The Keepers

Her beliefs had never been put to a test up to this point, but the time had come.She didn't head toward the cathedral on Jackson Square. Although it was a beautiful church and a place of worship despite its location in one of the city's most popular tourist destinations, she didn't want to be seen on her mission, and there were always too many people there.



Instead she headed across Frenchman Street, toward the small church she had attended with her parents--and last visited after her parents had died.



Their funeral services had been performed there.



As she walked in, she wondered if she was crazy. No, this would be fine, she told herself. She would see Father Maybury. He'd been close to her parents, and he must have known...something.



And if he wasn't there, then she hoped to manage a few moments alone so she could fill up several vials of holy water without being stopped.



Oh, God, what she wanted to do probably was crazy. Admittedly, she wasn't sure it would work, so she might be risking harm to an innocent, but something in her somehow knew that holy water could be the key.



Jagger knew how to deal with vampires. A stiletto-style stake, straight to the heart.



But she didn't want to start indiscriminately killing vampires.



She simply wanted to know the truth.



When she arrived, she found that the church was quiet. The lowering sun was shining gently through the gorgeous stained-glass windows portraying various saints and key events in the history of the Church.



She walked down the aisle, heading toward the center of the room, where a large stone vessel stood, holding the blessed water.



So far, so good. She was safe, and she was alone.



But as she neared the holy water, she noticed a young priest come in from the apse. He crossed himself and genuflected as he faced the altar, then walked up to her, his smile welcoming. He appeared to be about thirty-five, a handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes. His demeanor was friendly, easy--it seemed to say that he was comfortable in his beliefs and comfortable in himself--and calming.



Which was good--she had begun to feel a sense of panic stealing over her. She'd wanted to get quickly in and out of the church, and if not, at least a visit with a man who might have understood...something.



Where was Father Maybury?



"Hello, and welcome," the young priest said to her. "Can I help you? You appear to be at a loss."



"I'm sorry. Is Father Maybury here?"



"I'm afraid that I'm the one who is sorry. Father Maybury died last fall," he told her.



She must have appeared stricken, she realized.



"May I get you some water? Would you like to sit down?" he asked.



"No, I just needed to see him," she said quietly.



"And--well, obviously, I can't."



"Perhaps I can help you," he told her.



"I'm afraid it's an unusual problem," she said.



"Try me," he suggested.



"Father Maybury was...he was a personal friend," she explained. "He was close with my parents before their deaths."



"I see. I am so sorry. I'm Father DiCarlo, by the way."



"It's a pleasure, Father," she said, shaking his hand. He was watching her with eyes that seemed at ease, knowing eyes. She wasn't sure if she felt comforted or wary.



"You're Fiona MacDonald," he said.



She started, almost yanking her hand from his.



"I haven't been here since my parents died," she said.



"And I don't believe you were here then."



"No, I wasn't. But Father Maybury was my mentor," he said.



She nodded, not sure what to say.



"It seems that you have questions," he said very quietly.



Fiona noticed that an elderly woman had entered the church. She knelt down at one of the back pews and was quickly immersed in prayer.



"Well..." Fiona murmured uncomfortably, looking in the direction of the newcomer.



He smiled. "That's Mrs. Sienna. She's quite deaf. But we can talk elsewhere, if you prefer."



She flushed. "Father, you do believe in good and in evil, don't you?"



"I am a priest," he said, smiling, his expression friendly and open.



"Those of good heart, no matter what their circumstance, are always welcome in church, isn't that right, Father?"



"Absolutely. All are welcome in God's house," he said. "But you know that."



I need to take several vials of holy water. Is that all right with you?



She just couldn't manage to spit out such words.



"I'm getting the feeling that you might want to be alone in God's house," he said. "You don't know me, and you don't trust me."



"Oh, no, I don't mistrust you," she said.



Though of course she did, she realized. There was no guarantee that everyone who came into God's house was good. History had proven that evil men were perfectly capable of using religion as a cover for their misdeeds.



He laughed, and she had the uneasy feeling that he was reading her mind.



But he was definitely human. She would have known, would have sensed it, if he belonged in the underworld.



"I think I'll go and say a word to Mrs. Sienna," he said. "Please, say whatever prayers you intended, in your own way."



"Thank you."



She smiled awkwardly at him and started to turn away.



"Fiona MacDonald," he said softly.



"Yes, Father?"



"Sometimes," he said, "it seems that no goodness exists in the world at all. We question why terrible things happen. And none of us has the answers. Then again, sometimes, when we think we're alone, we realize that we're not, and we're filled with tremendous strength when we suddenly discover the help that can come from opening ourselves to a greater power. I believe that we are given only the tasks we can manage--and that, if we ask, we will receive the help of good to vanquish evil. I'll leave you now, so you may do what you must. The city needs you, and I know you'll rise to whatever task is asked of you. Goodness is in the heart, and in the soul, and those who are evil are afraid of all that is good. Belief, not just in God but in one's self, can be one of the most powerful weapons known to man. Even the angels learned the importance of faith and belief."



She stared at him, a tremor rippling through her.



He knew. He would never admit that he knew, but he did. He was a man of faith, and his faith led to the belief that things existed that the eyes couldn't always see.



"Thank you," she whispered.



"Bless you, my child," he said softly, and turned away.



He knew, she was sure, that she had come for holy water. Was he telling her that it would work for the project that she had in mind?



"Thank you," she told him again.



"I'm always here," he assured her.



Somehow those words managed to impart some of his confidence to her. She had been afraid, she realized. She had never really been challenged--until now, when she was being challenged in so many ways. But now she realized that she could indeed take her place in the world, just as he would take his and be there for her.



As he smiled and moved away to speak with the elderly woman at the back of the church, she hurried forward with her vials to collect holy water.



"I think I've seen this guy," Tony Miro said, tapping a copy of the picture of a man's face, which had been copied and passed around. "Maybe in the market...maybe the Square. Somewhere."



Jagger, with the support of his chief and other key members of the task force, had decided against handing the likeness out to the media just yet. Witnesses had seen Grenard in the area where the latest body had been found, possibly leaving the cemetery, but there was no proof that the man had actually been in the cemetery, or that, if he had, he was guilty of murder.



Of course, Jagger, along with a few other members of the force, knew there was the best reason in the world that Mateas Grenard might have been guilty of behaving like a vampire.



Jagger wanted to find Grenard himself. If he was guilty, Grenard would never be willing to go to trial. If someone else attempted to arrest Grenard, they might find himself with at least one dead police officer, along with the three dead women.



"Listen," Jagger told Tony, "I'd like to start walking through the tourist sections, see if I spot him. I need you to go talk to Celia Lawson."



Tony frowned at him. "Hey, two of us walking the streets would be better."



Jagger shook his head. "I want you to hound Celia until we find out where those white nightgowns were bought. And then I want you to take a trip back over to the college and check on everything there, find out if anyone has remembered anything about the night Abigail was killed. When you're done there, we'll meet back at that strip club--Barely, Barely, Barely. What I'm worried about is panic in the streets, so be careful when you're questioning people. Make sure it's clear that all we're looking for are witnesses. Oh, and if you find anyone resembling the sketch, call me immediately. Don't go after the man alone. I told everyone that when we handed out the sketch, and I mean it."



"All right. But don't run around thinking you have to protect me, Jagger. I'm a good cop," Tony told him.



"I never thought you were anything but," Jagger said.



Tony studied him, nodded and offered a tight smile. "I'm on it, then."



Jagger nodded. "I'm going to check in on the autopsy of the newest victim, and then I'll hit the streets."



It was the truth.



Almost.



He meant to be at the autopsy.



And he would be out on the streets.



Because he intended to find Mateas Grenard.



"It's Fiona. I need to talk to you," Fiona said, as soon as Billy answered his phone.



"I'm in class. Out in an hour," he said in return, his voice low.



"All right. Where?"



"Wait a minute! Is this about Abigail? She's all right, isn't she?" he asked anxiously.



She was officially dead, and now she was a vampire. If "all right" could be defined in such a way, then Abigail was all right.