"Yes," Lacey said. She was looking past him, a strange light dancing in her eyes. "Yes, I believe there is."
She grabbed the flashlight and hurried to the kitchen. Joe heard her opening drawer after drawer, rattling utensils. Apparently she found what she was looking for because she returned to the table and stood beside him with her hands behind her back.
"Close your eyes and open your mouth," she said.
"This is no time for games, Lacey. I'm starving."
A smile appeared; it looked painted on. "Humor me, Unk. Open your mouth and close your eyes."
Joe complied, and then things started happening—fast. He sensed Lacey move closer, heard a gasp of shock—Carole?—then felt something warm and firm and wet pressed into his mouth. He'd never tasted anything like it— utterly delicious. He opened his eyes and saw Lacey close, a steak knife in one hand, and the other—
—pressed against his mouth.
Joe flung himself backward, and this time he did go over, landing on his back. He felt no pain, only revulsion at the sight of his niece's bloody thumb, and at himself the way he licked his lips and wanted more. A glimpse of Carole's white face and stricken expression over Lacey's shoulder was the final blow.
Instead of climbing back to his feet, Joe rolled onto his side, facing away from them, and sobbed with shame. He wished he could dissolve into a liquid and seep between the floorboards to hide from their eyes. For he knew how they must be looking at him—with the same revulsion as he'd felt about the undead before . . . before . . .
And worse. He realized that his hunger was gone. Just those few drops of Lacey's blood had sated him.
He groaned. He wanted to crawl out of this house and their sight on his belly like the lesser being he'd become.
No ... he wanted to die. Truly die.
Keeping an arm across his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the loathing in their faces, he rolled over onto his back and tore open his shirt, baring his chest.
"Do it, Carole. I don't want to be this way. End it now. Please."
No response, no sound of movement.
Joe uncovered his eyes and found Carole and Lacey staring at him from where he'd left them at the table. They looked like mannequins, but their expressions reflected more shock than revulsion.
He pounded a fist against his chest, over his heart. "Please, Carole! I'm begging you. If you've ever cared the slightest for me, either of you, you won't let me to go on as the creature I am now."
Carole only shook her head.
He looked at his niece. "Lacey? Please? You can do this one thing for me, can't you?"
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she shook her head. "No. I can't. You're too . . . you."
Back to Carole: "You hate the undead, Carole. I can tell. So why won't you put this sick dog out of his misery? "
"I could never hate you, Father Joe, but I could loathe you if you ... if you were one of them. But it's plain that you loathe yourself more than I ever could, and that. . . that means you're not one of them."
"But I'm halfway there. What if this is just some sort of transitional phase and by tomorrow I'll be fully undead."
She shook her head. "There is no transitional phase."
"You don't know that!" He was shouting now.
Carole didn't raise her voice, only shifted her gaze to the side and said, "I do. I've seen how the change goes, and you are different. You're asking one of us to drive a stake through your heart. I can't say for sure, but I doubt very much that any undead in the history of time has made such a request. The very fact that you've asked is proof that you aren't one of them."
"Then in God's name, what am I?"
"A weapon, perhaps."
A weapon? The word stirred him. Joe sat up and hugged his knees against his chest.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you have any desire to continue what you started at the church?"
Joe hadn't given it a thought. He'd been too preoccupied with figuring out what had happened to him. But now that he did think about it. . .
"I don't see how it's possible. I can't see them following an undead priest."
"You're not undead."
"I'm certainly not their Father Joe any longer."
"You'll always be—"
"No. I can't be a priest anymore. How can I when I can't ever say Mass again? I can't look at a cross or touch one without getting burned. I certainly can't taste the consecrated bread and wine—assuming I didn't burst into flame trying to say the prayers to consecrate it."
"Father Joe—"
"Don't call me that again. I am no longer a priest, so stop calling me 'Father.' It's an insult to all those who still deserve the title. From now on it's Joe, just plain Joe."
"Very well, J—" Carole seemed to have trouble with the name. "Very well, Joseph. You don't want to go back to leading your parish. Do you have any desire to go on fighting the undead?"
"More than ever."
And with those three words a whole world of possibilities opened up before Joe. He struggled back to his feet. He felt excited, the first positive emotion he'd experienced since leaping from the observation deck the other night.
Carole had called him a weapon. He could see that she was right. By some strange quirk of fate he'd become a sort of half-breed. There had to be a way he could use that against the undead. Make them pay for what they'd done to his world, to his friends and loved ones, to him.
"I think it's time to fight back."
While there's still time... on the chance that I'll become like that feral who killed me ... Devlin.
A terrible purpose surged through him. Yes, fight back, and maybe somewhere down the road he'd meet again with Franco. If he didn't, and if somewhere along that road he met his end—his final end—well, that was all right too. In fact, he'd welcome it. He had no illusions that he and Carole and Lacey and whoever else they picked up along the way could drive the undead horde back to Europe, but when he met his inevitable end he wanted to know he'd taken as many as possible with him.
OLIVIA . . .
"My, my," Olivia asked. "Wherever can he be?" She was enjoying this. Artemis paced between the beds in the sleeping room. "I don't know."
Immediately after sunset he had gone over to the church area to watch the rectory for the priest's emergence. He'd wanted her to come along but her get had protested. Olivia had feigned reluctance in giving in to their wishes. In truth, she had no intention of leaving this building until she was sure the vigilantes had been identified and removed. Jules, darling Jules, had gone in her place.
"Perhaps he sneaked out a back door."
"The building has only two doors and we had both covered."
"Then he must be still inside."
"He's not!" Artemis cried. "I sneaked inside to check. He was left in the basement and he's not there now. He's not anywhere in the rectory!"
How odd, Olivia thought. "Could he have sneaked out a window then?"
"Possible, but unlikely."
"Then it must be a miracle!"
Artemis halted his pacing and glared with his good eye. "Not funny, Olivia."
"And not breaking the back of the insurrection, either. So much for Franco's coup."
"He's not going to be happy." Artemis looked worried. "And as usual he'll blame everyone but himself."
"Poor Artemis."
He took a quick step toward her, index finger raised and jabbing toward her face.
"Don't think you'll get off free, Olivia. Especially when he learns how you've been hiding under a rock the whole time."
Olivia stiffened. The last thing she needed was to be on Franco's bad side, especially when she was short on serfs.