Vampire$

less sharp or strong. It could spring up these walls, up or down or sideways, until it found the terrace and found the window into its room.

Its room. Did he not know this room? Was this not his room when once he, too, was Pawn of the Monster’s Beast on Earth? Did he not..

Ohhh! The pain. Stronger here is the pain. So close to the center. So certain of its wretched might.

But there is still Will. There is still Hatred.

He would still swallow deep his Revenge.

Somewhere on the grounds below the alarms began to sound and the lights began to glow through the trees and there were the sounds of mortals running like fools and calling to one another.

But too late.

The ancient terrace door and all its locks and bolts and sneaky wires were too late. The door gave easily in his claws and, Yes! The pain was greater inside, much, much, greater. But he summoned his Will. He summoned his Hatred. And he stalked across the centuries-old room. Stumbling, yes. With pain, yes. The great pressure seared through him.

But then he was at the bedside and there! Before him! The form of the Disease-Felix so smug and safe in its sheets.

And he ripped at the sheets, agony though this movement was, and exposed the form underneath and cried, “Felix! Feeeelixxxx! I have come for you!”

But the face that turned to his own was an elderly one…

“No! Noooo!” it shrieked.

And the Old One said, its voice gentle and sad, “Jack… My son! My poor son.”

And the wrinkled hand, so softly caressing its cheek…

The flame exploded across his face and skull and down his spine before spreading across the rest of his body. His howl of pain was impossible to bear. The flame swirled around him and raised him up and consumed him, Consumed him, sent him rocketing about the walls and the ceilings and all those places his soul did touch could never ever be wiped completely clean…

And then the scream ceased. And the flame condensed and boiled in the center of the room.

Then it shot upward out of sight.

The man stared a long time at the spot on the ceiling where the flame had gone. It was only when he moved at last that he realized he was crying.

And noticed the young Gunman standing in the doorway, the forbidden pistol in his hand.

“How did you know?” he asked.

Felix’s face was grim as he reholstered the Browning.

“It’s what I would have done.”

Epilogue: Team Felix

The young man sitting beside him enjoying the gardens had not spoken in some time.

“Are you well?” the man asked him.

Felix looked at the man and smiled thinly before looking away.

“I was just thinking… It’s never going to end, is it?”

The man was silent. What could he answer?

For, of course, it would not end. Not for this planet. It would end for this brave young soul seated beside him. But not well. This is one of the great tragedies.

For the man had come to love this Felix. He loved “dealing” with him. The Supreme Pontiff was unaccustomed to having to “deal” with anyone, save heads of state. He had enjoyed it immensely.

Felix had gotten everything he wanted. One dozen priests, recruited from all over the world, all strong, all brave, all devoted. He had gotten the bishop he had demanded, an American-born bishop, who even now waited for them in Brazil, where the Team would first train for a month.

There was a happy peal of laughter and both turned to the source.

Several of the sisters had come to see the young bride’s ring. It was hardly in keeping with the poverty vows, of course, but the Man believed every single sister in Rome had managed to come and view it at least once.

How lovely she is, thought the Man, seeing her proud display.

There was another peal of laughter, and then a wicked squeal, as the other young American, the one called Cat, made a comment the two men seated could not hear.

No doubt something off-color once again, thought the Man.

But even in this he was glad, for this one had been such a thin and shallow scarecrow of a soul when first he had arrived, uncertain, unbelieving — suspicious of all save his leader.

But now look at him! How he smiles and jokes and how devoted are he and Davette! Hard to believe they were not brother and sister.

The Man glanced again at Felix, who was still watching the show.

He was right not to tell his friend about Jack.

He was right about much. Though foolish.

“Thanks for the ring,” said Felix suddenly, almost shyly.

The Man nodded. It was an ancient stone, three hundred years in the Vatican treasury being dusted. Now it shone on a bride’s finger, as it should.

“And thanks,” added Felix, with more than a little embarrassment, “for marrying us.”

The Man smiled. “It was our pleasure,” he said sincerely.

And it truly had been. His aides had not understood his enjoyment, for Felix had, at the last second, refused to be converted to the Church. To everyone’s amazement, the Man had waived the requirement and had performed the ceremony personally.

He had, he must admit, found it terribly amusing, this young American’s stubborn “point of honor.” And he would smile whenever he thought of it.

What was that American phrase? Like being “a little bit pregnant'?

For the young warrior was converted. He simply refused to admit it.

An aide appeared at the edge of a terrace door, eyeing him expectantly. The Man knew what he wanted, to remind him of his scheduled duties for that day. But the Man did not wish to go until the others did. This was their last day, their last hours, in his personal care. And…

And do I fear I will never see them again? Or do I fear my own sense of guilt when they go?

But no. He could not help them more. He could not shout from the rooftops their plight. He could not tell the world what he — and they, and the victims — knew to be so.

Neither could he explain it to the young warrior. He had tried, telling him of the long, hard journey of the Mother Church, of the awful tragedy if they should return, or even be perceived to be returning, to those dark, Dark Ages.

For there were not many vampires. There were not. And soon, with the power of world knowledge, there would be none. And that would, as the young warrior had insisted, be a great goodness.

But what then? When every priest felt emboldened and empowered to see evil everywhere? To think nothing of the witch hunts of other authorities, once the boundaries of law had been “temporarily” lifted.

The Man prayed and grieved every night for the victims of the Beast.

He did not wish to pray and grieve for the excesses of man unwittingly doing the Beast’s business for him.

He had tried to convey some of this. But the young warrior’s ears been deaf. “Scapegoat” and “guinea pig” had been his bitter terms.

And, of course, he was right.