Darkfall

their needs.

“We won't even be able to fill one jar,” Jack said.

“Don't be so sure,” Carver said, unscrewing the lid from one of the containers. He handed the open jar to Jack. “Try it.”

Jack dipped the jar into the font, scraped it along the marble, scooped up some water, didn't think he'd gotten more than two ounces, and blinked in surprise when he held the jar up and saw that it was full. He was even more surprised to see just as much water left in the font as had been there before he'd filled the jar.

He looked at Carver.

The black man smiled and winked. He screwed the lid on the jar and put it in his coat pocket. He opened the second jar and handed it to Jack.

Again, Jack was able to fill the container, and again the small puddle of water in the font appeared untouched.

IV

Lavelle stood by the window, looking out at the storm.

He was no longer in psychic contact with the small assassins. Given more time, time to marshal their forces, they might yet be able to kill the Dawson children, and if they did he would be sorry he'd missed it. But time was running out.

Jack Dawson was coming, and no sorcery, regardless of how powerful it might be, would stop him.

Lavelle wasn't sure how everything had gone wrong so quickly, so completely. Perhaps it had been a mistake to target the children. The Rada was always incensed at a Bocor who used his power against children, and they always tried to destroy him if they could. Once committed to such a course, you had to be extremely careful. But, damnit, he had been careful. He couldn't think of a single mistake he might have made. He was well-armored; he was protected by all the power of the dark gods.

Yet Dawson was coming.

Lavelle turned away from the window.

He crossed the dark room to the dresser.

He took a.32 automatic out of the top drawer.

Dawson was coming. Fine. Let him come.

V

Rebecca sat down in the aisle of the cathedral and pulled up the right leg of her jeans, above her knee. The claw and fang wounds were bleeding freely, but she was in no danger of bleeding to death. The jeans had provided some protection. The bites were deep but not too deep. No major veins or arteries had been severed.

The young priest, Father Walotsky, crouched beside her, appalled by her injuries. “How did this happen? What did this to you?”

Both Penny and Davey said, “Goblins,” as if they were getting tired of trying to make him understand.

Rebecca pulled off her gloves. On her right hand was a fresh, bleeding bite mark, but no flesh was torn away; it was just four small puncture wounds. The gloves, like her jeans, had provided at least some protection. Her left hand bore two bite marks; one was bleeding and seemed no more serious than the wound on her right hand, painful but not mortal, while the other was the old bite she'd received in front of Faye's apartment building.

Father Walotsky said, “What's all that blood on your neck?” He put a hand to her face, gently pressed her hand back, so he could see the scratches under her chin.

“Those're minor,” she said. “They sting, but they're not serious.

“I think we'd better get you some medical attention,” he said. “Come on.”

She pulled down the leg of her jeans.

He helped her to her feet. “I think it would be all right if I took you to the rectory.”

“No,” she said.

“It's not far.”

“We're staying here,” she said.

“But those look like animal bites. You've got to have them attended to. Infection, rabies…. Look, it's not far to the rectory. We don't have to go out in the storm, either. There's an underground passage between the cathedral and—”

“No,” Rebecca said firmly. “We're staying here, in the cathedral, where we're protected.”

She motioned for Penny and Davey to come close to her, and they did, eagerly, one on each side of her.

The priest looked at each of them, studied their faces, met their eyes, and his face darkened. “What are you afraid of?”

“Didn't the kids tell you some of it?” Rebecca asked.

“They were babbling about goblins, but—”

“It wasn't just babble,” Rebecca said, finding it odd to be the one professing and defending a belief in the supernatural, she who had always been anything but excessively open-minded on the subject. She hesitated. Then, as succinctly as possible, she told him about Lavelle, the slaughter of the Carramazzas, and the voodoo devils that were now after Jack Dawson's children.

When she finished, the priest said nothing and couldn't meet her eyes. He stared at the floor for long seconds.

She said, “Of course, you don't believe me.”

He looked up and appeared to be embarrassed. “Oh, I don't think you're lying to me… exactly. I'm sure you believe everything you've told me. But, to me, voodoo is a sham, a set of primitive superstitions. I'm a priest of the Holy Roman Church, and I believe in only one Truth, the Truth that Our Savior —”

“You believe in Heaven, don't you? And Hell?”

“Of course. That's part of Catholic—”

“These things have come straight up from Hell, Father. If I'd told you that it was a Satanist who had summoned these demons, if I'd never mentioned the word voodoo, then maybe you still wouldn't have believed me, but you wouldn't have dismissed the possibility so fast, either, because your religion encompasses Satan and Satanists.”

“I think you should—”

Davey screamed.

Penny said, “They're here!”

Rebecca turned, breath caught in her throat, heart hanging in mid-beat.

Beyond the archway through which the center aisle of the nave entered the vestibule, there were shadows, and in those shadows were silver-white eyes glowing brightly. Eyes of fire. Lots of them.

VI

Jack drove the snow-packed streets, and as he approached each intersection, he somehow sensed when a right turn was required, when he should go left instead, and when he should just speed straight through. He didn't