"I'm just saying, man . . ." Shabazzmuttered, no apology in his tone. "Everybody's got an Achilles' heel, brother."
"Yonnie ain't my Achilles' heel," Carlos shot back angrily. He pointed toward Damali. "She's that, so I'm not trying to jeopardize the house, if that's what you're saying!"
"Then if D is your Achilles' heel, respect thatTara is mine, bro," Rider said, sending a withering glance in Carlos's direction. "Either check your boy or know that he's a dead man walking."
The rapid-fire exchange of angry male voices ricocheted off the kitchen walls, causing the rest of the team to pivot their attention first in one direction and then the other until eerie silence left an echo.
"Can we have a general's meeting, stat?" Damaliasked, her voice calm and her gaze mellow.
"Yeah.Fine," Carlos muttered and stalked out of the kitchen.
She glanced at the team, said nothing, but her eyes told them to just wait and trust her. Slow nods and postures going from tense to at ease bolstered her confidence that they'd hold off any daywalker hunting party at least until she got back.
With swift strides Damali crossed the expansive living room and dining room, finally locating Carlos in the family room. She waited by the archway for a moment as he paced back and forth and finally punched the wall.
"This is so f**ked-up, D, I swear to . . . I just can'tfucking believe it!"
Damali entered the room and glanced at the plaster on the floor. "I know, baby."
"Yonnie and me . . . maaan . . . that brother has had my back more times than I can count.What am I supposed to do? What, the man is supposed to die just because he has a jones forTara -Rider oughta let the bullshit go. We've got bigger problems than all that."
Damali nodded and put her hands behind her back and let out a weary breath. "True . . . but you know this is a matter of honor, right?"
"What!"
"Carlos, think back," she said quietly.
He turned away and crossed the room.
"I know this is your boy and all . . . but the situation is dangerous on both sides. Yonnie could go after Rider, too."
"He wouldn't do that."
"A lot of things can jump off in a split second and happen by accident,then people feel bad about what went down after the fact. You know that, baby." She kept her voice well modulated, gentle, as she approached him like he was an injured lion. When she was close enough to him, she reached out and touched his shoulder, all the while watching the muscles in his jaw clench and release. "I love Yonnie, too . . . just like I love Tara and Rider and the rest of this team."
Carlos rubbed his palms down his face. "Oh, man, D . . . what am I gonna do?"
Father Patrick entered theLos Angeles cathedral, stopping at the holy water font to anoint himself. As he passed the alms box, he left a donation, said a prayer, and moved to the rows of flickering votive candles, lighting one for his dead wife and son, as well as one for Padre Lopez, who to his way of thinking still died way too young. Before he could light one for all the members of the Covenant that had died in the line of duty, quiet footfalls arrested his intentions.
The elderly priest stood, his gaze set upon an immaculately dressed man sitting in the pews, who bore the countenance of an international businessman.
"Still questioning the Almighty, Father?" the stranger said with a half smile, standing slowly to exit the pews. He leisurely strolled down the center aisle bathed in multihued light from the exquisite stained glass.
"Where's Father Breckenridge?" On guard, Father Patrick backed up and looked around.
"The Knights of Templar began with nine knights in eleven nineteenA.D ., correct? A number twelve year. By eleven twenty-eight your secret members had risen to three hundred . . . again, that was a Holy twelve year for you, yes? Then by eleven fifty you had created your first bank, a seven year, and you no longer guarded the road to theHoly Land . . . if my memory of recent history serves me well." The man before him sighed and clucked his tongue. "Then you ran into conflicts with the church-all over money, the supposed root of all evil, and, alas, by thirteen hundred you all were all but gone. Is this a thirteen year for you, Father, an end-times year, or a twelve?"
Father Patrick made the sign of the cross over his heart, feeling the clamminess of pure evil wash over him. A faint ringing in his ears made it hard to focus on the stranger's words, but the subtle threat was implicit. Although the man's voice remained calm and his tone cultured, his eyes contained such smug hatred that Father Patrick dared not turn away.
"I am not afraid to die, if they've sent a hired human killer to gun down an old man in a cathedral," Father Patrick said, lifting his chin.
"I'm offended," the stranger said with a wide smile. "Human? No . . ." His eyes became chasms of blackness as he slowly sauntered forward. "Your second-sight is failing you, old man. Or maybe you've become comfortable cloaked in self-righteousness." He flung Father Breckenridge's Templar ring toward Father Patrick and chuckled evilly as it hit his robes and then fell to a singing chime at his feet. "Haven't you been watching the news-the Diocese of Los Angeles just had a six-hundred-million-dollar settlement adjudged against it for the molestation of children. Quite a stain and a rather open invitation for me to visit their house, wouldn't you agree?"
"Lucifer . . ."
The man before Father Patrick bowed and offered a droll smile. "Fallen houses of worship are one of my favorite places to meet people. You know what they say, meet people where they are, and so forth."
Father Patrick stopped breathing. There was only one entity with the power to breach hallowed ground that carried a stain . . . only at the end of days. "Father, God, protect me from all that is unholy," the elderly cleric whispered.