Crusade Read online

  Also by Nancy Holder

  and Debbie Viguié

  Wicked

  Witch & Curse

  Wicked 2

  Legacy & Spellbound

  Resurrection

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,

  or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  SIMON PULSE

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  First Simon Pulse hardcover edition September 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Nancy Holder and Debbie Viguié

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Designed by Mike Rosamilia

  The text of this book was set in Goudy Old Style.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Holder, Nancy.

  Crusade / by Nancy Holder and Debbie Viguié — 1st Simon Pulse hardcover ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: An international team of six teenaged vampire hunters, trained in Salamanca, Spain, goes to New Orleans seeking to rescue team member Jenn’s younger sister as the vampires escalate their efforts to take over the Earth.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9802-0

  [1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Guerrilla warfare—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction.

  4. Sisters—Fiction. 5. Horror stories.] I. Viguié, Debbie. II. Title.

  PZ7.H70326Cru 2010 [Fic]—dc22 2010009094

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9808-2 (eBook)

  To my daughter, Belle Holder. I would fight

  a million vampires for you, my darling girl.

  And I would beat them all.

  — N. H.

  To my father, Richard Reynolds, who continually

  teaches me that there are things in this world

  worth fighting for.

  —D. V.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m so grateful to everyone who has joined us on this crusade. A novel is a huge undertaking, and a new series is an even bigger one. Thank you to the legions who helped us on the journey, most especially our fantastic agent, Howard Morhaim, and our truly wonderful editor, Annette Pollert, as well as our Simon & Schuster family, including Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Paul Crichton, Taryn Rosada, Bess Braswell, Venessa Williams, Sammy Yuen, Mike Rosamilia, Katherine Devendorf, Karen Sherman, and Stacey Sakal. Gracias to Lawrence Schimel, who helped with the Spanish; any errors are ours. My deepest thanks and love to Debbie, my comrade in arms, my coauthor, and my dearest friend. My gratitude to Debbie’s husband, Dr. Scott Viguié, who kept us both sane. Thanks also to Katie Menick, and to Kate McKean, also included in our literary representation. Thanks to my family, and to Richard Dean Anderson for starring in my favorite show. And besitos to my homegirls—Pam Escobedo, Amy Schricker, and Beth Hogan.

  —N. H.

  So many people have joined us in bringing Crusade to the world, and their tireless efforts have ensured that this story was all it could be. I would especially like to thank Howard Morhaim, a great agent, and Annette Pollert, a wonderful editor, for their enthusiasm and support. Thank you to Nancy, the best collaborator anyone could ever wish for. Thank you as well to Belle Holder for her energy and encouragement. I would also like to thank my husband, Scott, my mother, Barbara, and my friends Calliope, Juliette, and Ann. I would fight vampires with you any day!

  —D. V.

  BOOK ONE

  HADES

  On a dark night,

  kindled in love with yearnings~

  oh, happy chance!

  I went forth without being observed,

  my house being now at rest.

  —St. John of the Cross,

  sixteenth-century mystic of Salamanca

  CHAPTER ONE

  For thousands of years the Cursed Ones hid in the shadows, fooling mankind into thinking they didn’t exist. Then one day they just . . . stopped. Skeptics turned into believers one fateful dawn. And no one was ever safe again.

  No one knows why they made themselves known. Why they chose a Valentine’s Day in the early twenty-first century to reveal their presence. Some say it had something to do with the end of the world. Others that they simply grew tired of hiding.

  I was twelve when Solomon, the leader of the vampires, first appeared on TV and lied through his fangs to all of us. Thirteen when the war broke out. Fifteen when the United States declared a truce . . . when, in reality, we surrendered, and the nightmare really began.

  Even after that, many of us couldn’t bring ourselves to actually say the word “vampire.” It was as if once we admitted it, then we’d have to believe in extraterrestrials or government conspiracies, too. Or in witches and werewolves . . . in anything and everything that could destroy us. Because we could be destroyed. We lost something so precious—our faith that eventually everything would be all right. Because it wasn’t all right . . . and few believed it ever would be again.

  So among those of us who swore not to abandon all hope, vampires came to be called the Cursed Ones. We learned that it was the name given to them long ago by those few groups who knew of their existence yet never shared the knowledge. But the vampires weren’t the cursed ones—we were. They had seduced us with their hypnotic smiles and talk of peaceful coexistence and immortality even as they had mounted a war against us. Then they sought to turn us into their slaves, and drink from rivers of our blood.

  I’m nearly eighteen now, and I have learned something about myself I might never have known, if I’d been able to live an ordinary life.

  But there is nothing ordinary about my life.

  Nothing.

  Including me.

  —from the diary of Jenn Leitner,

  discovered in the ashes

  THE VILLAGE OF CUEVAS, SPAIN

  TEAM SALAMANCA: JENN AND ANTONIO,

  SKYE AND HOLGAR, AND ERIKO AND JAMIE

  Barely sunset, and death exploded all around Jenn Leitner.

  It was a trap, she thought.

  The sky crackled with flames; oily smoke choked the air and burned her lungs. Jenn struggled not to cough, fearing that the sound would expose her. On her elbows and knees, her dark auburn hair loose and falling into her eyes, she crawled from beneath the red-tiled roof of the medieval church as it collapsed in a crash of orange sparks. Fragments of tile, stone, and burning wood ricocheted toward the blood-colored moon, plummeting back down to the earth like bombs. She dug in her elbows and pushed forward with the toes of her boots, grunting as a large, fiery chunk of wood landed on her back with a sizzle. She fought to stay silent as the pain seared through her. Biting her lip hard, she tasted coppery blood as she rolled to extinguish the flames.

  Next to her, Antonio de la Cruz hissed a warning. The scent of her blood would fill the night air, attracting the vampires they’d been sent to hunt—but who were hunting them instead. When Jenn was little, her grandmother had told her t
hat sharks could smell a drop of blood in the water half a mile away. She hadn’t gone in the ocean since. Cursed Ones could smell blood more than a mile away. With sharks you could choose to stay out of the water. With Cursed Ones it was different. You couldn’t leave the planet. You were trapped.

  Like we are now.

  Antonio studied her with his deep-set Spanish eyes. Jenn gave her head a shake to let him know she was all right; she could keep going. She had no time to search through her jacket for the garlic-infused salve that would block the odor of her blood. She prayed that the stench of the burning buildings—and burning bodies—would cloak the scent long enough to allow them to escape.

  Past the church grounds the oak trees were on fire, acorns popping, leaves igniting like tattered tissue paper. Smoke filled the inky night sky, smothering the faint glow of the moon, but the hellish light from the fires illuminated Jenn’s and Antonio’s every move. Combine that with her bleeding lip, and they were two very easy targets for the savage monsters bent on massacring the village.

  Antonio stopped suddenly and held up a warning hand. She watched him closely. Wisps of his wild dark hair escaped from his knitted cap; his full eyebrows were raised slightly, and his jaw was clenched. Like her he was dressed all in black—black sweater, black cargo pants, black knee protectors, and black leather boots—and now coated with ash. She could see the glint of the small ruby-studded cross that he wore in his left ear. A gift, he had said, when she’d asked about it. His face had darkened when he’d answered her, and she knew there was more to that story. So much of Antonio was a mystery to her, as intriguing as the sharp planes and hollows of his face.

  He was focused, listening. All Jenn could hear were the flames and the terrorized, outraged cries of the villagers from the surrounding houses and office buildings. Her world became Antonio’s face and Antonio’s hand, blotched with soot, and she tensed her muscles so she’d be ready to move again when his hand dropped. She wished she could stop shaking. Wished she would stop bleeding and hurting. Wished someone else could do the rescuing, instead of them.

  But somewhere in the darkness the Cursed Ones were watching. She imagined them staring at her, and could almost hear their cruel laughter dancing in the acrid air.

  Three vampires and six hunters stalked one another through the steamy inferno. If the other hunters are still alive. If they escaped the burning church.

  Don’t think about that now. Don’t think at all. Wait. Watch.

  Cuevas, a small Spanish town a couple of hours from their home, had been terrorized by a group of vampires for weeks, and their mayor had begged for help. Jenn was one of a group of trained vampire hunters called the Salamancans, graduates of the Academia Sagrado Corazón Contra los Malditos—Sacred Heart Academy Against the Cursed Ones—at the centuries-old University of Salamanca. Father Juan, their master, had sent them to Cuevas to rid it of the Cursed Ones.

  Instead the vampires were hunting the hunters, as if they had known they were coming, as if they had lured them there. Jenn wondered how they’d known. Father Juan always sent the team out covertly. Was there a spy at the university? Had someone in Cuevas betrayed them?

  Or is the Hunter’s Manual right about all vampires?

  Don’t think.

  Late that afternoon Jenn, Antonio, and the other hunters had parked in the woods and silently made their way to the church, where they waited, meditating or praying, and preparing for the battle ahead. The vampires appeared with the flat shadows of dusk, and in the literal blink of an eye—they moved faster than most people could see—they set fire to the stone ruins of the castillo, the brick-and-mortar shops of the nearby plaza, and the glass and steel of a handful of modern office buildings. Flower boxes lining the plaza, which had brimmed with pink and white geraniums, crackled like sparklers; windows shattered; car horns blared like Klaxons; and everywhere, everywhere, fires roared.

  In their short two months’ hunting together as a team, the Salamancans had fought greater numbers—once there had been as many as eleven—but those Cursed Ones had been newly converted. The younger the bloodsucker, the easier to defeat, as they would not have fully adapted to their new abilities . . . or their weaknesses.

  Against older vampires, like the three lurking in the darkness, you could only hope they hadn’t yet run up against a hunter. That they would have grown so used to slaughtering the helpless that they would underestimate those who knew how to fight back.

  But the Cuevas C.O.’s had struck first, which meant they knew what the six hunters were capable of. By the time Jenn and the other Salamancans had smelled smoke, there had only been time to rouse Antonio from his meditations in the chapel behind the altar and crawl outside.

  Now they were exposed and vulnerable. And—

  Jenn blinked. Antonio was no longer beside her. Panic wrapped around her heart, and she froze, unsure of what to do. Directly in front of her an oak tree shuddered inside its thick coat of fire, and a huge limb snapped off, cascading into the dirt with a fwom.

  He left me here, she thought. Oh, God.

  Breathe, she reminded herself, but as she inhaled, smoke filled her lungs, and she pressed her hand over her mouth. Her balance gave way, and she collapsed onto the dirt. Jenn grunted back a hacking cough. The welt on her back burned like a bull’s-eye; she was a prime target. And alone.

  Where are you, Antonio? she silently demanded. How could you leave me?

  Tears welled. Jenn gave her head a hard shake. She had to hustle. If she didn’t move, she would die a horrible death. She had seen vampires kill people. But he wouldn’t let that happen to her. Would he?

  Don’t think. Just move.

  Jenn’s fingernails dug into the dirt as she lifted herself up. Commando-style she worked her way forward, scrambling to the left when another large oak branch cracked and fell toward her like a flaming spear. She had to get away from the collapsing buildings and the falling trees before she could think about going on the offensive.

  There was a whisper of sound, a shushshushshush, and Jenn rolled farther to her left just as a vampire landed on his back beside her. His pale blue eyes were opened wide in a death mask, and his breath reeked of rotting blood. She thought he groaned a word, maybe a name.

  Then all at once the vampire collapsed into dust and was scattered by the hot winds. One down, she thought, covering her mouth and nose to avoid inhaling any of the vampire’s remains. The first time Jenn had seen that happen, she’d been unable to speak for over an hour. Now she couldn’t help the triumphant smile that spread across her face.

  Jenn struggled to her feet; Antonio stood a breath away, his eyes blazing, the stake that had killed the vampire still clenched in his hand. He towered over her, six feet to her five-five. As she reached out to touch his arm, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the night air, and she took off in its direction, expecting Antonio to do the same.

  Instead his body hurtled past her, landing in a pile of burning branches and leaves.

  “Antonio!” she screamed, then wheeled around in a fighter’s stance, facing off against the vampire who had tossed him through the air like one might toss loose change onto a counter. The Cursed One was tall and bulky, grinning so that his fangs gleamed in the firelight. His face was covered in blood. Her stomach lurched, and she tried not to think about how many of the villagers were already dead.

  Jenn swiftly grabbed a stake from the quiver on her belt, gripping it in her right hand, and ripped open a Velcro pocket with her left to retrieve a cross. She desperately wanted to look back at Antonio. She dared not.

  The vampire sneered at her and snarled in a thick Leonese-Spanish accent, “Pobrecita, I can hear the frightened beating of your heart. Just like the rabbit in the trap.”

  He slashed her across the cheek with his talonlike nails before leaping back in a dizzying blur. Jenn felt the blood running hot and sticky down her cheek before she felt the sting.

  Jenn circled him warily. I’m a hunter, she reminded herself, but th
e hand around her stake was shaking badly. Surely he could see it. If he attacked, there was a good chance she wouldn’t be quick enough. The specialized training she had received at the academy had taught her how to anticipate a vampire’s moves even when she couldn’t see them. They moved so fast, the Cursed Ones. Father Juan said that they moved faster than man could sin. He said they could kill you and you would never know it had happened, but if you had been a brave and just person, the angels would tell you all about it, in song.

  I’m not brave.

  She took a deep breath and turned her head slightly to the side. Her best bet at tracking him was not to look directly at him. Movement was most effectively caught out of the corner of one’s eyes. She had learned that at the academy, and it had saved her before. Maybe it would again.

  But maybe not.

  The vampire stayed visible, stalling, but more likely toying with her before he made his kill. Some vampires were matadors, drawing out the death dance like a ritual. For others the hunt was a means to an end—fresh human blood, pumped by a still-beating heart.

  Movement in the shadows caught her eyes. Jenn fought not to react as one of the other hunters—the Hunter, Eriko Sakamoto—crept toward the vampire, her tiny frame belying her superior strength. Dressed in night hues like Jenn and Antonio, she wore a turtleneck, leather pants, and thick-soled boots that Velcroed halfway up her calves. Her short, gelled hair made her look like a tribal warrior. Fresh streaks of soot were smeared on her high, golden cheekbones.

  The sound of the fires masked any noise from her approach. Eriko caught Jenn’s eye, and Jenn began to edge to the right, placing the vampire between them.

  “Hunters . . . jóvenes . . . you’re nothing special after all,” the Cursed One snarled.

  “We’re special enough to turn you to dust,” Jenn growled, trying to hold the vampire’s attention. She focused on his fangs instead of his eyes, so as not to be mesmerized by him. That was one of the first rules of survival—to resist the Cursed Ones’ hypnotic gaze, designed to put their prey in thrall. “You’d better say your prayers. You’re about to die.”