F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 Read Online Free PDF Page B

Carmilla's head and
hear the Lord guy say, 'That's right, children. Take their heads. Always take
their heads. There are enough of us now.' And that's when I turned and ran. I
was running through a vacant lot when I fell on ... this."
                 Bernadette
rushed back into the foyer. Her face was drawn with fear. "911 doesn't
answer! I can't raise anyone!"
                 "They're
all over town." Rosita said after another spasm of coughing. Carole could
barely hear her. She touched her throat—so cold. "They've been setting
fires and attacking the cops and firemen when they arrive. Their human helpers break
into houses and drive the people outside where they're attacked. And after the
things drain the blood, they rip the heads off."
                 "Dear
God, why?" Bernadette said, crouching beside Carole.
                 "My
guess ... don't want any more undead. Maybe only so much blood to go around and—"
                 She
moaned with another spasm, then lay still. Carole patted her cheeks and called
her name, but Rosita Hernandez's dull, staring eyes told it all.
                 "Is
she ... ?" Bernadette said.
                 Carole
nodded as tears filled her eyes. You poor misguided child, she thought, closing
Rosita's eyelids.
                 "She's
died in sin," Bernadette said. "She needs anointing immediately! I'll
get Father."
                 "No, Bern ," Carole said. "Father Palmeri
won't come."
                 "Of
course he will. He's a priest and this poor lost soul needs him."
                 "Trust
me. He won't leave that church basement for anything."
                 "But
he must!" she said almost childishly, her voice rising. "He's a
priest."
                 "Just
be calm, Bernadette, and we'll pray for her ourselves."
                 "We
can't do what a priest can do," she said, springing to her feet.
"It's not the same."
                 "Where
are you going?"
                 "To
... to get a robe. It's cold."
                 My
poor, dear, frightened Bernadette, Carole thought as she watched her scurry up
the steps. I know exactly how you feel.
                 "Bring
my prayer book back with you," she called after her.
                 Carole
pulled the blanket over Rosita's face and gently lowered her head to the floor.
                 She
waited for Bernadette to return ... and waited. What was taking her so long?
She called her name but got no answer.
                 Uneasy,
Carole returned to the second floor. The hallway was empty and dark except for
a pale shaft of moonlight slanting through the window at its far end. Carole
hurried to Bern 's room. The door was closed. She knocked.
                 " Bern ? Bern , are you in there?"
                 Silence.
                 Carole
opened the door and peered inside. More moonlight, more emptiness.
                 Where
could—?
                 Down
on the first floor, almost directly under Carole's feet, the convent's back
door slammed. How could that be? Carole had locked it herself—dead-bolted it at
sunset.
                 Unless
Bernadette had gone down the back stairs and ...
                 She
darted to the window and stared down at the grassy area between the convent and
the church. The high, bright moon had made a black-and-white photo of the world
outside, bleaching the lawn below with its stark glow, etching deep ebony wells
around the shrubs and foundation plantings. It glared from St. Anthony's slate
roof, stretching a long wedge of night behind its Gothic spire.
                 And
scurrying across the lawn toward the church was a slim figure wrapped in a long
raincoat, the moon picking out the white band of her wimple, its black veil a
fluttering shadow along her neck and