By Blood We Live

I put my finger on the trigger, but don't pull it yet. I want to keep thinking.

No, I don't. I don't want to keep thinking at all.

I lower the crossbow and the moment I do I hear a sound from the back of the chapel where the main door's got to be, and I crane my neck to see.

It's the main door all right. Heads are peeking in. They're wearing black and I think to myself:

Curious priests. That's all. But the door opens up more and three of them-that holy number-step in real quiet. They're wearing funny Jesuit collars-the ones the angel mentioned-and they don't look curious. They look like they know exactly what they're doing, and they look very unhappy.

Vampires have this sixth sense, I know. One of them looks up at me suddenly, smiles this funny smile, and I see sharp little teeth.

He says something to the other two and heads toward me. When he's halfway up the staircase I shoot him. I must have my heart in it because the arrow nearly goes through him, but that's not what really bothers him. It's the

wood. There's an explosion of sparks, the same blue fire, and a hole opens up in his chest, grows, and in no time at all he's just not there anymore.

Frank has turned around to look, but he's dazed, all that confessing, hands in prayer position and shaking wildly, and he obviously doesn't get what's happening. The other two Jesuits are heading up the stairs now, and I nail them with my last two arrows.

The dove has dropped like a stone from its perch and is flapping hysterically in front of me, like

Wrong vampires! Wrong vampires! I'm tired of its flapping, so I brush it away, turn and leave, and if it takes me (which it will) a whole day to get out of the Vatican without that dove to lead me and make doors open magically, okay. When you're really depressed, it's hard to give a shit about anything.

Two days later I'm back at Parlami's. I haven't showered. I look like hell. I've still got the case with me. God knows why.

I've had two martinis and when I look up, there he is. I'm not surprised, but I sigh anyway. I'm not looking forward to this.

"So you didn't do it," he says.

"You know I didn't, asshole."

"Yes, I do. Word does get out when the spiritual configuration of the universe doesn't shift the way He'd like it to."

I want to hit his baby-smooth face, his perfect nose and collagen lips, but I don't have the energy.

"So what happens now?" I ask.

"You really don't know?"

"No."

He shakes his head. Same look of contempt.

"I guess you wouldn't."

He takes a deep breath.

"Well, the Jesuits did it for you. They killed him last night."

"What?"

"They've got crossbows too. Where do you think we got the idea?"

"Same wood?"

"Of course. They handle it with special gloves."

"Why?"

"Why kill him? Same line of thought. If he flips, things get thrown off balance. Order is important for them, too, you know. Mortals are the same way, you may have noticed. You all need order. Throw things off and you go crazy. That's why you'll put up with despots-even choose them over more benign and loving leaders-just so you don't have to worry. Disorder makes for a lot of worry, Anthony."

"You already knew it?"

"Knew what?"

"That I wouldn't do it and the Jesuits would instead."

"Yes."

"Then why send me?"

Again the look, the sigh. "Ah. Think hard."

I do, and, miracle of miracles, I see it.

"Giovanna is free now," I say.

"Yes. Frank, bless his immortal soul-which God has indeed agreed to do-is gone in flesh."

"So He wants me to hook up with her?"

The angel nods. "Of course."

"Why?"

"Because she'll love you-

really love you, innocent that you are-just the way she loved him."

"That's it?"

"Not exactly… Because she'll love you, you'll have to stop. You'll have to stop killing people, Anthony. It's just not right."

"No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

"I don't think so."

"But you will-because, whether you know it yet or not, you love her, too."

What do you say to that?

The angel's gotten up, straightened his red Zegna, picked up the case, and is ready to leave.

"By the way," he adds, "He says He forgives you anyway."

I nod, tired as hell. "I figured that."

"You're catching on."

"About time," I say.

"He said that too."

"And the whole 'balance' thing-"

"What do

you think?"

Pure bullshit is what I'm thinking.

"You got it," he says, reading my mind because, well, angels can do that.

Twenty-four hours later I'm back in Siena, shaved and showered, and she doesn't seem surprised to see me. She's been grieving-that's obvious. Red eyes. Perfect hair tussled, a mess. She's been debriefed by the angel-that I can tell-and I don't know whether she's got a problem with The Plan or not, or even whether there is a Plan. The angel may have been lying about that too. But when she says quietly, "Hello, Anthony," and gives me a shy smile, I

know-and my heart starts flapping like that idiot bird.

Undead Again by Ken MacLeod