Free The Damned by Nancy Holder, Debbie Viguié Page A

grandfather approached, hand out for Jamie’s gun. “We’re Catholics, Jamie. We can’t kill priests. Much as we might want to,” he added sourly.
    “But . . .”
    “No buts, me boyo. There are certain things we don’t do. Especially at your age.”
    Jamie’s grandfather turned and gestured for Jamie to follow him to his workbench. He reached up and yanked on a thin chain, lighting a bare lightbulb that hung above their heads. A vise held a gun barrel; there were drills and presses and bits of steel all around. No one made guns by hand anymore except as a hobby or for show, but all guns needed repair now and then.
    “We’re the O’Learys,” his grandfather said. “We’ve been making firearms for over a century. That’s what we do.” He caught his lip. “We’ll make a gun that shoots silver bullets, you and I.”
    Jamie nodded, hatred overflowing his soul and streaming down his face like tears. Ashamed, he tried to turn away, but not before his grandfather saw. He smacked him on the side of the head. Jamie’s ears rang.
    “I need you strong,” his grandfather ordered him. “Now close up the potato box.”
    Steeling himself not to cry again, Jamie did as he was told. He would be strong.
    As soon as it was light, he stumbled through the gray, miserable dawn to the churchyard. The sight of the fresh mounds of earth tore him open. Balling his hands against his mouth, he pushed all the grief back into his soul. He was a man now, and he had a man’s business to tend to.
    “Maeve. Ma. Da,” he said to the graves. “We’re going to pay em back. I was going to kill Father Pat for letting it happen. Poppy said no. I suppose I wouldn’t make it to heaven to see you if I did such a thing. But we’ll get the Cursers and the wolves. I swear it.”
    When he left, he felt better. He had a plan, a purpose. His hand was on the door to their flat when his aunt jerked it open. Her face was ashen, and she had on her nice coat, the one she wore to Sunday Mass.
    “Jamie, Jamie,” she said, grabbing his shoulders. “Father Patrick’s been gunned down. He was in the rectory garden, watering the plants. It’s said he might not live.” She crossed herself. “I’m going to the church to pray for him. Come with me, darlin’.”
    He was thunderstruck. For a moment he just stared at her.
    “I need me jacket,” he said, as upset as he sounded, and hurried inside.
    He raced down to the cellar to the crate of potatoes. He threw off the lid.
    The gun was missing.
    Father Patrick died that evening. Two days later Jamie’s grandfather insisted they attend the funeral, and they knelt together, heads bowed. The casket was closed, because whoever had killed Father Patrick had shot out his eyes. Jamie was glad the priest was dead, but he felt no relief. Nothing inside him had changed. He still hated the priest. And the vampires and werewolves, even more than the English, and that was saying something.
    That night he dreamed of Maeve. She was a vampire, white as porcelain, wearing her first-communion dress with its little crown and veil. She was knocking on his window, weeping.
    “Let me in, Jamie, please,” she whispered. “It’s so cold out here. Me bones have frozen to ice.”
    In the morning Jamie woke with a start, to find his window open. For one instant, hope flared inside his heart that she had really come to him. But he had seen them tear her apart. There was nothing left of Maeve to be converted—and he would surely wish her dead and in heaven than eternally weeping at his window. Would he not?
    It wasn’t a question for the asking. No matter; he would warm her poor dead bones with the heat of his fury. And in that way, and only that, would his little sister live on.
    Venice was miles away now, and with it all the dead folk.
    “Jamie,” Eriko said as they sped toward Marco Polo Airport, “are you crying?”
    “Don’t be daft, Eri,” he said. “You’ve never seen me cry and never will.”
    Stonily he