He thought only of his pleasure.

And he summoned it.

One of his own familiars appeared at the door to the meeting room. He was not alone.

Eyes clouded with the effects of the drugs which had kept them quiet on their journey, the two children stood motionless in the doorway.

Diego rose from behind the table and stood with his arms spread wide. His mouth spread wide.

"Suffer the little children to come unto me," he said.

With a gentle prod from the familiar, Campbell and Steven walked slowly towards the fangs and claws of Lord Diego.

The drugs, and the mind-numbing image of what they had seen done to their mother, kept them mercifully unaware of what happened next.

Diego felt a bit disappointed at having them drugged that way. It did spoil some of the pleasure. But not, he was grateful, all of it.

Six.

Helman was furious. He had spent the day in the Seattle hotel room unable to rest. The strain of the last days had reached a level where it interfered with the relaxation techniques he used to induce sleep. He had been roused three times by the persistent housekeeping staff who knocked on the door despite his Do Not Disturb sign. Each time he had thought it was the phone ringing. He had to have news from Weston, and now he was in the lobby of the Holiday Inn being told that Weston was out of touch.

Seattle, January 19 "Why wouldn't he talk to me when I called in this morning?" Helman's voice was louder than was wise in the small lobby. The agent of the Nevada Project, quite unremarkable except for the heavy black leather gloves he wore, raised a cautionary hand to Helman.

Helman saw the puckered lines of stitching along the fingers of the palm of the glove. It was a Malther Hand.

Helman quieted his voice immediately. The agent would be wearing a vest containing flat battery packs wired up into a step-up transformer. The leads terminated in the glove the agent was wearing. The black leather was actually an insulated rubber compound that would protect the agent when he gripped a victim with the Malther Hand and closed the circuit. The shiny suppleness of the glove was really a coating of a conductor cream to improve the current flow.

The devices were manufactured in Germany, supposedly for police protection in crowd control situations only. The transformer could be set to deliver anything from a mild to fatal shock. The Malther Hands were in wide use in South America as an interrogation tool. Helman had no wish to see at what level the agent's transformer was set.

"Shall we go into the bar?" the agent suggested, lowering his hand.

Helman shook his head.

"Sunset's in less than half an hour. Shell be waking up soon. I can't risk being away. What's the news from Weston?"

"I told you. No news. His plane was forced down in Chicago by the weather. That's why he's not here. He wants to know if you have any idea where the woman is headed. He can move ahead and meet with you tomorrow." The agent's eyes constantly swept the lobby, looking for the one observer whose eyes stayed just a bit too long on Helman and him talking in the corner. So far, they were safe.

"What's the word about my sister and her children?"

"Everything is as we anticipated. That's all I know. Now where is the woman going? You can talk to Weston tomorrow."

The street lights were on outside. Adrienne would be waking. Helman needed the Nevada Project's protection. He had to co-operate.

"Nacimiento," he said, "A small town on the California coast. About halfway between San Francisco-"

"And Los Angeles," the agent said.

"You know about it?" Helman asked.

"A bit. When we first learned about the Jesuits, but before we knew that they were Jesuits, we thought they might be associated with an odd Christian cult that operates out of Nacimiento. Couldn't get closer to it. When we learned the truth about the Jesuits, we dropped the investigation. Is the woman involved with the cult?"

Apparently the Nevada Project didn't know everything.

"No," said Helman. "She's involved with the Father."

"The Father of what?"

"Tell Weston I've got some information for him whenever he decides to keep in touch." Helman was in control. He turned to the elevators.

"Tell me," the agent said and grabbed Helman by the arm. Helman was safe from the Malther Hand as long as it didn't make contact with his bare skin.

Helman turned slowly and whispered.

"Now look who's making a scene. Turn that thing on if you want to," he said, indicating the Hand, "but if I'm not up there when she wakes up, you've lost her. And from the way Weston's been going on, that's not a very good position to be in. Tell him I'll talk to him whenever he wants to talk to me."

The agent let go of Helman's arm. Helman went upstairs to unseal Adrienne. The agent went out to the car where Weston was waiting.

"You were right," the agent said as he got into the car and disconnected the wires leading to his glove. "She's going to the Father."

Weston signalled the driver to leave.

"That's what I'd do," he said. "How's Helman?"

"Looks strung out. Anxious about his sister. I told him a little about that cult we thought we had found in Nacimiento so he'd be a bit prepared for what he's going to find there. But I let him think we didn't know about the Father. I think it made him feel better to think that now you had a reason to get in touch with him. He accepted the Chicago story but he wasn't happy about it."

The driver took the cut-off from 5 to 405. At this time of day it was a faster trip to the airport than trying to drive through Seattle.

Weston stared out at the passing city for a long time before he spoke again.

"Have them close up Washington and meet us in Nacimiento."

The agent was shocked. But at the same time oddly relieved. For the first time the battle lines were clearly drawn.

"It's finally come to this?" the agent asked. "You're sure?"

"Who else can we go to? Everyone will be necessary in Nacimiento. How long do you think our offices would stay secure if none of us come back? How long do you think our records would last? They'd be the hottest thing on the block in Washington since the unaltered autopsy report on William Casey. Too many explanations will be required and there'd be no one left to give them. By the time the first incubation period ends and the deaths begin, the government would already be paralysed. Everything in the office has to be destroyed. Everything."

"So it's all been for nothing, after all?"

"The Nevada Project, by itself, yes." It hurt Weston to say it, but it was the truth. "But we have a few other options. Starting next week, unless some of us are around to countermand the orders, there will be packets of information released to some selected writers outside the country. There will be enough conspiracy books on the market for people to realise that something is up. The government won't be able to suppress articles published outside the country."

"Why not release it direct to the AMA? The New York Times?"

"They'll check anything this big through government sources. That's the last anyone will hear of it. It's got to be done outside Washington's influence. Remember, we weren't supposed to suppress the truth, we were to gather it. Fit it all together to spare the world from the half-truths and the panic of ignorance. Things just didn't work out. What a fitting epitaph that would make. Here lies the world. Things just didn't work out."

The agent smiled without sharing Weston's humour. But then, they all knew Weston was a dying man. He was allowed to say those things.

"Shall I cancel the coffee report for the Lancet article?" the agent asked.

Weston was instantly serious again.

"No. Let that be publicised. There's still a chance well get out of this one alive, you know. The Lancet article talks about airborne transmission because that's the only way so many could contract it at once. Except that with everyone in the United States drinking coffee everyday, there's enough room for an alternate explanation for the findings. The coffee report is a brilliant piece of forged research. I bet the Lancet won't even publish the airborne transmission work after they see a copy of it." "At least we do some things well," the agent concluded.

"There's still Nacimiento," Weston said. "It means 'birthplace'."

"But of what?"

The car drove toward the airport.

Seven.

Father Clement clutched at the crucifix beneath his coat, and prayed for strength. He was to meet one of them and his memories of Spain forty years ago made his stomach churn at the prospect. What if it happened again? The wind was cold and snowflakes made halos around the short lamp standards that burned along the pathway. Clement could feel them out there. Hiding like wraiths in the shadows of the trees and bushes. He wondered if more people than usual would meet their deaths in Central Park that night.

New York, January 19 The noise of the city was a muffled background roar in each direction. Through the light, falling snow the twinkling windows of the apartments ringing the park flickered like exploding gaseous stars: a glimpse of Heaven in the midst of Hell.

Clement sat on a bench at the top of a small rise. A pathway ran down either side. A lamp standard shone behind him. Four scholastics, armed with hidden cross-bows, stood well away, invisible in the shadows, guarding against the treachery of the undead. A figure approached along the pathway leading from within the park. Not even the muggers went deep within the park at night anymore. Clement clutched even tighter at his crucifix. The figure came nearer.

It was bent and appeared wrapped in a huge coat which dragged around its feet. As the figure drew closer to the shifting circle of light thrown by the wind-shaken lamp post, Clement saw that it was bent over and walking with a peculiar shuffle. The light caught something silvery hanging from the figure. It was another crucifix. The light captured more detail. The figure wore a monk's habit. A heavy cowl threw dark shadows across his face.

The monk stopped in front of Clement. Clement peered deep within the shadows of the cowl but could see nothing.

An old man's voice said, "Good evening, Father. It's rare to see such a one as you so late in this place."

"Who are you?" Clement said angrily, his breath steaming from his mouth. He did not notice that no breath steamed from without the cowl.

"A fellow traveller on the Lord's path," the figure said. He lifted his mittened hands to the cowl and pulled it back.

An old man's face, softly framed by a thick beard of grey and black was revealed. "Might I sit with you awhile, Father?"

the old monk asked, gesturing to the bench.

"No, no. Go away. You're interfering." Clement was nervous and confused. What was a monk doing in Central Park?

The old man shook his head. "That's hardly what I'd call Christian charity, Father Clement. Or perhaps you're waiting for an altar boy to come and do some special praying in your lap?"

Clement stood up in anger. "How dare you-" And then he realised the old man had called him by name. And then he realised ...

The old man smiled broadly. His beard parted and his carnivore fangs glinted in the lamp light. Lord Diego had kept his appointment.

The moment was frozen as Clement stared at the fangs and the familiar eyes and recognised the face from forty years ago. The Pit was once again reaching out for him, calling him. He must resist. Clement ripped his crucifix from beneath his coat and held it menacingly in Diego's face. "Get back in the name of God."

Diego smiled again and stared at the crucifix.

"What an elegant artefact, Father Clement," he said. "But not, I'm afraid, as elegant as mine." Diego lifted the crucifix hanging from his own neck and held it up in front of Clement's face, "Observe the workmanship," Diego continued. "The artistry of the craftsman's skill. It was a gift to me when I was in the service of Father Lavalette, in Martinique, more than two hundred years ago. Surely you remember him, Father Clement? I was his financial advisor." Father Lavalette was the Jesuit whose failed investments had brought ruin to the Society. Clement's mind reeled with Diego's revelation.

"Sacrilege," Clement sputtered, his eyes riveted by the sight of the unholy monster before him holding an image of God. Yet the creature was unmarked! It was impossible. Clement himself had seen vampires burned horribly by the touch of a Holy article; scalded by the spray of Holy Water. Diego was playing a Devil's trick upon him.

"Sacrilege!" he shouted again and thrust his crucifix into the face of Diego.

Diego did not move. The crucifix smashed against his face, tearing away a portion of the false beard which hid his fangs. Diego brought his hand up and clenched it around Clement's wrist. He squeezed. Bones painfully grated against each other in Clement's forearm.

"Are you sure you're holding it close enough, Priest? Why not closer?" Diego lifted Clement's hand away as though he were playing a child's game. He forced the priest to place the crucifix in the middle of Diego's forehead.

Clement's arm moved in the vampire's grip as if it were a puppet's. Tears from the pain of the crushed bones streamed down his face, freezing in the chilling wind.

"What's this, Priest?" Diego said in mock surprise. "The flesh is unmarked by this most holy of artifacts?" He moved Clement's hand again. His forehead was unblemished. "How about here? Or here? Or here?"

Clement was jerked like a rag doll as Diego forced his arm from one position to another. He pressed the crucifix against each cheek, against his neck. Finally, with a savage twist that caused a snapping sound in Clement's shoulder, he forced the Priest to hold the crucifix against his groin. Clement could feel Diego's erection pushing against the image of Jesus. The Jesuit wrenched his hand and dropped the defiled crucifix onto the pathway. Diego laughed and released him.

"It appears that your God does not wish to harm me, Father Clement. What a strange turn of events. I think I would like to thank him."

Clement held his burning wrist to his chest. Why had God deserted him in this moment? How could that spawn of the Devil handle such a Holy object?

Diego reached down and retrieved the cross.

"In fact," he said, "I would like to kiss him."

Diego held the image of Jesus to his lips and sucked upon it. His tongue rolled around the edges of the tiny form.

"Stop it!" Clement screamed at the top of his lungs. "Stop in God's name!" The tears that flowed now were from outrage, not from the forgotten pain.

Diego, abruptly, stopped. He held out the crucifix to Clement. Saliva dripped obscenely from the small silver figure frozen in agony upon the cross.

"Would you like it back, Father Clement?"

Father Clement swung out his hand and smashed the crucifix from Diego's hand. It flew off into the dark, snow- sprinkled grass beside the bench.

"Ah," said Diego. "That is the first wise move you have made in years. Congratulations. You have rejected your silly superstition."

"You denied it," Clement said.

"Think of all the times those things have defiled poor yber who didn't know any better. But I know better, Father Clement. I don't accept the superstitious beliefs of your church, and those superstitions become incapable of hurting me. I know that you don't believe in them either."