Chapter Five: The Strongest of the Species, and the Most Intelligent
"It's one thing to wander in the darkness because you know no different, but it's quite another to enjoy the light only to have it taken from you,"
- Gallowglass de Clermont,
The Book of Life
Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1977
Sgt. Juan Julian Romero didn't know why he had been stationed at the airport on this day of all days. There was a demonstration in the Plaza Mayor just down the way, and most of his men had been diverted there to oversee the dissidents who sought to make a scene in the middle of the busy thoroughfare. But his orders had been to come here.
The sun beat down on him from high above and glinted off the planes that took off and landed from the runway up ahead.
He sighed and shifted his stance, wishing he could rest and lean against the wall behind him rather than to remain at attention for an unseemly amount of time.
Another aircraft touched down on the runway and began the slow process of taxiing toward the front of the line. When it reached its destination, some meters ahead of him, and buzzing loudly on the hot tarmac, the crew lowered the staircase, allowing their passengers to disembark.
He watched the airline workers rush to do their jobs. Bags were hauled out of the plane's undercarriage, while others set to work refueling the hulking 707. Others hurried to the foot of the steps, to offer their aid to the ladies who would need help taking that final step onto the tarmac safely.
A handful of paces away, with broad smiles, perfect hair, and immaculate dress, two men and one woman waited to welcome the passengers and flight crew to Buenos Aires, the greatest city in the world, and in Argentina.
Sgt. Romero resisted the urge to roll his shoulders and neck to try to relieve himself of the tension that had gathered there. He thought briefly of his wife, safe at home with their newborn son. And then he blinked away the image of another baby, and another mother, who invaded his memories without his leave. He turned his face briefly, before clearing his throat and returning to attention, taking in the comings and goings of the flight deck, knowing his superiors would ask for a report on his observations later that evening. Detail would be of the upmost importance.
Sgt. Romero zeroed in on the first arrivals to descend the steps. The first was a young married couple – American, perhaps, from the looks of them. And then he squinted at the luggage they carried and frowned. Maybe English. He wracked his brain and realized he had failed to look at the incoming flight schedule before parking himself outside to wait and watch.
It was a mistake that he would have to rectify.
The woman was blonde and thick set, with an expensive purse on her arm, and a pair of sunglasses that obscured half of her face. The man was thin and short. Shorter than the woman he was with as she was in a pair of heels that added a couple of inches to her and robbed them from him.
Romero shifted again and eyed the next figure that came down and the one after that.
He'd have to commission the passenger list as well as that of the crew who he could see still at the top of the stairs. A flight attendant in a little skirt and a pretty blue hat, smiled and said her goodbyes to each passenger as they disembarked. He could see the pilot and co-pilot through the window of the cockpit, going over their post flight checks as the plane gradually powered down.
It was the man in the middle of the group that made Sgt. Romero remember himself.
The foreigner was tall – six foot at least – with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. He wore an easy expression and he walked with a relaxed gait. But there was something in the way he descended the steps without once looking down to watch his step, and the way, even through his thick sunglasses, Sgt. Romero could see his eyes surveilling the area around him, taking in the state of the airport as though in this alone he could see straight through to the heart of Argentina and lay all her secrets bare.
Romero knew a soldier when he saw one. It was what he'd spent his whole career training for, and this man was a soldier.
It didn't matter about his lack of uniform or his easy grin for the flight attendants and the crew. It didn't matter the way he almost blended perfectly into the crowd of civilian passengers, either.
He didn't blend enough. Romero had him pegged.
As the group made their way out of the sun and through the doors of the terminal at his back, he stepped forward. Holding up a hand as the large man passed him by, Romero caught the foreigner by the chest, stopping him in his tracks.
Romero didn't flinch at the wall of muscle that collided with the flat of his hand, nor at the slow, knowing way the soldier in disguise turned to regard him with feigned curiosity as though he couldn't fathom why a military man would be stopping him from entering the country.
"Your papers," Romero said tersely. Staring up at the taller man with a stern expression.
The man regarded Romero for a moment before slowly – too slowly – reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a passport and boarding pass.
He handed the items over. And Romero had the sense that, despite the foreigner's neutral expression, he was resisting a smirk.
He eyed him suspiciously before turning his attention to the boarding pass and passport and pausing in shock.
Brendan Clermont
Data di Nascita: 23 Luglio 1950
But it was not the name that gave Sgt. Romero pause. It was the passport itself. Cool black leather despite the summer heat, and a golden coat of arms.
Brendan Clermont had a passport granted to him by the Holy See.
Sgt. Romero uttered an oath and quickly snapped the booklet shut, handing it back to the man with an apology.
He must have gotten it wrong. They would not have ordered him to follow a man of the church. Not one with diplomatic immunity.
And yet...
Romero shook his head.
No.
No, not a man of God. No matter what Romero had done in his life already, surely not this too.
"My apologies, señor," he said, not once but twice. Even as his stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch, and his mind gave way to doubt.
He took another long glance at the man in front of him.
His hair was brushed back and looked as though it had a natural curl that the Vatican man had put considerable effort into resisting. The foreigner wore a pair of tan slacks, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up tightly on his elbows. Admittedly, though well dressed, he did not give the appearance of a man of God. His tan plaid sport coat hung lazily over his forearm as though he could not be bothered with how others may see him, but the label on the garment suggested the man had paid handsomely for it.
Regardless of his wealth – Romero eyed the cross around the foreigner's neck with skepticism – he most certainly didn't look to be the kind that would carry a passport such as this.
He let his eye drift down to the peculiar ring that rested on the man's finger. RDC, it read. Sgt. Romero had been raised in the church – had spent his whole life there – and he'd never seen a Catholic ring such as this one.
He glanced once more up at this... Brendan Clermont's... face, trying and failing to take his measure. Either way, the soldier knew it was no use. With a passport like the one he carried, he would have no choice for now but to let him go.
Brendan Clermont wasn't particularly ruffled by their exchange. If anything, he was excessively kind, in a way Romero, himself, would not have been had their situation been in the reverse.
"You were only doing your duty," he said amiably, in perfect unaccented Argentinian Spanish, shooting Romero a knowing grin.
He held up his passport in thanks for Romero having returned it to him, and it was then that Romero caught the barest glimpse of a faded tattoo.
The soldier's eyes went wide, and he did not quite know what to say. A faded bird clung just barely to the layers of the foreigner's skin. It stretched over his muscles, and colored his strong, protruding veins, as though daring someone to come along and cut them with a knife.
He snapped his attention away from the ink on the man's skin and looked back up at his face. He was startled to find the man was intently watching him, through impenetrably dark sunglasses.
It unsettled Sgt. Romero that he could not see Brendan Clermont's eyes, but he didn't show it.
Romero cleared his throat and stepped back out of the newcomer's way. He snapped back to attention and gave the tarmac another once over, surveilling the space for anything his superiors might ask him about later that evening when he ended his watch.
"Good day to you, Sergeant," Brendan Clermont murmured, nodding as though to tip an invisible cap toward him.
Romero's throat bobbed.
And then Brendan Clermont was gone.
Benjamin Fox took one long final drag before stubbing his cigarette out on the cool stone banister that led down the steps into the plaza. Across the way, a crowd was gathering, and he could see even now that the authorities were becoming agitated by the event.
He curled his lip and settled in, taking note of the faces and scents of the women who passed him by on their way to join the demonstration, keeping alert for anyone that smelled of witchcraft, or perhaps a young daemon. Benjamin had a need for female witches, and he had a friend that needed little daemons who were haunted by a vision or two. General Videla had been all too happy to abide by their requests, in exchange for a little... professional advice from time to time.
The mothers of the disappeared were incessant, even now, and they did not give up in the face of retribution. Not even when members of their own disappeared in the dead of night just as their children had done in the weeks and months leading up to this moment.
It was unnecessarily disruptive, Benjamin thought. And it was in moments like these that he missed the old days, and the people of Hitler's Germany. This outcry would never have happened over there. His tongue was dry in his mouth, and he briefly contemplated joining the crowd for a quick drink, but then thought better of it. He didn't fancy the taste of abstract grief today.
Instead, he pulled out another cigarette and lit it as he had done with the last one. He smoked until there was nothing left to smoke and then he tossed the cigarette butt to the ground, this time crushing it with the toe of his boot.
He turned on the steps and jogged lazily back up them, nodding to the soldier at the doors who saluted and stood aside, allowing the quiet German to enter.
Only a select few knew where Benjamin had come from and how long he had lingered in Argentina, though, he was sure, many could guess. Juan Perón had turned a blind eye to his share of Nazi immigrants post World War II. And though Benjamin looked far too young to be of that generation, he received the same detached speculation that many of his old comrades did, even now.
"Nazi fucks!"
The girl at the desk in the corner slammed her fists down on the newspaper she'd been reading. An article written in English. The Buenos Aires Herald was one of the only papers in the country willing to tell the hard truths everyone else was willfully ignoring.
And yet another family had disappeared.
The desk shuddered under the force of her blow. One of its legs buckled and the whole thing tipped and tilted. The newspapers, pens and wine glasses that rested on top all slid precariously to the floor.
"Still breaking things with that temper, I see," a deep familiar voice cut in from the doorway.
Out of breath, and seething, the girl whipped around in anger, at first for being interrupted, but she quickly froze.
"Gallowglass?" she asked, her eyes wide as she stared at the giant man in the doorway.
Gallowglass arched an eyebrow and studied her carefully before offering a sympathetic grin.
"You don't look well, cousin," he said, not unkindly.
"I'm fine," she said and jutted her chin.
The girl, Anna, knew she was far from well. Her guard had been taken several nights before and she didn't even know where to begin when it came to recovering him. She was hungry, but she could hardly feed from the humans in the other room. They'd been through enough and they wouldn't understand. She couldn't become another devil that robbed them of the god they no longer prayed to.
But she didn't say any of this to her cousin.
Gallowglass may have been the eldest, but he could hardly treat her like a child, not now. She was nearly a hundred soon, and she'd survived her share of war and genocide in her lifetime. What was one more, really?
But even as she thought it, she felt something inside of her sag. Gallowglass must have seen it too because he pushed off the door frame and stepped inside.
He closed her office door behind him. It was old, and wooden. Its hinges were unoiled. So, it creaked and then echoed through the small apartment. The silence that rang around them was unbearably loud.
"Anna," he said and reached out as though to embrace her.
But Anna stepped back and shook her head. "No," she said, holding up a hand as though to stop him. "No."
Gallowglass paused, hands resting easy by his sides. He waited, allowing her some distance.
"I don't care what mother says," Anna said with defiance.
"Your mother is worried about you," Gallowglass said anyway. "I know why you are here. Trust me, I understand, but..."
Anna's eyes flashed with warning, and she stopped him with a hiss. "If you understood, you would not say what you are about to—"
Gallowglass fell silent and offered her an almost paternal smile.
She often hated the age gap between her and the eldest of her cousins. Anna Irina Adrasteia Inés de Clermont had been born again in the early 20th century.
A Russian born Jew at the height of the chaos in a czarist Russia that was heaving its last, antisemitic breath, she had been caught in the crossfire and saved by an unlikely figure. A vengeful nun of middling age, with sharp eyes and an easy grin. Stasia de Clermont had defied all expectations from the very beginning, but she was a good mother and Anna—
She sucked in a breath and turned from her cousin's gaze. She missed her mother more than words could possibly say.
The man at her back though...
Anna worried her lip and set about picking up the newspaper clippings and pieces of shattered glass that littered her floor.
Gallowglass de Clermont, by contrast, had been a medieval knight. Born of Vikings and Scots, and then reborn the crown prince of their grandfather's invisible kingdom. But where Anna had dedicated her entire life to running headfirst into every fray, Gallowglass had vehemently avoided every responsibility that had been set on his shoulders for as long as she'd known him.
He wouldn't even set foot in France, for fuck's sake.
She wanted to throw that knowledge in his face. He had no right to come here, telling her that it was time to jump back into the family fold, when other people's lives were on the line. He had no right—
But Anna knew that wasn't true.
Because the one thing her cousin never fell down on, ever, was showing up when his family needed him to. Unlike Anna, herself, who hadn't been able to bring herself to see her mother, or her grand-mère, since her grand-père had died after the war. It had been thirty years, and she just... couldn't figure out how to go home. She didn't know what to say, or how to look anyone in the eye. Sept-Tours felt like a... well it was so... so hollow now that Philippe de Clermont had done the impossible and... died.
She bit the inside of her cheek and eyed her cousin, swallowing down her grief.
They were an unlikely pair on the best of days – her and Gallowglass. And he had made it clear that she could not stay away from France forever. He wouldn't let her do to herself what he had done, but Anna thought he was a hypocrite and she hated it when he gave her that overly patient, paternalistic look, like he knew something she didn't. Like she was just a kid throwing a fit, and one day she would understand.
Even then, Gallowglass always showed up, even when Anna didn't think she needed him to. And he always knew what to say, even when she didn't want to hear it.
It was aggravating and horrible and she had work to do. She refused to let him talk her into complacency.
Not now, when there were seriously bad things happening in the state of Argentina. Not now, when her guard was in prison, and people were disappearing and—
Anna knew that they often got along well only because her cousin indulged her, but he wouldn't indulge her in this. Not when she'd deposited herself in the middle of another genocidal regime, with the intent to interfere with the poor decisions made by the absolute worst of humanity. Not when there was no evidence of a single creature crime in sight. The covenant says she's supposed to stay out of these things. If she were caught interfering, it would be the death penalty.
"I know that they don't believe me," she whispered, staring up at her cousin from where she knelt on the floor. "I know that it's not in the papers. It's not on the radio. I know you can't see it so clearly. That this isn't like before, but—"
Gallowglass frowned and made his way over to her, stooping down and picking up the rest of the mess for her.
"But it is the same," he said for her, giving an easy shrug. "The humans here are doing an unspeakable thing. I believe you. Auntie Stasia does too."
Anna stared at her cousin with suspicion. Outside, a car slowed on the street and idled for a moment longer than normal.
Anna tensed and stood, shoving the items in the trash quickly and heading over to the curtains, peeking subtly through the small opening in them.
Her cousin was quiet at her back as she watched the nondescript car idle there, and the man inside look up at her building.
"Shit," she hissed and quickly glanced up and down the street to see if any of her people had been caught out of doors and vulnerable.
When she saw none, she brushed past her cousin and ripped open her office door, stepping into the main room where several other men and women were gathered. Young students, one former journalist, an alcoholic professor and three mothers who had been kicked out of several newsrooms by editors who wanted nothing to do with their stories.
They all looked up when Anna entered the room, and she did not miss how their nervous gazes flitted over her shoulder to her hulking cousin where he lingered in her office doorway.
"Nobody leaves," she said tersely. "We are being watched from the street."
One of the students let out a nervous sound – caught between a moan of dread and a cry of despair – while the mothers stared at Anna with dull, lifeless eyes. As though there was nothing left to fear for. Anna knew that perhaps, for them, that was true. Their children were gone. No one knew where. They were just gone. Taken by men just like the one who waited for them in the car downstairs.
Trujillo Alto, Puerto Rico, 1977 ( The city in the countryside; just outside of San Juan)
It was a place Jacqueline lovingly, and exasperatedly, called mission row. She was the catholic on the street. Everyone knew, and she was by far the most popular though she was a poor hand at cooking and the evangelists prepared better food.
Unlike the others though, Jacqueline cared little for converting you to her creed.
She was here for warm weather, close proximity to her mate, and the letter in her bedroom from the de Clermont which told her where to go and to do so without complaint.
Jacqueline had to roll her eyes. Say what you want about Philippe de Clermont, he was far less pushy about his orders than his second son. Baldwin Montclair, on the other hand, was a piece of work and a member of the family she didn't remember ever formally agreeing to serve.
And yet... here she was.
She lived in the farthest house from the Catholic mission. In a little blue and white house, with a faded tin roof, and a large wrap around porch.
This time of day, the nuns in the schoolhouse were teaching arithmetic and breaking up fights while the children played. But Jacqueline was not required until the little ones had all gone home for the day, the orphans were tucked away, and the at-risk mothers were sitting down for their own late-night meals.
Then she would make her way to the schoolhouse and sit down with each woman to talk about the experiences which led them to seeking shelter with the church. Some came from farms that no longer had any men to run them. When the crops went bad and the economy turned for the worst, many of the men in the rural parts of Puerto Rico had fled to the States for work and higher wages. Then there were those who fled violence in the home. Those who had come to the city for work, only to find that they had been lured away from their family under false pretenses. Those who simply had nowhere else to go.
The stories were all different, and yet the truths behind them were the same.
Jacqueline swiped a fallen lock of hair out back behind her ear and took her pen from between her teeth. She underlined a passage in the book in her lap before idly flipping the page. She tucked the pen behind her ear, hoping it would keep her hair from falling back in her face, and began to read a passage on Bowlby, Emerson and Schaffer's theory regarding early childhood stages of attachment, when a car pulled up.
Jacqueline dragged herself away from her literature to peer up at the figures inside the shining '73 Pontiac, before shoving the book off her lap and hopping to her feet at the sight of friendly faces.
Davy waved as he hoisted himself out of the driver's seat, and Jacqueline graced them all with a beaming grin.
"Thank God," Jacqueline said and embraced the girl who had hopped out of the backseat and jogged up the steps.
They broke apart and Jacqueline pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. "They didn't tell me you were coming."
Lorna pulled away and rolled her eyes. "When do they ever?"
Jacqueline pursed her lips and pulled a face before closing her eyes and letting out a laugh. Lorna joined in.
"Oh, but I'm so glad to see you," she said and leaned into Jacqueline's side before turning to climb the steps onto the porch.
"It's been far too long," Jacqueline agreed, following Lorna up and into the house, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the men and the luggage they lugged out of the car and onto the sidewalk.
"Oh Christ, he's gonna take him out at the—" Lorna started and sat up straighter to watch the men spar. "Watch your feet love!" She called out and blew an exasperated breath out when Davy took her mate out at the knees.
She shot Jacqueline a look and the blonde giggled, covering her mouth, and ducking her face.
"I mean, you think he'd learn, the old codger," Lorna muttered. "They've been at it for centuries."
Jacqueline smirked and leaned back, resting her elbows on the step behind her.
"You don't have to tell me," she said. "If I had a dime for every time Guillaume let that trick get past him, I'd be paying the de Clermont for their labors and not the other way around."
Lorna let out a snort and threw her head back, unable to contain her laughter. She'd witnessed many of Guillaume's blunders over the years.
"Speaking of Guillaume," Lorna paused and looked at her friend curiously. "Where is he hiding these days?"
Jacqueline hummed and tilted her head at Lorna, pressing a subtle finger to her lips and squinting her eyes. There was a careful lightness to her being, but a tension in her that betrayed the easy façade.
Lorna let out an "ah," and nodded her head. "I see."
"Mhmm," Jacqueline replied.
He was on assignment then.
"Must be an important one," Lorna observed casually. "For all the hush around it."
Jacqueline frowned and thought of the youngest de Clermont child and her crusade against the Junta in Argentina. The reckless way she pitched herself into every conflict, towing the line of interference in the human world that her Uncle Baldwin did not appreciate, and drawing unnecessary attention to her from the government that had already disappeared too many young, outspoken girls like herself.
"Oc," Jacqueline said curtly, switching to her native Occitan. "It is."
Anna de Clermont was known in Argentina as Inés Chiaramonte. And, to put it mildly, Inés Chiaramonte was causing quite a stir.
In the dead of night, she hustled her band of misfits, protesters and dissidents down the back stairwell and into the quiet side street that fed into a nondescript alleyway most wouldn't look twice at.
There were too many of them to fit in the small yellow Volkswagen Golf she had arrived in just over a year ago, but they would have to make something work.
The mothers piled in and claimed the seats in the back without question. None of the rest of her party put up a fight and she deliberately avoided her cousin's eyes as she settled her hand on the back of the tipsy professor's head, pressing him gently into the passenger seat and holding her breath with hope that he would fall asleep and not need to pull over to get sick on the side of the road.
The students, at her urging, popped open the back and piled in, laying back and half piled on top of each other. It would be far easier to make it into the countryside if they were not piled precariously on each other's laps.
How she would fit Gallowglass was an entirely different story she hadn't planned for. Anna Ines worried her lip and turned for the driver's side door, hoping her cousin would simply... fold himself in without question or complaint.
Gallowglass stopped her before she could duck into the driver's seat. His hand firm on her elbow, a suspicious look in his eyes.
"Where is Guillaume?"
Anna blanched and shot her cousin a guilty look, she shifted uneasily from foot to foot, eager to get off the street before they were seen.
As much as she wished she could, she wouldn't lie.
"I'm gonna get him back, Gallowglass. I promise."
Anna's voice cracked, though her expression was earnest.
A pit opened up wide and gaping in Gallowglass's gut. And a swelling of rage surged from his chest into his throat. He clenched his jaw and bit down hard on his tongue. Anna bounced on the balls of her feet with the urge to flee the city, and Gallowglass could wring her stubborn little neck.
Instead of shouting to high hell, Gallowglass shook his head and reached for her door.
He knew the intelligencer from earlier couldn't be far. And he'd rather be the only one waiting for the men who would come tonight to break down Anna's door.
With the door open wide, Gallowglass gently pressed Anna into the driver's seat. She went willingly, a frog caught in her throat at the mess he had found her in.
He closed the door behind her and ducked down so he could look her in the eye.
Anna rolled her window down and stared up at him.
"Get them out of the city, and stay with them," he commanded.
She didn't argue. Instead, Anna stuck the key in the ignition. He reached out and stopped her hand before she could turn it.
"You are not to set foot in Buenos Aires again," Gallowglass continued. "Do you understand?"
She looked as though she wanted to protest. But the youngest de Clermont child was no fool.
This was not her cousin she was talking to. This was the man she had once sworn her fealty to. No one was born into this family without bending the knee. And Gallowglass was the only one of her cousins who was no longer required to do the bending. No matter what he let you believe.
"I understand," she said without wavering.
He held her gaze before nodding and stepping back. He waited for her to start her engine, and stayed there on the empty street, ensuring that she didn't use her headlights and that she made it out of sight without unwanted interference.
When she was gone, Gallowglass rolled his neck and turned for the back stairwell. The door closed softly behind him as he made his way back inside.
The sound of the phone ringing broke the peace of the night. Her friends were locked in an intense game of poker and Jacqueline had been amusedly watching from the sidelines, the cool neck of a beer bottle clasped lazily in one hand.
She hopped off the sofa at the sound of the first ring, and set her bottle down, swiping her hands on her denim shorts to rid them of condensation.
She hopped over the end table and strode barefoot into the kitchen. Plucking the phone off the hook, she reached up with her other hand to lift her long blonde hair off the back of her neck.
"Bueno," she answered.
There was a beat of silence on the other end. Jacqueline dropped her hair and straightened, turning to face the living room and her oblivious friends.
"Aló?" she tried again.
"It's me," came a familiar Scottish brogue.
Jacqueline paused momentarily, and then let out a relieved sigh. "Oh," she said and propped her hip against the low countertop.
"For a second there I thought something was wrong," she said with a light laugh.
Another long pause. That was when she noticed the subtle clicking sound on the other end, as though someone had tapped the line. Jacqueline felt her throat tighten and she wracked her brain for the last time he had called her instead of Guillaume.
"Gallow—"
"Stay calm," he cut her off softly. "This is not the time for panic."
Jacqueline twirled the phone cord around her finger and bit the inside of her cheek. She turned to face the counter and then, dissatisfied, turned back around again.
As if sensing her distress, the game had slowed to a halt in the living room. Davy appeared in the doorway, resting his forearms on either side of the old door jamb.
Jacqueline took a steadying breath and nodded her head. "Is everything well?" she asked, her voice steady despite the oddness of the young de Clermont's call.
On the other end, Gallowglass let out a long sigh. "No," he said regretfully. "But it will be, Jacqueline. I just need you to trust me."
Davy could hear every word of course, and he stepped forward, eyes narrowing with concern. He held his hand out for the phone, but Jacqueline shook her head and clutched it tighter in her carefully manicured hands.
"Tell me," she bit out, unconsciously shifting from foot to foot.
"Guillaume's been arrested."
Jacqueline let out a small, barely audible whimper. The soft hair on her arms stood on end.
"I'm going to get him back, Jacqueline," Gallowglass said. "I swear it."