"He's traced its whereabouts since it was used at the Crucifixion," said Carl excitedly. They were back in the third archive room, in the space they had filled with the results of their search. Papers were strewn across tables, spilling onto the floor with no semblance of order. The mess, however, was the last thing on either of their minds.

"The Spear of Destiny," Gabriel murmured softly, gazing at the spidery writing on the parchment in his hand.

"So we're absolutely sure that this is what he's after?"

Gabriel hesitated, unable to look Carl in the eye. He glanced toward a painting depicting in vivid color the crucifixion. At the side of Christ, an apostle held the grail and caught the blood from the wound the Jesus' side. In the background, barely noticeable, was the vague figure of a man, holding a staff. Or a spear.

Van Helsing took a deep breath. "When I - in the chapel, when I touched the back of the pew where the creature sat, I remembered something. I have the sense that it wasn't too long ago, yet it feels a lifetime away. The creature was speaking to me - and there was one phrase that stuck in my mind. He said, 'The Destiny will be mine.' He was talking about the Holy Lance - the Spear of Destiny."

There was a moment of silence as Carl absorbed that information. "Well, that's only one of its many names," Carl mused, laying out the notes of Father Gerard. "Now, first let me see - ah. According to this," he read, " 'the Spear of Destiny has existed on Earth since the beginning of recorded time.' How conveniently vague." Gabriel snorted. "The story holds that the Ancient Hebrew Prophet Phineas forged it. The spearhead is described here as 'held together by gold, silver and bronze thread containing a nail from the crucifix', and the base is 'embossed with gold crosses'. Hmm. Ah. Here's the beginning of its travels. 'It was present when Saxon King Heinrich defeated the Magyars. Pope John XII used it to christen Heinrich's son Otto the Great as Holy Roman Emperor; Otto carried it into victory over the Mongolian Hordes in the Battle of Leck. Constantine claimed that he was guided by divine providence via the Spear in his victory at Milvian Bridge, which established Christianity as the Official Religion of the Holy Roman Empire.' Then . . . this is extraneous . . . this is irrelevant . . . Here! 'The spear fell into the hands of Justinian' and it was tainted with a 'dark evil quality'." Carl looked somberly at Van Helsing.

"I think we now know what has attracted this creature to the Holy Lance." Gabriel's voice was low. A corrupted relic stained with the blood of Christ - the power in the spearhead would be unimaginable. In the hands of such a being as the creature in white, it could wreak untold destruction upon the face of the Earth. He sighed, blinking wearily.

"But I don't think even the Pope knows where the head of the Holy Lance is," the friar said doubtfully. "By now the shaft must have decomposed, but the spear-tip itself . . . it's been lost for centuries." Carl, setting the papers aside, yawned.

Catching the movement, taking in the tousled hair and tired eyes, Gabriel pushed his chair from the table decisively. "There's not much we can do tonight. Get some rest. I'll meet you back here at dawn?"

Standing, Carl nodded, and Van Helsing made sure the friar left the archives and returned to his room before the hunter exited Vatican City. He worked best at night, when the cities were free of the innocent and only predators walked the streets. Silent, he wandered the alleys and byways of Rome, letting his feet determine the route. In the darkness of the night, the only light from a thin sliver of the new moon, Van Helsing blended with the shadows in a way he knew the creature would not. Through hubris, perhaps, the thing in the form of a man would retain its symbolic white. Gabriel barely registered this vague certainty about the creature's actions within his mind. He was waiting to come across some trace of the creature - its evil was too strong for it to be able to conceal itself for long.

The streets were dark; the streetlights in this area dim and distant. As he passed a closed bakery, his senses pricked up and he whirled, sharp eyes searching for . . . something.

But there was nothing.

No – that was not quite right. There was something.

Barely within the range of his senses, he felt the taint besmirching the air, polluting this part of the city. Frowning, Van Helsing took two careful steps and stopped, all senses screaming.

He felt the creature's presence before he heard it, and dropped flat. It was very fast, and nearly took his head off despite the speed with which he threw himself to the filthy cobblestones.

The creature gleamed in the darkness, the moonlight giving the white clothing and skin an eerie, ghostly glow. The creature's shoulder-length blond hair glinted golden in the light. It smiled, teeth too white.

"Gabriel," it hissed softly. The voice was terrible in its discord, embodying the horrible cacophony of a thousand churchbells ringing at once.

Gabriel didn't respond, jumping quickly to his feet.

"Surely you remember me?" the creature asked. Its blue eyes were so pale that the orbs looked blind in the moonlight.

The hunter remained impassive.

The creature laughed, the awful sound resonating with the screams of the damned. "After our last encounter, I lost your trail. But you sought sanctuary, did you not? You sought the one place I could not enter." The creature's smile might have made his exquisite features beautiful, once. "I have entrance now," it snarled.

Gabriel stood, gauging the creature's movements and stance. Strangely enough, it didn't attack, but circled him carefully. Gabriel kept most of his attention firmly on the creature, the rest focused on his surroundings. "There is something different about you," the creature grunted. It sniffed the air, leaning forward, and one of his rotating blades slipped silently into Gabriel's left hand, ready for use.

The creature breathed in deeply of the night air, its eyes half-closing as it sorted the scents. It tilted its head back and laughed, the frightful sound ringing through the street. "Why, you've forgotten who you are!"

Gabriel still said nothing.

"Oh, the hunter you once were," the creature gloated. "Now – why, you are practically mortal!"

Van Helsing's eyes narrowed.

"You don't remember anything, do you?" The creature moved with an inhuman speed, and before he could react it had him pinned against the wall. It was grinning, the expression enough to make stout soldiers weep. Gabriel stiffened his resolve, resisting the detached fear beating against him. The creature was trying to make him afraid, but the emotion wasn't his, and so he ignored it.

Bringing his arm up and across, the curved blades now spinning, Gabriel slashed at the creature's abdomen. It shrieked a little in surprise, but did not move. Gabriel was slammed harder into the side of the stone building at his back. He grunted.

The creature moved back, slightly. But now its grin was calculating. "You cannot think to fight me," it said, "but still you try. You truly remember nothing." There was no disguising the malicious glee pervading the creature's tone.

Gabriel slammed into the ground, with no memory of ever leaving it. The creature had thrown him to the street, despite his efforts at resisting. He rolled, feeling pain shoot through his side. A few ribs were cracked – perhaps broken.

He stood tall nevertheless, and heard himself sneer, "The poet did say it best, did he not? 'The stars are bright, though the brightest fell'? Tell him I will never yield!" Shocked at his own words, Van Helsing fell silent.

The creature, too, froze. Only for a moment, before drawing closer once again. "No," it breathed. Its expression changed, becoming deadly serious. "No, you are not forgotten – you are lost." And then Van Helsing was diving, rolling, slicing out with his blades as the other flew at him.

The battle was joined – the two figures locked and grappled, straining and tearing at one another in the moonlight. The streets were empty, and in their homes the people of Vatican City heard the awful screams and shrieks, and they shivered in their beds, praying. A bold few approached their windows, but only one watched the battle.

The white and the dark fought fiercely, the minutes stretching on as they exchanged blow for cut, kick for strike. Yet the figure in white had the upper hand from the beginning, and soon, with a devastating blow to the head, the man in black crumpled to the ground.

It looked, to the old blacksmith watching, as if the one in white would finish the other then, and a terrible foreboding came over him. For all its apparent beauty and purity, there was something wholly wrong, an evil that could not be denied, which hung about the man gleaming with pale light under the moon. A silver dagger was revealed, pulled from inside the man's white shirt, and the watcher gazed in horror, biting back a gasp. The man in white, a cruel smile wreathed upon his face, ripped the shirt of his unconscious opponent. But instead of killing him, the creature merely crouched and cut the skin just under his ribcage on the right side.

To the observer's shock, he lifted the blade to his face and inhaled deeply. Then, with a look of disgust, the . . . thing in white contemptuously wiped his blade on the fallen man's clothing, turned on his heel, and made his way down the street, towards the outskirts of the town. Within moments he was swallowed whole by the shadows.

The bystander waited until he was sure the figure had gone, and then shook his wife awake, and instructed her to get the mare hooked up to the cart. Rushing back into the street, he knelt next to the unconscious man. The watcher, Tomas, knew nothing of healing, yet he could tell the man was gravely hurt. Blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, and also matted his hair from a deep gash above his ear. His breathing was irregular, air hitched and strained through blue-tinted lips. Bruises were already beginning to form on his arms, chest, and face, and his skin was cold to the touch. The cut which the – thing – had delivered at the last was the most minor of his wounds.

Tomas carefully lifted the man, grunting in surprise at the other's weight, as his wife led the mare to the front of the house. His face reflected concern as he felt bone shift under his fingers, and the man shuddered. They had been married long enough to read intent in the other's eyes, and she knew that the only way this man might be able to survive was if the healers saw him. And the best healers in the city were in the Vatican.

Marie refused to leave him to complete this task, and climbed into the back to watch over the mysterious fighter while Tomas guided the mare as quickly as possible to the heart of the city.

The journey to the Vatican seemed interminable to Marie, who could do nothing but pray that each ragged breath the man took would not be his last. Using an old apron torn to pieces, she placed clean cloths against the cuts, yet they were quickly saturated. Marie nearly sobbed in relief when they reached the gates to the Holy City, and Tomas pounded at the door to the gatekeeper's small cottage. Within moments several men had burst from the building in alarm, and on seeing the wounded man, a youth was sent for the healers.

To Tomas and his wife, the next hour was a blur of frenzied activity as a stern Father Taddeo took charge of the man in black, accompanied by two younger assistants, and whisked the wounded man away.

The first Carl knew of the incident was the noise of distraught voices echoing down the hallway. Carl peered out the door of his room, and was taken aback by the amount of frenzied people rushing through the hallways. "Carl," said Jinnette, who to his surprise was walking purposefully towards him. "Come, immediately."

"Of course," gasped the friar, pulling a robe over his head as he followed the red-robed Cardinal. "What has happened?"

"Van Helsing was brought to the gates of the Holy City badly wounded," Jinette replied. "I know no more than Father Taddeo has taken him into his charge. A blacksmith and his wife may know what happened, and they are waiting for us now."

Carl's heart nearly stopped in his chest with the first sentence, and he increased his pace so that he was practically treading on the Cardinal's heels in his worry.

When they reached the gates minutes later, it was to find a shocked blacksmith holding his disturbed wife. Jinette smoothly welcomed and thanked the couple, and for several minutes the grizzled blacksmith spoke, telling them of the battle he had seen. Carl was torn between stark terror, anger and concern by the time the older man's tale was complete.

Glancing to Jinette, he was disconcerted by the other's ashen pallor, though Jinette's voice and expression remained calm. Tomas and Marie were escorted home by several members of the Order; once they were out of the temple precinct, Jinette and Carl turned immediately to find Father Taddeo.

By the time they reached the healer's quarters, Carl was fidgeting with worry, and Jinette's expression was grim. Father Taddeo's rooms were open to all with injury, and had been converted into an infirmary for the sick long ago. Normally well-lighted and aired, now the illumination provided by the many glaring candles lit a scene many never thought to see again.

Carl had not been present when Van Helsing was found on the steps to the cathedral several years ago, nor had he known of the man until Gabriel had been shown into the underground laboratory by Jinette. But to Taddeo and Jinette, the tableau playing out now was eerily remniscent of their initial discovery of the hunter. Carl, however, was fully focused on his friend.

Gabriel was lying very still on a pallet which supported his spine and neck. His clothing had been removed, and he was clad only in his leggings. His skin was pale, his hair matted with blood, and the only sound in the near-silent room was his labored breathing. Taddeo was gently pressing on his ribs, a frown on his face as he felt bone shift beneath his fingers. With mounting worry he noted both the hunter's lack of response as well as the drops of blood flecking his blue-tinged lips.

The examination continued in swift silence. Gabriel had also received a dangerously severe concussion, bruises and lacerations, and Taddeo could only guess at the internal damage done to the organs unprotected by his rib cage. From what they knew, Van Helsing had been repeatedly thrown and pummeled by the creature. He had slash wounds – deep cuts across his lower abdomen and legs. One particularly vicious swipe had come dangerously close to slicing through his left hamstring, which would have crippled him beyond recovery. And, least serious but most ominous, the superficial cut beneath his rib cage on the right side.

Taddeo spoke with Santo for a moment, and then left Van Helsing and walked toward Carl and Jinette, wiping his hands on a cloth as he did so.

"Taddeo?" Jinette's voice was strained.

The Father shook his head. Jinette closed his eyes for a moment.

"What?" Carl asked, glancing from Gabriel's still form to Taddeo, and back again. "What do you mean? What's wrong with him?"

"Carl – "

The friar cut Jinette off, turning to Taddeo, pleading. "Father."

The healer shook his head. "There is nothing to be done," he said.

Carl shook his head. "I won't accept that. There is always something –"

"He's bleeding within." The experienced friar was blunt. "His ribs have broken. Two of them have shattered, driving bone into his lungs. He can't breathe properly, and the organs inside are badly bruised. The blow to the head – men with less serious wounds have fallen asleep and never woken. The wound to his leg might not make him a cripple, but that would be its effect." Taddeo glanced back at Marius and Santo. The former was gently washing the wounds while the latter followed, carefully stitching the cuts closed. "I do not expect he will wake," Taddeo admitted.

"No," Carl gasped. He looked at Jinette. "That can't – no."

The Cardinal's face was drawn, his weariness evident and matched only by Taddeo's grim resignation. The healer ran a hand over his bald head, and said quietly, "All we can do is make him comfortable, and pray that his passing is easy."

Jinette ground out, "And our hopes die with him." The head of the Order turned and left the room, and Taddeo grunted in agreement. Carl stared after him, then took several steps back toward the pallet.

He was silent as he watched over the hunter, his friend, while the cuts were stitched and bandaged. He kept a silent vigil as Van Helsing was bathed, and clad in a loose pair of pants. The young friar sat by his friend as the broken ribs were bound and blankets were brought to cover him. Carl reached out to take Gabriel's hand, lying limp on the sheet. As dawn broke through the windows, Carl blinked, and when he saw that the hunter's chest no longer rose and fell, he squeezed the chill fingers and tightly closed his eyes.

- - - - - - - - - - --

Now, you don't think that after such a long delay, I'd really do THAT, do you? This is just the most evil cliffhanger I could think of, mainly to elicit a response from all you quiet types. (wicked grin). But if I get reviews, I promise not to do anything this evil again. And I might also post the next chapter within a week from today. ;)