"I'm in, but Rider-"
"Has had my back for over twenty years."
For a moment, he just stared at her. "And Rivera was cool with that going down in his territory?"
"You and I both know that Carlos has always had a soft spot for that team."
Yonnie nodded and began to gather the transport clouds about them. He concentrated; it was taking longer to generate the swirling winds than ever before. "I don't know if I can do it," he whispered, closing his eyes tightly, summoning the energy for their dematerialization. Humiliation and rage filled him. The sun would be rising soon. He redoubled his efforts to no avail.
He looked at the lower-generation female, the panic in her eyes clear. "I may need your help," he said, shame singeing his tone. "Whatever is being sucked out of the territory is weakening my powers. Has anyone ever moved you through the night? Do you know how to summon the winds? Command velocity?"
She shook her head sadly. "I've never been taken by a master, and can't tell you much more than you already know." She walked in closer to Yonnie and placed her hand in his, her eyes searching his. "But I know I was sent to find you. There is purpose in our being together. We are from the same lands, from the same stolen tribes; our human bloodlines intersect with Carlos's. My people were native to this earth, just like his... yours were brought here by force, just like mine were forced into near extinction. Draw from that. Summon the wind. Take us to the place that I showed you. I believe in you... you're all I have left to count on."
His eyes never left hers as he felt a current bind their hands. He literally felt the energy of the ground beneath his feet pulse alive within the small spot of earth where her feet were planted, issuing forth concentric circles of fluctuating power. He locked into that power and rode it, seeing the real beauty of her face for the very first time. Aware of the silver at her throat, he leaned in close to her, nearly brushing her mouth as the winds gathered and swirled, the energy connecting as their bodies began to disintegrate. "I know you're spoken for, pretty shaman," he murmured as the winds howled and picked up, "but tell me your name."
"Tara," she whispered as they disappeared.
Struggling to sit up, Berkfield scanned the room in panic. Small windows, narrow confines, medical equipment everywhere, flashes of the laboratory that began his nightmare entered his mind while he stared at two men in white lab coats. If he could just reach something to use as a weapon. Then slowly he comprehended what he was seeing. The doctors were taking blood, not injecting him. Vials were being placed in a silver box with a religious crest-a crucifix. This was not the work of vampires. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The man speaking behind him was a cleric.
Tears came to Berkfield's eyes when he saw the heavy silver cross hanging from the man's neck, his white clerical collar, as he prayed in an Australian accent.
"My wife, my children," Berkfield croaked. "I have to get off this ship before dark falls again."
The cleric kissed his crucifix and came to Berkfield's side, wrapping his shaking hand around it as both men grasped it and held onto it for dear life.
"They are in the Vatican, Richard," the cleric assured him. "Father Patrick flew them to Rome when they showed up at his safe house. You're on a plane and are going somewhere safe until you can meet them again. The Darkness no longer imprisons you."
Slowly Berkfield relaxed and nodded as his memory came back in jagged pieces... being submerged in jasmine-scented water within the cathedral font. Frankincense. Dousing. Incessant liturgical mutterings as his clothes were stripped and burned. He looked at the cleric and began to sob. Doctors joined his side.
"This man has been under a lot of stress," he heard one voice say. "Do you want us to give him a tranquilizer so he can make it through the long flight? He's near collapse."
"No," the cleric said. "Our orders are to just give him water and some clear broths, fresh fruit, something to nourish him and make him comfortable-butdo not pollute his blood."
The moment the cleric mentioned his blood, Richard Berkfield was off the table and fighting against the many arms and hands that held him. Screaming for help, he punched and kicked at his attackers. "No more blood!" he yelled. "Get the beasts away from me!" His voice rose, shrill with hysteria. "I won't let you take me to them! Get off me! Get the hell off me!"
A hard slap across his face. Dazed, it took a moment for him to respond, but it was long enough for the cleric to say quickly, "I'm sorry my hand has offended. We are men of God. We mean you no harm. We protect you and your family. You've had the Lamb's Blood within your veins and must be kept from all harm. Stop fighting us so we can help you." Two large tears rolled down the cleric's weathered cheeks and he drew a shaky breath. "No human being on the planet has ever held the honor... I've never witnessed such a miracle in all my years of faith. There are so many questions I want to ask you.Please . Trust me."
Totally stunned, Berkfield watched in awe as the cleric went down on his knees, shielding his face in his palms and began sobbing. By some odd twist of events, the doctors now assisted the elderly, white-haired man with the collar, giving a male nurse instruction to get a needle ready with a tranquilizer injection.
"No. Don't," Berkfield said, clarity coming from some unknown source despite the chaos still roaming through his mind. "The poor man is just overwhelmed, like all of us. Let him sit down and bring him some water." He bent and helped the older cleric up, but that seemed to make him sob even harder. Every place that Berkfield's hand landed in assistance, the cleric touched in awe and reverence, and began wailing anew.
It took almost ten minutes for the man to collect himself and then rise with the help of Berkfield and two doctors, and finally become calm enough to sit down in a chair facing the table that Berkfield had been lying on. For a long while, the cleric just sat, simply staring at him, holding a cup of water without drinking it. Berkfield sat on the gurney staring at him, waiting.
"When we touch down in Manila, they have military facilities with state-of-the-art equipment to give you an MRI, full set of X-rays, run a battery of tests, and-"
"Hold it right there," Berkfield said, his voice tense as he stared at the doctor who had spoken. "I don't do military nuthin'. Been there, done that. Sick militaristic SOBs sold their souls to develop new weapons, and I'm not trying to be their lab rat ever again." Fear tore through him as he stared at the cleric. "Father, don't let them take me there. Please."
"We have equipment in Rome," the cleric said, finding his voice and his strength. "Do as he asks."
To Berkfield's surprise, the doctors deferred to the older man.
"As you wish, Cardinal," one said.
"We meant no harm, just wanted to get him to the most modern facilities possible, as soon as possible, in case his body had been harmed in some way, given his ordeal. We didn't want him to have to try to get any tests done in Ethiopia, where their medical facilities are strained beyond comprehension," another doctor said quickly, trying not to further offend. "It will be such a long flight, and he cannot be left injured. What if there was internal organ damage or hemorrhaging that we didn't discover?"
Berkfield's eyes widened. "You're a cardinal?"
The cleric nodded but averted his gaze toward the floor. "Yes, Your Eminence. And these doctors are also men of the faith-clerics. No one but those of the order has touched you. That I assure you. Their concerns are real, however, and I'm no doctor."