think the Crusaders’ basic belief set still goes something like this: they believe the knights never should have agreed to the Pax Arcana. They think the order should have let humanity be destroyed by the Black Death and let the faithful go to heaven.”

“Well, maybe that does sound a little hard-core,” Molly admitted.

“Now they believe the Pax is a penance,” I continued. “And one that God will deliver his most devout knights from if they do their duty faithfully. On that day, God’s wrath will descend upon the monstrous filth like me that infest this world and true knights will be a flaming sword in his hand, amen.”

“Amen,” Dvornik said, not quite under his breath.

Sig shot Dvornik a look that should have turned him into a pile of salt.

“Don’t mean they can’t do the job better than we can,” Choo argued. “Sounds like they’re highly motivated, anyway.”

“Let me put it this way, Choo,” Sig said angrily, displacing some of whatever she was feeling about Dvornik. “New Orleans used to be the home of the biggest vampire hive in the United States. The Templars told them they were becoming too visible, and the hive told the knights to bugger off.”

“Someone’s been watching BBC again,” Molly commented.

Sig ignored her. “It became an all-out war, Choo, and the vampires were actively seeking out people with political power and military training and turning them into vampires to strengthen their cause. They were forming alliances with other hives. So the Crusaders stepped in. When there was a huge storm in New Orleans, they used it as a cover to end the war by blowing up the levee.”

Choo’s face turned stony. “You’re talking about Katrina.”

“Completely immersing a vampire in running water will destroy it just like sunlight will,” I informed him. A lot of people have forgotten that little nugget of lore, but it’s true. It’s because water is a symbol of life, and moving water is a symbol of change. Plus, immersion in water is a symbol of both birth and baptism, all of which are things of which vampires are the antithesis.

Sig’s voice stayed low and even. “Some of the most powerful vampires in the United States had gathered in New Orleans to formally commit their hives to a war with the knights. And they all died as their bodies were covered in running water. They couldn’t even leave their hiding holes because of the sunlight. And all the Crusaders had to do was kill a few thousand innocent civilians to do it.”

“You’re saying these knights caused the flood in New Orleans,” Choo repeated, his voice rising a little.

“I think what she’s saying,” Cahill said, patting Choo’s arm, “is that we don’t want to call these guys.”

“Not unless it’s a last resort.” Sig’s voice didn’t bear any trace of uncertainty. “They might decide that the best way to smoke the vampires out would be to burn down the whole forest preserve.”

“Fine,” Cahill said. “Let’s make calling the knights in door number three. So far it sounds like trapping Anne Marie in her own tunnels is the best idea.”

“Why can’t we just do that?” Molly asked. “Trap her in the tunnels and wait for her, I mean. She’d have to come out eventually.”

“Did you ever read
Fantastic Mr. Fox
by Roald Dahl?” I asked her.

“I love that story!” Molly said excitedly. Then her expression fell. “Oh.”

“Vampires dig about as well as the foxes in that book,” I said. “Remember what happened when the farmers tried to trap them underground? If we pen Anne Marie up in a tunnel, we’re going to have to go in after her before she and her hive can dig a new escape route anyway.”

“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Sig said. “Like you said, these aren’t tunnel experts. Americans usually picture tunnels as these big mining shafts.”

Dvornik took over again and stalked back to the drawing. “The Vietnamese made their entry tunnels small,” he said, as if Sig were disputing that point. “They wanted intruders to have to crawl through them one at a time. If these tunnels are made correctly, we won’t have room to swing swords, and we won’t be able to fire shotguns or automatic weapons without hitting the person in front of us or becoming deaf. It will have to be silenced handguns and stakes. I don’t have any UV bulbs made for miners’ hats either, and they’d interfere with our night-vision goggles if I did.”

“Do you want some of this, John?” Molly asked as she slapped a wedge of cheese between two crackers. She said it so soon on the heels of Dvornik’s remark that it implied she wasn’t listening to him.

“Just the meat,” I said warily, taking a chunk of sausage off the plate. “I’m not really feeling like an herbivore tonight.” Some thought was trying to form in my mind.

“Hold on,” Sig said, and got up and left the room again.

“Sig’s right,” Cahill said. “These aren’t Vietnamese peasants. These are modern American-citizen vampires who probably spent most of their pre-vampire lives on a couch with a remote. I’m picturing some big-assed version of a tunnel from a movie about coal miners. They’re not going to want to crawl around every time they go in and out. They’re going to want to walk.”

“Wait,” I said, holding a palm up. “There might be a relatively risk-free way of doing this after all. I just thought of something.”

It was a measure of the underlying tension in the room that no one made any sarcastic comments. I kept my palm up until everyone was listening, then turned toward Parth. “Parth here is a hydrokinetic.”

“Hey, no need to get personal,” Cahill said. Nobody laughed.

“He can control water,” I elaborated, just in case Cahill wasn’t kidding. “He can move it around with his mind. If Choo makes a mist out of holy water, Parth here can move it up and down tunnels in front of us no matter how they’re made.”

The others did not seem excited by this revelation.

Somewhere in the building I could hear Sig rummaging around in a refrigerator.

I continued. “He’s cold-blooded too, so the vampires won’t be able to see him in complete…”

“I won’t be going into the tunnels,” Parth interrupted. “I don’t take an active role in these things.”

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I will not knowingly end the existence of another being,” Parth said calmly.

No one else seemed surprised by this information.

“You’re telling me you’re a pacifist,” I said slowly.

“I didn’t attack you, John,” he said carefully. “I was testing you.”

I gave him my best skeptical look, which, if you haven’t caught on by now, is pretty damn skeptical. I disbelieved what he was saying so hard that I probably created an alternate universe where it wasn’t true.

If he’d had the skin tone for it, I think Parth would have flushed. “I have a temper,” he admitted. “My species is predisposed toward violent behavior. It is why I do not participate in it directly.”

“Don’t let her youth fool you,” I said. “I’ve hunted a lot of monsters in my day, Parth, and I’m telling you, this girl is dangerous.”

Somewhere Sig was turning on a microwave.

“That’s the way it always starts,” Parth said. “You say you
will not commit violence, and then someone asks what you would do if you saw an old woman getting mugged.”

“What if you did?” I challenged.

“And then,” Parth continued, “someone says it’s not enough to react. We need to do something to prevent old women from getting mugged…”

“You’re not going to change his mind, John,” Molly said gently.

I glanced at her. She wasn’t being judgmental. “I’m just having a hard time making the distinction,” I said to Parth. “You’ll help us, knowing we’re planning on destroying these things, but you won’t do it yourself because of a moral stance?”

“Perhaps I am being hypocritical,” he acknowledged. “But I am an alcoholic, and violence is my wine.”

That sounded like he was quoting a scripture or something. This had all the earmarks of turning into one of those philosophical discussions that take three hours to go nowhere and piss everybody off. “I… OK,” I said.

Choo cleared his throat. “That was a good idea, though. Anybody else thinking outside the box?”

We brainstormed a bit more, kicking a few thoughts around: planting crosses in the ground every twenty feet, using magnesium flares to mess up their infra-vision, carrying riot shields with crosses drawn on them by Molly, and so on. We were still going over possibilities when Sig came back into the room carrying a large steaming bowl on the palm of her unprotected right hand. She thunked the bowl down onto the table and spatters of meat flew everywhere.

“That’s got to be the worst Martha Stewart impression I’ve ever seen,” I told her.

“You said you wanted meat, and I’ve got a ton of leftover chili
that I’ve been trying to get rid of.” Sig shot Cahill a dirty look. “Some people around here like to make fun of my cooking.”

I glanced sideways. It was more a futile attempt to move my nose out of the path of the smells that were assaulting it than anything else, but Parth thought it was a cry for help.

“I don’t eat beef,” he said with a trace of smugness. “Or beans.”

“It’s true. I’ve never seen Parth eat anything except frog legs and caviar and snails,” Molly chimed in helpfully. “And I’m a vegetarian.”

And I’d thought Molly was on my side.

“Come on, try it,” Sig urged.

“Yeah, John,” Cahill agreed with a certain malicious glee. “Try it.”

I was searching for some excuse to decline when the wolf took over again. Before I realized what was happening, my hand was grabbing the spoon and sticking it into the chili; it sank into the surface as if into deep mud, and then the surrounding chili oozed back into the suckhole the spoon had temporarily created, tugging at it. I looked at Sig.

Apparently Sig thought that this was normal chili behavior. She looked back at me expectantly.

I watched, dismayed, as my hand troweled a spoonful of the sludge out of the bowl and forced it toward my face. I could smell it coming, but I had to open my mouth or smear hot chili all over my chin. The entire table had gone quiet, transfixed with horror. Whoa. Rancid, ripe, spicy, sour flavors assaulted my mouth. “Oh my Gah,” I gasped, still holding chili in the cradle of my lower jaw. “Now I know wheh bah beans go when ’ey die!”

Cahill cracked up. Molly turned away, but not before a small
smile began to tug at the corners of her lips. Sig stared at me, her expression stony.

“That chili was fine when I made it,” she said ominously.

I forced the chili down just to make it go away. It blazed a trail all the way down my esophagus. “What decade was that? This stuff would gag an Er Gui!”

In hindsight, perhaps I could have been more tactful.

“Fine!” Sig snapped, and reached down to take the bowl back.

My left hand swatted hers away. I growled. It was a low, animal growl from the depths of my chest.

Sig stepped back. She didn’t look angry, just concerned. Not the kind of concern you’d show for a friend… the kind of concern you’d show if you weren’t sure a dog had rabies or not. I knew that at least three hands in the room were suddenly resting on the butts of large handguns.

“I’m not trying to start a fight,” I managed, my face burning in the dim light. “You don’t snatch food away from a wolf.”

“You don’t even like the chili,” Sig observed cautiously.

“I hate the chili,” I mumbled, pulling the large bowl closer to me and digging another spoonful out. At least it gave me somewhere to put my eyes. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

A strange expression came over Sig’s face. It was impossible to tell whether she was touched or insulted. I could feel Parth’s gaze on me as well, and I didn’t have to glance over at him to know that he was looking at me with that “Ah, if only I had you under a microscope, my lovely” expression.