(I)

“I”m realizing just now that I’m way too old for this,” Rollin said in the passenger seat. Sweat beaded his adrenaline-pinkened face.

“You and me both, Father.” Vernon floored it to the nearest emergency room: Mt. Sinai, his suction-cup cherry ball pumping red and blue light into the city’s labyrinthine darkness.

Who’s gonna believe this? he thought, but then realized it didn’t matter. He would tell no one. “Check her, will you?” He glanced into the backseat, where Cristina lay. Her head had been lacerated pretty significantly. God, I hope she doesn’t die…

Rollin labored to lean into the back. “Her pulse feels strong. Breathing looks regular…”

Vernon squealed wheels around a corner. “So…what exactly happened? Kanesae had—”

“Kanesae had been growing stronger and stronger,” explained the exhausted priest, “as tonight got closer. With her strength came not only her ability to corporate—or become flesh—but her ability to influence her target: Cristina. Once Kanesae’s strength had peaked, she was able to fully overcome Cristina’s will, and I’m sure she’d been gradually doing that all along. It was Kanesae’s goal to manipulate Cristina into drinking the blood in the flagon, but—”

“Paul got to it first, and damn near killed Cristina getting it.”

The priest nodded wearily. “Once Paul had pilfered the flagon and consumed its contents, Vlad’s spiritual agency came into Paul.”

“And then you killed him with the pole.”

“Yes, and not a second too soon.”

“So what happens now?”

Rollin stared out the window, into the throbbing dark. “I don’t know. Kanesae has discorporated. Since the vessel for Vlad’s spirit is gone, I suppose she’ll have no choice but to go to hell—and stay there.”

Vernon let the words sink in. Jesus. What a night. He’d 911’d the fire department as he’d sped from the scene and at least saw that the adjoining condo seemed to be evacuating safely.

He skidded to a halt at the ER entrance. “Meet me inside,” Vernon ordered and jumped out. “And don’t talk to anyone.”

Rollin nodded, rubbing his eyes.

Yeah, I’m too old for this, all right, Vernon agreed as he huffed Cristina’s unconscious form through the sliding doors. Just as two male nurses got her on a gurney, Cristina’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hey. I’m Howard Vernon, I’m a cop.” He squeezed her hand.

Confusion filled her eyes, and she tried to speak but couldn’t.

“Don’t worry,” Vernon said. “You’re going to be okay.”

Finally she uttered, “I…can’t remember.” Then her face paled. “That woman…that nun…”

“She’s gone now. We’ll talk later—”

A nurse shouldered Vernon out of the way. “Step back. We have to get her to x-ray right now.”

“I want to go,” Vernon interjected.

“No way—”

Vernon flashed his badge. “Come on, man.”

The nurses agreed and pushed off, Vernon hustling to keep up. In the elevator, Cristina looked at him again.

“Who did you say you were?”

“I’m a friend of Father Rollin. Do you know who I mean?”

Concentration; then she nodded.

“We brought you here.” But Vernon didn’t want any more talk for now. I don’t think she’s quite ready to learn that her boyfriend’s dead, her friends are dead, and her house is on fire. “Just relax for now.”

“Okay.”

One nurse pushed the gurney through double doors, but Vernon grabbed the other nurse. “Is she going to be all right?”

“How do I know?” the man snapped. “She could have a concussion, acerebral hemorrhage, a skull fracture.”

“Sure, but—”

“Her vitals are good and so’s her dilation, and that’s all a good sign.” He turned toward the door. “This is as far as you go. Ask reception for updates.”

The doors swung closed in Vernon’s face.

Only now did the totality of his exhaustion fully hit him. Holy shit. In the elevator down, two more nurses peered at him, sniffing.

I must smell like a backyard grill, he realized.

He didn’t see Father Rollin in the waiting room. Old bastard probably fell asleep in the car, Vernon guessed. He got two coffees in the vending room, was about to go outside with them when some heated talk was heard from the reception cove, then—

“Everybody out of the way!” a voice barked. Suddenly lights flashed outside, tires screeched and sirens drew close. A half a dozen uniformed cops rushed through the sliding doors, and raced for the elevators.

What the hell?

Vernon flashed his badge as another cop entered. “What’s going on?”

“Multiple assaults reported from the second floor, sir,” the officer answered without stopping. “X-ray.”

Vernon’s mind blanked. He followed but missed the elevator so he trotted up the fire stairs.

An odd silence filled the hall. No cops were in evidence, but both doors to the x-ray lab were now propped open. Two cops walked out, hands to foreheads.

Vernon rushed in.

Holy Mother of God …

The two male nurses he’d seen earlier lay twisted on the floor. Both of their throats had been gnawed open, torn veins and arteries showing. Their faces looked wizened, a pale whitish blue. The ends of two snapped-off broomsticks had been rammed through their chests, yet almost no blood had leaked from any of their wounds.

“Where’s Cristina Nichols?” Vernon demanded.

“Who?”

“These two guys brought her in here a few minutes ago for x-rays!” Vernon’s eyes darted around desperately. “Where is she?”

No one answered, but then Vernon noticed two more cops looking perplexed out a nearby window. The window had been smashed from the inside out.

Vernon turned and ran. Rollin …He almost tripped going down the stairs. More cops were pouring in when Vernon bulled out through the ER doors into the driveway.

No, no, no, he thought.

An intern whispered to a nurse, “Must be a full moon or something. I just heard there were two murders upstairs…and now this right at the same time.”

Vernon walked in a daze to the scene. Before his car, several doctors were rising from their knees. An EMT was carrying away a portable defibrillator.

Father Rollin lay stretched out on the pavement, unmoving. Another EMT put a sheet over his face.

A physician’s assistant leaned against the car, writing on a clipboard.

“What happened?” Vernon droned.

“Multiple heart attacks, big ones. We did everything we could.” The P.A.’ s eyes flicked up. “Is your name Vernon?”

“Yes,” Vernon croaked.

“Before he lost consciousness he asked me to relay a message to you. I wrote it down.” And then he took out a small note pad. “But keep in mind, he was delusional at the time, it doesn’t make sense.”

“What…did he say?”

The P.A. squinted at the pad. “‘The flagon was fake. She fooled us.’”

Vernon chewed his lip. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. But you knew the man?”

“Yes…”

“Do you know the nun, too? We’d like to talk to her.”

Vernon suddenly felt as though he were standing on a 100th-floor ledge. “What did you say? A—”

“A nun,” the P.A. repeated without a lot of interest. “Couple people said they saw a nun talking to him just before he collapsed, but”—he glanced around—“I don’t see any nun.”

Vernon stared.

“Oh, almost forgot. The priest asked me to give this to you.” The P.A. pulled something out of his pocket and dropped it into Vernon’s hand.

It was Father Rollin’s cross and a ring with the crest: a dragon strangled by its own tail, and the words, O QUAM MAGNIFICUM, O DOMNUL.