Darkfall

understand how I’m going to find Lavelle.”
    “You’ll simply know what streets to follow, what turns to make,” Hampton said. “Because of the purification bath and the other rituals we performed, you’re now being guided by a higher power.”
    “Sounds better than a Three-A map, I guess. Only… I sure don’t feel anything guiding me.”
    “You will, Lieutenant. But first, we’ve got to stop at a Catholic church and fill these jars”-he held up two small, empty jars that would hold about eight ounces each-“with holy water. There’s a church straight ahead, about five blocks from here.”
    “Fine,” Jack said. “But one thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Will you drop the formality, stop calling me Lieutenant? My name’s Jack.”
    “You can call me Carver, if you like.”
    “I’d like.”
    They smiled at each other, and Jack took his foot off the brake, switched on the windshield wipers, and pulled out into the street.
    They entered the church together.
    The vestibule was dark. In the deserted nave there were a few dim lights burning, plus three or four votive candles flickering in a wrought iron rack that stood on this side of the communion railing and to the left of the chancel. The place smelled of incense and furniture polish that had evidently been used recently on the well- worn pews. Above the altar, a large crucifix rose high into the shadows.
    Carver genuflected and crossed himself. Although Jack wasn’t a practicing Catholic, he felt a sudden strong compulsion to follow the black man’s example, arid he realized that, as a representative of the Rada on this special night, it was incumbent upon him to pay obeisance to all the gods of good and light, whether it was the Jewish god of the old testament, Christ, Buddha, Mohammed, or any other deity. Perhaps this was the first indication of the “guidance” of which Carver had spoken.
    The marble font, just this side of the narthex, contained only a small puddle of holy water, insufficient for their needs.
    “We won’t even be able to fill one jar,” Jack said.
    “Don’t be so sure,” Carver said, unscrewing the lid from one of the containers. He handed the open jar to Jack. “Try it.”
    Jack dipped the jar into the font, scraped it along the marble, scooped up some water, didn’t think he’d gotten more than two ounces, and blinked in surprise when he held the jar up and saw that it was full. He was even more surprised to see just as much water left in the font as had been there before he’d filled the jar.
    He looked at Carver.
    The black man smiled and winked. He screwed the lid on the jar and put it in his coat pocket. He opened the second jar and handed it to Jack.
    Again, Jack was able to fill the container, and again the small puddle of water in the font appeared untouched.
    IV
    Lavelle stood by the window, looking out at the storm.
    He was no longer in psychic contact with the small assassins. Given more time, time to marshal their forces, they might yet be able to kill the Dawson children, and if they did he would be sorry he’d missed it. But time was running out.
    Jack Dawson was coming, and no sorcery, regardless of how powerful it might be, would stop him.
    Lavelle wasn’t sure how everything had gone wrong so quickly, so completely. Perhaps it had been a mistake to target the children. The Rada was always incensed at a Bocor who used his power against children, and they always tried to destroy him if they could. Once committed to such a course, you had to be extremely careful. But, damnit, he had been careful. He couldn’t think of a single mistake he might have made. He was well-armored; he was protected by all the power of the dark gods.
    Yet Dawson was coming.
    Lavelle turned away from the window.
    He crossed the dark room to the dresser.
    He took a.32 automatic out of the top drawer.
    Dawson was coming. Fine. Let him come.
    V
    Rebecca sat down in the aisle of the cathedral and pulled up the right leg of her jeans, above her knee. The claw and fang wounds were bleeding freely, but she was in no danger of bleeding to death. The jeans had provided some protection. The bites were deep but not too deep. No major veins or arteries had been severed.
    The young priest, Father Walotsky, crouched beside her, appalled by her injuries. “How did this happen? What did this to you?”
    Both Penny and Davey said, “ Goblins ,” as if they were getting tired of trying to make him understand.
    Rebecca pulled off her