"Yes," Dantalion said. "My spy among the hunters has given me excellent information. We know all the plans of the Salamanca hunters. Where each is going. What their missions are." His pride showed on his face.

She covered her alarm with a cough. "Spy?"

Lucifer beamed at the Russian. "Dantalion used to be partners with Rasputin himself. Do you remember Rasputin? He was a Russian mystic in the nineteenth century."

Aurora nodded stiffly. "He studied mesmerism."

Lucifer nodded. "Which is, of course, one of a vampire's greatest strengths. Hypnotizing our victims helped us keep in the shadows for so long. But it is always a personal thing. We look into the eyes of one person, command them to do our will. Dantalion can do it to many and from a distance." Lucifer waggled his brows. "In fact, he was the one who saved you from Antonio de la Cruz at the battle of Salamanca. He made Antonio imagine that he was burning at the stake. Magnifico, no?"

"Oh? Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you, Dantalion," she said, reeling at the implications. Dantalion had seen the battle at Salamanca. Had he told Lucifer that the little Hunter, Eriko, had nearly killed her? And that she, Aurora, had gone to Salamanca to recapture Antonio before Lucifer found out that she'd lost him?

"It was my pleasure," Dantalion said. He sighed dramatically. "I only wish that I could have helped Sergio."

"Si," Aurora said. "Now, about the spy. Who is it?" She heard how desperate she sounded. "I would love to know," she added in a warm, seductive voice. She needed to know if they had been watching her, reporting on her.

"Someone they'd never suspect," Lucifer replied, chuckling. "But come, Aurora, come and admire what else he's accomplished."

Lucifer cupped her cheek. She knew it would be such a simple matter, a trifle, to grab her head and yank it off her neck. She'd killed vampires that way a dozen times, and Lucifer was much stronger than she. If he wanted to kill her, there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

I must charm him, and keep myself dear to him, as I did in the old days. Lucifer had graciously stepped aside when the sparks had flown between Sergio and her. Perhaps it was time to fan those flames once more-between Lucifer and her.

She reached up on tiptoe and kissed Lucifer's mouth, lingering at his fangs. "I can barely wait," she murmured. "Where are these wonderful accomplishments?"

"Why, in the dungeon, of course," Lucifer replied. He c.o.c.ked his head and stroked Aurora's left fang with his forefinger. By the G.o.ds below, would he break it off?

She laughed. "Only you would have a dungeon in an Italian villa, my master," she cooed.

"Only I, and all those filthy Popes who reigned during our lifetimes," Lucifer said. His face darkened, and she felt his rage surge through his body. He turned the force of his crimson eyes on her. "They will pay, all those churchmen. And anyone who stands in our way."

"Like Solomon," Dantalion put in.

"I haven't forgotten your vendetta against that one," Lucifer said to Dantalion. "Solomon will beg for mercy." He smiled at Aurora. "And I will show him none."

Aurora made a show of sighing. "I love it when you talk like that."

His smile grew-predatory, calculating, l.u.s.tful. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand, allowing his fangs to slice it open, just the top layer.

"I know," he replied. "And I have done-and will do-so many more things that you'll love. Now, come."

Aurora kept her head held high and her fears to herself as the three headed down to the dungeons.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Salamanca Hunter's Manual: Emotion

Yours must be the avenging fury of the Lord G.o.d. You can not indulge in the petty hatreds of those who have not been called to serve as the Hunter. Anger is a waste of your strength. Stay calm in the face of insult and adversity. Know that on the battlefield against the Cursed Ones, your composure may save your life.

(translated from the Spanish) LONDON, ENGLAND.

JAMIE.

Jamie, with his many tattoos and the angry vibe he gave out all the time, stuck out most places, especially in Spain. Crossing borders these days meant looking inconspicuous, which meant wearing a sweater and a knit cap, keeping his eyes on the ground, saying "yes, sir," "no, sir," the whole b.l.o.o.d.y thing. And carrying nothing that looked even remotely like a weapon that could kill vampires. So he'd had to leave the stakes and crosses and holy water behind. But he'd been able to hide his guns. Only one bloke had found them, and a crisp bill had ensured the guard looked the other way.

Once he had finally made it to London, Jamie found that it was easier to fit in. At least with the fringe crowd. Which was just fine with him. The people he threaded his way through in one of the darker back alleys of London were just his type of p.i.s.sed-off antigovernment anarchists. He wasn't even the only Irishman.

Tired, wary, he slogged into a small, dark pub and took a seat at the bar. It was midday. He was a good week out from Toledo, and he hadn't slept a wink in going on forty hours. A couple of nifty new spells relayed by Father Juan revealed that Skye had left Spain, and three days ago the Father had called to tell him he'd "seen" her in England. Then nothing, and the stone Father Juan had given him had yet to light up or do whatever it was supposed to do when he was within twenty miles of her.

Which meant she probably wasn't in the city. Which meant she could be anywhere. That was just too much territory to cover without more information. He hoped that a drink would clear his head. Maybe some of the locals could help him figure out where a coven of Dark Witches was likely to be hiding out.

If they even believe in witches. Two thirds of the planet still doesn't believe there are werewolves, and the b.l.o.o.d.y witches have gone out of their way to hide.

"What's your poison?" the bartender, a man with sallow skin and an enormous mustache, asked him.

"Give me a shot," Jamie said, eyeing the others around him. "Whiskey."

"Seems like you're looking for more than that," the bartender said, his tone suggestive.

"Look, boyo, I'm not-" Jamie turned around and stopped in mid-sentence. Below heavy lids the bartender's eyes were glowing ruby red. And in the mirror behind the bar, Jamie's was the only reflection to be seen. A dozen other drinkers in this bar, and none of 'em human.

Jamie leaped off his barstool with a string of swear words. He grabbed the stool and smashed it against the counter. It splintered into a dozen pieces, and he clutched one of them and went to stake the bartender.

But the vampire wasn't there anymore. Jamie twisted and saw that he was at the front door, throwing the dead bolt. Jamie was locked in with the vampires.

I'm going to die. Just like me sister, Maeve. Just like Eriko.

He sucked in his breath and exhaled. He heard himself begin to recite a Hail Mary out loud.

The vampire nearest him snickered. Jamie hurled the wooden stake in his hand and nailed the monster in the heart.

That's for blasphemy, he thought, as the creature turned to dust.

Two more Cursed Ones rushed him. Jamie dropped to the floor, grabbed each of them by a knee, and flipped them onto their backs. Before they could get up, he had scooped up two more shards of chair. He charged forward and straddled the one on the left and slammed the stake home.

That's for me ma.

He spun and narrowly escaped being bitten by the second one as he lurched to his knees. A quick feint to the left and then he got behind the Curser. Another stake through the heart.

That's for me da.

"Hail Mary, full o' grace, ya sodding suckers!" he shouted. He jumped to his feet just in time to backhand another Cursed One as it came at him. Blood sprayed from the creature's cheek where Jamie cut it open. It struck back, slashing at him with razorlike nails. They cut through his shirt, cut into his chest. He could tell, but he felt no pain. All he felt was . . .

Dust as the monster went up like kindling beneath Jamie's makeshift stake.

That's for Eri.

More Cursers rushed him. His foot slipped on the floor in a pool of blood that he thought might be his, and he crashed down onto one knee. He managed to hold on to his stake, and he jabbed it sharply upward into a Cursed One's chest while he reached for another stake with his free hand.

That's for Maeve.

He hacked and slashed and kept turning, never letting anything get behind him.

That's for Northern Ireland.

Another Curser dead.

That's for the university, the students and teachers all dead.

And another.

That one's for me and the life you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds stole from me.

And at last he ran out of weapons and still there were more vampires.

The front door suddenly exploded inward, and a hail of arrows came whizzing through. One skimmed his jaw, and he dropped to the ground, pushing a table over to use as cover. There was the roar of angry vampires all around him.

And then there was nothing.

Slowly Jamie sat up to survey the bar. Vampire dust swirled in the air, but nothing else moved. He eased himself up more so that he could get a better look at the door. A slender form filled it, and for a moment he thought it was a young boy. In each hand there was a specially designed crossbow fitted with three bolts each.

Cautiously his rescuer stepped inside, and Jamie saw that it was a girl. She was Skye's age, maybe a year or two younger. She had flaming red hair and enormous green eyes. She was dressed in military-style fatigues, and her hair was pulled back with a black hair elastic.

"I think you got them all. And thanks," he said.

She swiveled toward him with her bows extended. He dropped back down behind the table, afraid she might shoot him by mistake.

"Come out," she ordered in a lilting Irish accent.

He stood slowly, putting his hands where she could see him.

"How many more of you are there?" she asked.

"Just me." He stood and stepped around the table toward her.

"That's as far as you go," she said. "I'll dust you same as the others."

"I'm not a bleeding Curser!"

She dropped one of the crossbows and, swift as lightning, hurled something at him. A gla.s.s vial shattered against his shoulder, and water sprayed his face.

"Oi!" he bellowed.

She c.o.c.ked her head. "That's holy water. You're not burning."

"I told you, not a b.l.o.o.d.y vampire." He pointed to where the mirror had hung, but noticed that it had been destroyed. Nothing showed through but the moldy wall that had been behind it.

"Well, you smell like one," she observed, lowering her one weapon as she stooped to reclaim the other crossbow.

Jamie stared at her.

"If you're not a fanger, what are you doin' in a bleedin' pub?" she asked, indicating their surroundings.

He lifted his chin and crossed his arms over his heaving chest. "Getting a short, what you think?"

She regarded him with large green eyes. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Belfast. I haven't been home nor here, either, in a while." He squinted at her. "Why?"

She looked at him as if he were a moron. "Pubs are only for fangers and those what want to drink with them."

He closed the distance between them and grabbed her shoulders. "What are you saying?"

She stared down at his hand on her right shoulder, but she didn't move away from him. "Been that way at least a year. Irish, Welsh, Scots, English, we've been driven out of our own pubs by the b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

He read the truth in her eyes, and rage flared inside him. "They took our beer? And no one fought back?"

"Hard to find any fighters back home," she retorted. "Fangers have killed most of 'em. All that's left are children and old men and cowards."

"Say you're a liar."

"I'm not." She made a face at him. "They took our whiskey, too."

There were no words for what he felt, just a sense of deep anguish. It was a fist to his gut.

He let her go, and she showed her back as she headed outside. He grabbed his bag and followed after.

"So what are you doing here?" she asked as he caught up.

"Looking for a friend of mine that's been taken."