Innocent Blood (10 page)

Bernard buried a hand in her short hair, yanked her head back, rested his blade against her soft white throat.

“No!” Rhun called out, rushing forward, shoving through the others.

But it was not his shout that halted the cardinal’s blade.

7:52
A.M.

Shock froze Bernard in place—along with utter disbelief.

He stared at the woman’s face as if she were a ghost.

It could not be her.

It must be a trick of light and shadow, his mind indulging in fantasy, a
strigoi
with an uncanny likeness. Still, he recognized the silver eyes, the raven color of her hair, even the indignant, haughty expression as his blade rested against her soft throat, as if she dared him to take her life.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory de Ecsed.

But she had perished centuries ago. Bernard had seen her imprisoned in her castle. He had even visited her there once, pitied her, the learned noblewoman brought low by Rhun’s base desires.

But Bernard bore as much guilt for that crime. Centuries ago, he had put the woman on this cruel path when he set the countess and Rhun together, when he tried to force his will upon divine prophecy. Afterward, Bernard had begged to be the one to take her life, to spare Rhun of such a deed, knowing how much he had loved her, how far he had fallen for her. But the pope had deemed it part of Rhun’s penance to end her unnatural life, to slay the monster that he had created.

Bernard had worried when Rhun returned from Hungary. Rhun had claimed the deed was done, that the countess was gone from this world. Bernard had taken it to mean she was dead, not put away like a doll in a drawer. At the time, as additional penance, Rhun had starved himself for years, mortified himself for decades, shutting himself off from the mortal world.

But plainly Rhun had not killed her.

What have you done
,
my son? What sin have you committed yet again in the name of love?

As horror faded, another realization took root, one full of promise.

By Rhun sparing her, the Bathory line was not dead—as Bernard had despaired these past months. He pondered what that implied.

Could this be a sign from God?

Had God’s will acted through Rhun to preserve the countess for this new task?

For the first time since the Blood Gospel had delivered its message and cast doubt on Dr. Erin Granger’s role as the Woman of Learning, hope surged through Bernard.

Countess Bathory might yet save them all.

Bernard stared at her beautiful face in wonder, still disbelieving this miracle, this sudden turn of good fortune. He gripped her hair tighter, refusing to lose this one hope.

She could not be allowed to escape.

Rhun appeared at his side, listing a bit on his feet, plainly succumbing to his weakened state again. Even this brief battle had quickly stanched whatever fire the blood had stoked inside him.

Still . . .

“Restrain him,” Bernard ordered the others, fearing what Rhun might do. At this moment, he did not know his friend’s heart. Would he kill her, save her, or try to run off with her in shame?

I do not know.

All he knew for sure was that he had to protect this wicked woman with every force he could marshal.

He needed her.

The world needed her.

The countess must have read that certainty in his eyes. Her perfect lips curved into a smile, both cunning and mean.

God help us
,
if I’m wrong.

PART II

For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets,

and thou hast given them blood to drink; for they are worthy.

—Revelation 16:6

12

December 19, 10:11
A.M.
CET

Rome, Italy

Erin shared the backseat of the red Fiat with Jordan. Christian sat up front with the driver. The Sanguinist had his head out the open window, speaking to a Swiss guard in a midnight-blue uniform and cap. The young man carried an assault rifle over one shoulder, guarding St. Anne’s Gate, one of the side entrances into Vatican City.

Normally the guards here weren’t overtly armed.

So why the heightened security?

The guard nodded, stepped back, and waved their car through.

Christian whispered to the driver, and they set off into the Holy City, passing under the verdigris-green iron archway. Once they were moving again, Christian had returned his phone to his ear, where it had been glued ever since their chartered plane had landed at Rome’s smaller Ciampino Airport. Their driver had been waiting for them in this nondescript Fiat and whisked them in minutes to the gates of Vatican City.

Jordan held Erin’s hand in the backseat, staring out as the car slipped past the Vatican bank and post office and circled behind the bulk of St. Peter’s Basilica.

She studied the ancient buildings, imagining the secrets hidden behind their bright stucco facades. As an archaeologist, she uncovered truth layer by layer, but her discovery of the existence of
strigoi
and Sanguinists had taught her that history had layers even deeper than any she had thought existed.

But one question remained foremost in her mind.

Jordan expressed it. “Where is Christian taking us?”

She was just as curious. She had thought they would be heading straight to the papal apartments to meet with Cardinal Bernard in his offices, but instead their car headed farther out into the grounds behind the basilica.

Erin leaned forward, interrupting Christian on the phone. She was too tired to be polite and irritated by all the subterfuge they’d followed to come here.

“Where are we going?” she asked, touching the Sanguinist’s shoulder.

“We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” she pressed.

Christian pointed his phone ahead.

Erin ducked lower to study their approach toward a building of white Italian marble with a red-tiled roof. A set of train tracks behind it revealed the structure’s purpose.

It was Stazione Vaticano, the one-and-only train station on the Vatican railway line. It had been built during the reign of Pope Pius XI in the early 1930s. Today it was mostly used to import freight, though the last few popes had taken occasional ceremonial trips from here aboard a special papal train.

Erin saw that same train parked on those tracks now.

Three forest-green cars were lined up behind a black old-fashioned engine that puffed out steam. At another time, she would have been thrilled at the sight, but right now she had but one overriding concern: the fate of Rhun. During the trip here, no other visions had come, and she feared what that meant for Rhun.

The Fiat drove straight to the platform and stopped. Christian popped out his door, drawing Jordan and Erin with him. With his phone back at his ear, Christian led them up the platform. The Sanguinist had changed out of his tattered dress uniform and into a priest’s shirt and black jeans. The outfit suited him better.

Upon reaching the train, he lowered his phone and pointed to the middle car with a mischievous grin. “All aboard!”

Erin glanced back toward the dome of the basilica. “I don’t understand. Are we leaving already? What about Rhun?”

The slender Sanguinist shrugged. “At this point, I know as much as you do. The cardinal asked that I bring you both here and board the train. It’s scheduled to be under way as soon as we are on board.”

Jordan put his warm palm against her lower back. She leaned back into it, glad for the touch of the familiar, the understandable. “What else did you expect from Bernard?” he said. “If you look up
need to know
in the dictionary, you’d find his smiling face there. The guy likes his secrets.”

And secrets got people killed.

Erin fingered the small marble of amber in the pocket of her jeans, picturing Amy’s hesitant smile under a desert sun.

“For now,” Jordan said, “we might as well do what the cardinal asks. We can always come back if we don’t like what he tells us.”

She nodded. Jordan could always be counted on to point to the most practical way forward. She kissed his cheek, his stubble rough under her lips, adding another soft kiss to his lips.

Christian stepped to the door and pulled it open. “To avoid undue attention, the Vatican put out a cover story that the train is being shifted to a maintenance yard outside Rome. But the sooner we’re moving, the happier I’ll be.”

With little other choice, Erin climbed the metal steps, followed by Jordan. She stepped into a sumptuous dining car. Golden velvet curtains had been tied back next to each window, and the compartment practically glowed in the morning sunshine—from the buttery yellow ceiling to the rich oak joinery. The air smelled of lemon polish and old wood.

Jordan whistled. “Looks like the pope knows how to travel. The only thing that would make this picture better would be a steaming pot of coffee on one of those tables.”

“I second that,” Erin said.

“Have a seat,” Christian said, passing by them and waving to a table that had been set. “I’ll see about making your wishes come true.”

As he headed toward the car in front, Erin found a spot bathed in sunlight and sat, enjoying the warmth after the rush across the cold city. She stroked the white linen tablecloth with one finger. Two places were set with silver flatware and fine china decorated with the papal seal.

Jordan smoothed his dress blue uniform, doing his best to look presentable as he sat next to her. Still, she caught the hard glint to his eyes as he peered out the windows, constantly on the watch for any danger, though trying not to show it.

Finally, he settled down. “Hope the food here is better than at that hippie place Christian took us to in San Fran. Vegan food? Really? I’m a meat-and-potatoes sort of guy. And in my particular case, I lean more toward the
meat
side of that equation.”

“This is Italy. Something tells me you might get lucky with the food.”

“Indeed you shall!” a new voice called behind them, coming from the door to the first car.

Startled, Jordan came close to bursting out of his seat and swinging around, but even he recognized the slight German accent to those few words.

“Brother Leopold!” Erin exclaimed, delighted to see the monk, along with the tray he carried, holding a coffee service.

She hadn’t seen the German monk since the day he had saved her life. He looked the same—with his wire-rimmed spectacles, simple brown habit, and boyish grin.

“Never fear, breakfast will be served in a moment.” Leopold lifted the tray. “But first, Christian mentioned that you were both desperately in need of a jolt of caffeine after your long journey.”

“If you define
jolt
as a full pot of coffee, you are correct.” Jordan smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Leopold.”

“Likewise.”

The monk bustled over and filled their china cups with a steaming dark roast blend. The train had begun to slowly move, the timbre of the engines stoking higher.

Christian appeared again and took the seat opposite Erin, staring pointedly at the steaming cup in her hands.

Familiar with his routine, she handed him the white china cup. He brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and sniffed deeply at the curl of steam. An expression of contentment crossed his face.

“Thank you,” he said and handed the cup back to her.

As a young Sanguinist, he wasn’t as far removed from simple human pleasures, like coffee. She liked that.

“Any news?” Jordan asked him. “Like where we’re going?”

“I was told that once we’re outside of Rome, we’ll learn more. Meantime, I say we savor the calm.”

“As in,
before the storm
?” Erin asked.

Christian chuckled. “Most probably.”

Jordan seemed content enough with that answer. During the trip here, he and Christian had become fast friends, unusually so considering Jordan’s distaste and distrust for the Sanguinists after Rhun had bitten her.

As the line of cars inched away from the station, the train headed toward a set of steel doors that blocked the tracks a few hundred yards ahead, set into the massive walls that surrounded the Holy City. The gateway sported rivets and thick doornails and looked as if it were meant to guard a medieval castle.

A train whistle sounded, and the doors rumbled ponderously apart, sliding into the brick wall. This gate marked the border between Vatican City and Rome.

Passing beneath that archway under a head of steam, the train picked up speed and headed out into Rome. The train pulled through the city, like any ordinary train—only theirs had a mere three cars: the galley in front, the dining car in the middle, and a third compartment in back. The last car looked similar to the others from the outside, but its curtains had been drawn, and a solid metal door separated that car from hers.

As she looked at that door now, she tried to ignore the tightening dread in her stomach.

What was back there?

“Ah,” Brother Leopold exclaimed, drawing her attention. “As promised . . . breakfast.”

From the galley, a new figure emerged, as familiar as Leopold, if not as welcome.

Father Ambrose—aide to Cardinal Bernard—stepped from the galley car with a tray of omelets, brioche, butter, and jam. The priest’s round face looked even redder than usual, damp with sweat or perhaps from the steam of the galley kitchen. He didn’t look happy with his role as waiter.

“Good morning, Father Ambrose,” Erin said. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

She did her best to make that sound genuine.

Ambrose didn’t even bother. “Dr. Granger, Sergeant Stone,” he said perfunctorily, inclining his head fractionally toward each of them.

The priest unloaded the food and returned to the galley car.

Clearly, he wasn’t interested in conversation.

She wondered if his presence indicated that Cardinal Bernard was already on board. She glanced again to that steel door leading to the neighboring compartment.

Next to her, Jordan simply tore into his omelet, as if he might not see food again for days—which, considering their past experiences with the Sanguinists, could be true.

Following his example, she spread jam onto a slice of brioche.

Christian watched all the while, looking envious.

By the time their plates were empty, the train had threaded out of Rome and appeared to be heading south of the city.

Jordan’s hand again found hers under the table. She stroked her fingertips along his palm, liking the smile it provoked. As much as the thought of a relationship scared her, for him she was ready to take the risk.

But a certain awkwardness remained between them. No matter how hard she tried not to, her thoughts often returned to the moment when Rhun had bitten her. No mortal man had ever made her feel like that. But the act had meant nothing, a mere necessity. She wondered if that bone-deep bliss was a trick of the
strigoi
to disable their victims, to turn them weak and helpless.

Her fingers inadvertently found themselves touching the scars on her neck.

She wanted to ask someone about it. But who? Certainly not Jordan. She considered asking Christian, to inquire what it had been like for him when he was first bitten. Back at the diner in San Francisco, he had seemed to sense her thoughts, but she had balked at discussing such an erotic experience with any man, especially a priest.

Still, not all her hesitation was embarrassment.

She knew a part of her didn’t want to know the truth.

What if the feeling of connectedness that she had experienced wasn’t just a mechanism to quiet prey? What if it was something else?

10:47
A.M.

Rhun awoke to a feeling of dread and panic. His arms flailed up and to the side, expecting to feel stone walls enclosed around him.

His memories filled back in.

He was free.

As he listened to the clack of steel wheels on tracks, he remembered the battle at the edge of the Holy City. He had suffered some minor wounds, but worst of all, the battle had drained the last dregs of his strength, returning him to a weakened state. Cardinal Bernard had insisted he rest while they waited for the arrival of Erin and Jordan.

Even now he could hear the thump of human hearts, the timpani of their beats as familiar to his keen ears as any song. He ran his palms over his body. He wore a dry set of robes, the reek of old wine gone. He eased himself upright, testing each vertebra as he did so.

“Careful, my son,” Bernard said out of the darkness of the train car. “You are not yet restored to your full health.”

As Rhun’s eyes adjusted and focused, he recognized the papal sleeping car, outfitted with the double bed upon which he had slept. There was also a small desk and a pair of silk chairs flanking a couch.

He spotted a familiar figure standing behind Bernard at his bedside. She wore tailored leather armor and a silver chain belt. Her black hair had been braided back from the stern lines of her dark face.

“Nadia?” he croaked out.

When had she arrived?

“Welcome back to the living,” Nadia said with a sly smile. “Or as close to
living
as any Sanguinist can claim.”

Rhun touched his brow. “How long—?”

He was interrupted by the final figure in the room. She lounged on the couch, one leg stretched up, outfitted with a splint. He remembered her limping flight down the cobblestone street toward the Holy City.

“
Helló
,
az én szeretett,
” Elisabeta said, speaking Hungarian, every syllable as familiar as if he had heard them only yesterday, instead of hundreds of years before.