Of Saints and Shadows (1994) Read online

  ‘Golden’s book is the template for a score of books that have been published in the years since its publication. Many of those books have been bestsellers. Reading Of Saints and Shadows again, I was amazed how many elements now familiar in the vampire and thriller genres appeared in Saints first. Golden’s imagination and expert plotting wove these elements into a startlingly original book, as exciting to read now as it was when it first appeared on the rack.’

  Charlaine Harris

  Praise for THE SHADOW SAGA

  ‘Christopher Golden has reinvented the vampire myth into non-stop action, suspense, and fascinating dark fantasy. [He’s] an imaginative and prodigious talent who never lets genre boundaries hold him back’

  Douglas Clegg, author of the Vampirycon series

  ‘Filled with tension, breathtaking action . . . and a convincing depiction of worlds existing unseen within our own’

  Science Fiction Chronicle

  ‘Harrowing, humorous, overflowing with characters and plot contortions, abundantly entertaining . . . a portent of great things to come’

  Douglas E. Winter, Cemetery Dance

  ‘Golden combines quiet, dark, subtle mood with Super-Giant monster action. Sort of M.R. James meets Godzilla!’

  Mike Mignola, creator of Hellboy

  ‘A breathtaking story that succeeds in marrying gore and romance, sex and sentiment. A brilliant epic’

  Dark News (Paris)

  ‘The most refreshing books in the vampire genre since Anne Rice wrote Interviw with a Vampire, [Golden’s novels] are completely in a class by themselves’

  Pathway to Darkness

  ‘Passionate . . . excellent . . . and a surprise explanation for vampires. Brilliant’

  LitNews Online

  ‘Wildly entertaining . . . like mixing Laurell K. Hamilton with the dark ambivalence of an H. P. Lovecraft story. The pacing is always pedal-to-the-floor, the main characters are larger than life and the demons and other assorted monstrosities give Lovecraft’s Cthulu mythos a run for their money’

  Barnes & Noble Online

  First published in the USA by Jove Books, 1994 and by

  Ace Books, 1998

  First published in Great Britain by Pocket Books, 2010

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS Company

  Copyright © Christopher Golden, 1994

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  Pocket Books & Design is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The right of Christopher Golden to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London

  WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

  Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the

  British Library

  ISBN 978-1-84739-924-3

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-84739-947-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

  This novel is dedicated to my wife, Concetta Nicole Russo Golden, without whose love and support it might never have been conceived, and certainly would not have become a reality. In a world where the daily horrors are more terrible than any fiction, our life together has given me the strength to stand on principle, to hope for the future, and to pursue our destiny with tireless passion, optimism, and confidence. Indeed, fools rush in. May we always be fools.

  Acknowledgments

  Like many other books, especially other first novels, Of Saints and Shadows took years to write. Over that time I’ve accumulated a long list of people whose contributions, or simple support, were invaluable not just to the evolution of the book, but to my evolution as a writer. Some of them are mentioned below, but a whole host of others were just there for me when I needed them to be, or shared my enthusiasm at a critical time. I thank you all for that, and hope you realize who you are without my having to tell you.

  Special thanks to my wonderful agent, Lori Perkins, and to my equally wonderful editor, Ginjer Buchanan.

  And to my family: Connie, Mom and Peter, Jamie, Erin and Eileen, Nana, Mom and Dad Russo, Julie and Michael, Veronica, Nona, and all the Goldens, Pendolaris, and Russos, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, etc. With gratitude to my good and loyal friend, my nephew Carlos Westergaard.

  Acknowledgment and thanks are also due to:

  Clive Barker, Steve Bissette, Jay Cantor, Georgina Challis, Matt Costello, Steve Eliopoulos, Jeff Galin, Craig Shaw Gardner, Ray Garton, Glenn Greenberg, Rick Hautala, Nancy Holder, Albert Jimenez, Pam Jungling, Joe Lansdale, Alan Lebowitz, Betty Levin, George Marcopoulos, Rex Miller, Stefan Nalhanson, José Nieto, Philip Nutman, Lisa Scarlett, Mark Tillinger, Elissa Tomasetti, Bob Tomko (for help and contributions far beyond the call of duty), Steve Williams, Doug Winter, the Cairns and Plumer families, and all my amigos at BPI (is there a Doctor in the house?).

  I hope you’re all proud of the monster you helped create.

  Prologue

  MANNY SOARES WAS GETTING JUST A LITTLE sick of pushing the damn broom. Twenty years in the secretary of state’s office, and he was still pushing the broom. He let it fall with a clack to the tiled bathroom floor. He needed a smoke.

  Manny lit up as he walked into the word-processing area—he would never smoke in one of the private offices. The lights were off, he had finished the room an hour ago, but it wasn’t completely dark. There was light from the stars and the bright moon—a beautiful clear night, and tomorrow it was supposed to snow, but who knew, with the track record of Boston’s weathermen. His only comfort on the job was that row of windows. Looking out, as he often did, Manny thought more in five minutes than he did for the rest of the day. Damn beautiful.

  He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on Tara’s desk. Cute girl, that. He wondered if Roger was still in the office, and went into the hallway. Sure enough, the lights still burned in the corporations department, and Manny was not surprised. Roger Martin. Now there was a man who did not know the meaning of the phrase “quitting time.”

  “Am I gonna have to clean around you again?” Manny asked, leaning against the door.

  “Not tonight.” Roger stood and slipped on his jacket. “It’s time to go home. Though I could sure use a drink before facing the wife.”

  Roger picked up his briefcase and moved some papers from his desk to Sheila’s; she was the department manager.

  “Have one for me,” Manny said as he shook out another cigarette.

  “One of these days they’re going to bust you for that,” Roger said, motioning toward the pack the maintenance man was slipping back into his shirt pocket.

  “The hell with it. Nothing they can do. It’s not during work hours. Want one?”

  “Love one, but I’m trying to quit. I don’t know why, I don’t really want to. Peer pressure, I guess.” He laughed.

  “Suit yourself,” Manny told him, and lit up.

  Which was Roger’s cue to leave.

  Roger whistled as he rode the elevator down. He was trying to decide whether he would actually go out and get a little drunk before heading home. Home had not been a place where he liked to be sober lately. It was n
ot that Julie and he had been fighting, though they did their share. It was worse. It was cold. And they didn’t know what to do about it. Life at home was basically pretty tense.

  Aw, to hell with it. Why shouldn’t he go? It had been a while since he had been out after work. Downstairs and out onto the street, swinging his briefcase without noticing it, Roger continued to whistle, and to think.

  He turned left at the courthouse, and the Publik House was two blocks away. A young couple came out, arms around each other, steamy laughter visible on the air. God, was he envious. It had been a long time since he and Julie felt as comfortable in each other’s arms as those two kids did.

  Kids. Right! They had to be twenty-two or -three. So what did that make him? Hell, thirty-three was young.

  When he met Julie, Roger fell completely head over heels, shit-eating grin, fool-for-your-stockings in love, and they got married a year later. They laughed and worked, made love and worked, lived and worked. Then they tried to have kids, and that was the one thing that didn’t work. He and Julie had not had sex for two months. He very badly wanted a drink. Things change.

  When he pulled open the oaken door of the bar and grill, Roger thought, not for the first time, that maybe he’d find something more in the Publik House than a cold one. He had never cheated before, and had never imagined he would be ready to start. Things change.

  Behind the bar there floated a young woman with beautiful green eyes and long auburn hair. Her name tag identified her as Courteney MacGoldrick, which Roger thought suited her.

  What little light existed within the small, Colonial bar and grill was supplied by small candles on the tables that looked like they were supposed to keep the bugs away, and a lamp on either end of the bar. It was romantic all right. And dark enough so that you could sink into a corner if you really wanted to. Usually he did, but tonight he made a beeline to the bar and, on an inspired whim, ordered a Guinness.

  Miss Courteney MacGoldrick, bartender extraordinaire that the little lass was, brought it to him right away, and served it with a beaming smile. A smile that elicited a strange reaction in Roger.

  He completely lost his nerve.

  In fact it was a half hour, and the top of the third Guinness, before he got up the guts to strike up any semblance of a conversation with her. He noticed she had a lull in her work, and he had been watching her compact form move back and forth behind the bar for long enough. He mustered up every ounce of courage in his gradually numbing body and spoke.

  “So,” he said. “How’s it going tonight?”

  And as she opened her mouth to reply he prepared to leave promptly before her words cemented his belief that he had made a complete ass of himself.

  “Not bad,” she said cheerily. “How ’bout you?”

  Oh, my sweet Lord in Heaven! Small talk. One of America’s greatest inventions.

  They talked for quite a while. After about five minutes he started to get nervous again. A couple of guys sat down at the end of the bar, and he realized she would have to serve them in a few seconds. Now or never.

  “So,” he began again. “Can I buy you a drink when you get off of work?”

  A heartbeat.

  And another.

  At least the damn thing was working.

  “Do you think your wife would appreciate that?”

  “My . . .” he began, and then felt rather than remembered the ring around his finger. Feeling about as stupid as it gets, he laid a twenty on the counter, picked up his briefcase, and without further ceremony scurried out of the bar with his tail between his legs.

  Outside, he began to smile. Just the corners of his mouth at first, and then it broke into a wide grin.

  A chuckle, a snicker, a giggle, and then laughter.

  It felt good to laugh, even if it was at his own expense. Courteney MacGoldrick, without even knowing it, had probably just saved his marriage.

  Fuck it, Roger thought, we’ll adopt.

  On his way back to the garage, he stopped for a moment to grab a cup of Java in the Capitol Coffee House. Then he was on his way, blowing into the hole torn from the plastic cover. He unlocked the garage and went in. He was whistling again, a song that had been bludgeoned to death by Boston radio, and he still could not remember the name of it. That was Julie, she was great with stuff like that. He walked up the paved slope toward his car, one of the few left in the garage. It was a Honda Accord. He often told Manny that all the expensive cars left early. Manny always laughed.

  He was still whistling as he put his coffee down on the roof of his car so he could reach the keys. He unlocked the door, tossed in his case, and climbed in. He let the car warm up for a moment and turned on the radio. He smiled. It was that same damn song, a good omen, he thought. But it was ending, so he still could not catch the title. He began to fiddle with the dial again, when someone rapped on the driver’s-side window, scaring the shit out of him. He banged his knee on the underside of the dash.

  At the window was a man all in black, except for the white square at his collar.

  A priest?

  Also interesting was the cup the priest was holding out to him. Not the “cup of my blood” to be sure; this one had stylized letters on it that read CAPITOL COFFEE HOUSE.

  His own coffee, which he had left on the roof of his car. Feeling foolish for the second time that night, he rolled down his window.

  He took the cup (gave it to his disciples) and said, “Thank you, Father.”

  And then he saw what the priest held in his other hand. It was pointed at his head.

  When Manny stepped out into the garage, he saw the man in black standing next to Roger’s car. Roger was in it, and the car was running. He started to walk toward them. Manny’s car was beyond Roger’s and he could say good night. He did not recognize the other man. The tall man, all in black, who lifted his arm.

  His hand held a gun. His finger pulled a trigger.

  At point-blank range, the bullet’s entry was fairly clean, but its exit was as messy as they get.

  “NO!” Manny screamed, and cursed himself for it.

  The man whirled, and Manny stood in shock as he glimpsed the patch of white amid the black garments. A priest. The guy was a priest, or dressed like one.

  The good father pointed his gun at Manny’s chest and put a bullet in it.

  The killer began to walk toward the maintenance man’s prone form, but the sound of an engine filled the garage. It was a car coming up from the lower level. Time for him to go.

  Later, when the police arrived, Manny was still twitching, not as dead as the priest would have liked. In the late Roger Martin’s car, blood and coffee settled into the upholstery.

  It was going to leave quite a stain.

  1

  HIS MEMORY IS LIKE A TORNADO ACROSS time, touching down to pick up a single event or person and carrying it away until it is dropped in favor of something else. Most of the events are catastrophes, most of the people are dead. When he wants to think of something pleasant, he has to concentrate. But such is the nature of memory, and of time.

  His name is Octavian. But it isn’t, really. Or at least, it was not always. He has been a prince, a warrior, a monster, a murderer, a wanderer, and a thief. Now he can only observe and remember.

  And sometimes he can help.

  The radio alarm clicked on at 9:30 P.M., but Peter Octavian had been awake for almost half an hour. He hit the snooze with none of the annoyed reluctance that usually accompanies such an act. He was in a good mood. He had something to do tonight. Not as if he usually had trouble finding something to do, but he always preferred that it find him. Often the nightly news was his only source of entertainment, and that he loved. It amused him so to see the bickering between nations and individuals. He had become quite good at predicting events long before they happened. One of his favorite observations was that “history repeats itself.”

  Everyone said it.

  So how come nobody was intelligent enough to be able to put that ax
iom to use?

  Ah, well, they never had been.

  Change. The more you fought against it, the faster it came. Inevitable as . . . well, as taxes anyway.

  Peter stood up from bed and walked in darkness to the shutters that hid the outside from him, and him from it. He opened them and looked out. The moon and the stars were very bright, effectively illuminating the street eight floors below. He opened the window a bit and let the cold air in, sucking it into his lungs. Snow; tomorrow, maybe tomorrow night.

  He left the window open and walked to the bathroom. Eyes shut, he flicked on the overhead lights. He yawned and stretched. Already naked, having slept that way, he stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain. He loved the steam and the hot water, and the chill that he knew would run up his spine when he got out. He had left the window open for that purpose. The shower was a strange thing for Peter. He hardly sweated, so he never smelled particularly bad. His hair looked clean without washing. But this could not prevent his hair from becoming disheveled as he slept, so he washed it.

  He rinsed his long brown mane and stepped out, anticipated chill giving him a shiver. He toweled dry and went to the mirror, blew dry his hair, and pulled it into a ponytail, slipping an elastic around it. As he brushed his teeth, shining the smile that had won thousands of hearts (but when was the last one?), he could hear the radio in the other room. The snooze timer had given up, and the deejay was yattering about something.

  “Just about a quarter to ten in the city, and a chilly thirty-one degrees right now outside WZXL. Here’s a little reminder from yours truly that you’ll be in big trouble if you don’t pick up some sweets for your sweetheart. And, with a little reminder of their own, here’s the Spinners with ‘Cupid.’ ”

  He rinsed his mouth and glanced up. The mirror image checked him out. He looked pretty good . . . for his age.