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.
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.
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.