The goblins thumped against the other side of it, once, and then were silent.
She was safe. Amazingly, thankfully safe.
She limped away from the door, out of the dimly lighted vestibule in which she found herself, past the marble holy water fonts, into the vast, vaulted, massively-columned nave with its rows and rows of polished pews. The towering stained-glass windows were dark and somber with only night beyond them, except in a few places where an errant beam from a streetlamp outside managed to find and pierce a cobalt blue or brilliant red piece of glass. Everything here was big and solid-looking — the huge pipe organ with its thousands of brass pipes soaring up like the spires of a smaller cathedral, the great choir loft above the front portals, the stone steps leading up to the high pulpit and the brass canopy above it — and that massiveness contributed to the feeling of safety and peace that settled over Rebecca.
Penny and Davey were in the nave, a third of the way down the center aisle, talking excitedly to a young and baffled priest. Penny saw Rebecca first, shouted, and ran toward her. Davey followed, crying with relief and happiness at the sight of her, and the cassocked priest came, too.
They were the only four in the immense chamber, but that was all right. They didn't need an army. The cathedral was an inviolable fortress. Nothing could harm them there. Nothing. The cathedral was safe. It had to be safe, for it was their last refuge.
III
In the car in front of Carver Hampton's shop, Jack pumped the accelerator and raced the engine, warming it.
He looked sideways at Hampton and said, “You sure you really want to come along?”
“It's the last thing I want to do,” the big man said. “I don't share your immunity to Lavelle's powers. I'd much rather stay up there in the apartment, with all the lights on and the candles burning.”
“Then stay. I don't believe you're hiding anything from me. I really believe you've done everything you can. You don't owe me anything more.”
“I owe me. Going with you, helping you if I canthat's the right thing to do. I owe it to myself not to make another wrong choice.”
“All right then.” Jack put the car in gear but kept his foot on the brake pedal. “I'm still not sure I understand how I'm going to find Lavelle.”
“You'll simply know what streets to follow, what turns to make,” Hampton said. “Because of the purification bath and the other rituals we performed, you're now being guided by a higher power.”
“Sounds better than a Three-A map, I guess. Only… I sure don't feel anything guiding me.”
“You will, Lieutenant. But first, we've got to stop at a Catholic church and fill these jars"-he held up two small, empty jars that would hold about eight ounces each—“with holy water. There's a church straight ahead, about five blocks from here.”
“Fine,” Jack said. “But one thing.”
“What's that?”
“Will you drop the formality, stop calling me Lieutenant? My name's Jack.”
“You can call me Carver, if you like.”
“I'd like.”
They smiled at each other, and Jack took his foot off the brake, switched on the windshield wipers, and pulled out into the street.
They entered the church together.
The vestibule was dark. In the deserted nave there were a few dim lights burning, plus three or four votive candles flickering in a wrought iron rack that stood on this side of the communion railing and to the left of the chancel. The place smelled of incense and furniture polish that had evidently been used recently on the well-worn pews. Above the altar, a large crucifix rose high into the shadows.
Carver genuflected and crossed himself. Although Jack wasn't a practicing Catholic, he felt a sudden strong compulsion to follow the black man's example, arid he realized that, as a representative of the Rada on this special night, it was incumbent upon him to pay obeisance to all the gods of good and light, whether it was the Jewish god of the old testament, Christ, Buddha, Mohammed, or any other deity. Perhaps this was the first indication of the “guidance” of which Carver had spoken.
The marble font, just this side of the narthex, contained only a small puddle of holy water, insufficient for 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.”