Big Mike crossed the room and he gently placed a hand on the cleric's shoulder. "None of us knew what this was about, man. You've gotta let it go."
Father Patrick shrugged away and crossed the room again, making all eyes follow him. "My church has just sacrificed an entire crew of their best warriors! I fought for them, bled for them, lost family and men for them, and I am now expendable? And you say I have to let it go?" His hot gaze landed on Carlos. "And this young man who I have come to love as my own was brought back from the ashes, literally, before my very eyes, and now, because of some unknown twist of fate, I'm supposed to take his head off with the Isis? After overcoming the fact that he was a drug dealer-the same sort that put my own son in the ground from an overdose? I have to forget all that, have to now do the unthinkable after I already passed the test to love my enemy-a drug-dealing vampire, like a son?" He laughed. The sound of it was filled with a shrill hysteria. "Never happen. Not becausethe system says I should. I will only do that," he exclaimed, pointing a shaky finger upward, "if He tells me to. Not because menthink Carlos might be a threat. Never again."
Father Patrick smoothed the front of his robes, and looked down at the crest on his medallion. "It is time for the commoners to band together, to take direct instruction from On High, not middlemen strutting around in robes or professions of power. The final battle will be waged by those with nothing except faith to protect them. The meek shall inherit the earth. Our religions have been twisted by dogma, rhetoric, politics, greed, you name it." A bitter sob choked off Father Patrick's words. "I trusted them," he whispered, his eyes frantic as he looked up, holding Imam Asula's gaze. "You and I go way back, my dear brother, just like me and Lin. The triumvirate. We are the eldest living members of the Covenant, and have been friends for so long, so you know what pain is in my heart. Our religious orders have abandoned us, and have become numb to the principles of love and compassion. I cannot go on carrying their banner this way."
"We have not been abandoned," Imam Asula said, trying to restore reason to his fracturing Covenant brother. "This is simply a test. We should pray, now, I believe." He paused and began walking toward Father Patrick slowly.
"In stillness we find clarity. In friendship we find the threads of faith. My dear brother and loyal friend, please do not lose your hope," Monk Lin murmured, bowing toward Father Patrick.
"Don't kill that boy," Father Patrick whispered through a sob. "Not on my 'watch.' "
"Come my friend," Imam Asula said, opening his arms to offer an embrace as he walked toward Father Patrick. "There are times when the burden is too massive for one set of shoulders. Let me and Lin share your load. We will not raise arms unless absolutely necessary, but praying now is a must. Hold the mustard seed of faith, my friend. Come."
"That sounds like a good idea, dude," Rider said, making all eyes turn toward him as Imam Asula gathered Father Patrick in his arms and held him close. "With this turbulence kicking up, and all of us losing it, who knows what forces are at work making the teams wig. Weall need to pray."
Carlos watched the Isis blades vibrate on the table and worry wrapped itself around his spinal cord, strangling each disc in his back. Damali's was on a hospital table downstairs, and the doctors had to work with unsteady hands. That reality fought for dominance over the scene that was unfolding within the conference room.
Father Patrick's pain and disillusionment hurt him to his soul. He could identify with the old man's sense of being robbed. He'd known that violation all his life. He wanted to shore his mentor and friend up, give him something to cling to, and yet, what could he say at this moment? At the same time, turbulence was rocking the plane, making Damali's situation on the table precarious. If he didn't exist and could just die peacefully without struggle, to his way of thinking no one else would have to suffer.
"Listen," Carlos said after a long pause, his tone careful and measured. "If Damali is on the table downstairs and they are scraping the insides of her uterus out, one bad bump, one false move, and one of those doctors could puncture her womb. My baby girl could bleed to death trying to save the group from a midair nightmare. And it is f**king me up. So everybody chill, get focused, and if you know how to pray, pray for the doctor to have a steady hand."
Carlos raked his hands through his hair and began pacing. He was glad that no one drew away from him as though he had the plague. If he was still a vampire, it sure didn't feel like it. His power was gone; most of all what was missing in his arsenal was the power to make sure Damali was safe or to take away Father Patrick's anguish.
"Tell you what," Carlos said after a moment. "What if you just do me now, get her off the table, then when you touch down in Manila you can have her seen by doctors on steady ground and can incinerate my body. Fuck it. There's no more fight left in me, and in this condition of weakness, I don't want to live anyway. But more than anything, I don't want her bleeding to death up here and I don't want her made sterile for the rest of her life because of some bullshit I did to her."
Carlos snatched the short Isis blade from the table before Father Lopez could reach it, and slashed his palm. "See, red blood. It's not black. But I still don't care. I can't help you all. I don't have any special powers! I'm not a Guardian, not a vampire, notanything anymore. So it doesn't matter if you do me-I'm only slowing down the team, creating a variable that's weakening your faiths-and you're gonna need that to fight what's chasing you. So be men and just do it, and get your shit together and keep my woman safe from this till the end of time!"
Red blood bubbled from Carlos's clenched fist and splattered on the table, creating a crimson puddle. The teams looked at the growing pool, mesmerized by the strange iridescence it contained.
Berkfield went to Carlos's side, snatching off his skullcap.
"Everybody relax," Berkfield said. "We're all at the brink and need to just calm down." He took Carlos's wrist and held it firmly not allowing him to snatch it away.
"Aren't you afraid that I'll bite you?" Carlos said, his gaze hard as he stared at Berkfield.
"Cut the crap and the theatrics, Rivera," Berkfield said, wrapping the deep gash with the crocheted cap and applying pressure to it. "They said I'm immune. Who knows and who cares at this point? All I know is that if we're gonna survive, we have to all pull together. So, whatever beef we've got with the powers-that-be, we have to settle that later. We've got a young woman on the table who needs a steady hand and no turbulence." His gaze went to the seat-belt signs posted in the room, making the others note that the yellow caution lights had flicked on.
"My point, exactly," Carlos said, wincing as Berkfield squeezed the cut harder. It felt like his hand was on fire as Berkfield applied greater pressure. He could feel beads of sweat begin to form on his brow, and with his uninjured hand he wiped it, suddenly feeling so weak that he almost slumped against the man at his side.
"Steady, holmes," Jose said, hurrying to Carlos's other side and catching his weight to help him into a chair.
"He must have lost a lot of blood before," Berkfield said, huffing suddenly, his breaths coming in short pants as his face flushed and Father Patrick caught him before he went down.
"Oh, shit," Rider said, helping to sprawl both men in their chairs. "We just had a blood transfer up here, no Marlene to-"
"Look at his wound," Father Patrick said, turning Berkfield's hand over as his palm split, bubbled with blood, and then slowly sealed.
Carlos stared at his hand and removed the soaked skullcap from it, his gaze darting between his hand and Berkfield's. "I didn't do that. It came from him. I felt the current pass into my hand, not out of it."
"He's a healer," Imam Asula said in awe. "The sacred blood he carries heals."
"I don't understand," Berkfield croaked out and leaned forward as the entire group gathered around them.
Father Patrick took the Isis dagger and flipped the blade to the clean side that Carlos hadn't used. He made a small cut on the back of his hand. "Cover it," he commanded Berkfield, his gaze never leaving the oozing gash.
"Yo, hold up," Jose said. "Wash his hands first. Don't be crazy and mix Rivera's blood from the first healing with yours, Father. I ain't trying to be funny, but if you're up here experimenting, then you need to do it right and with precautions. Vampires heal themselves, too. We need to be sure that Berkfield did it, not Rivera."
Berkfield and Carlos nodded.