Innocent Blood (39 page)

52

December 20, 4:37
P.M.
EET

Siwa, Egypt

Panicked, Tommy floundered in the flooded cavern. He clutched both hands over his mouth. Unable to stop himself, he convulsed a lung full of water into his body, setting his chest on fire. His arms and legs kicked out blindly, striking the sides of the cavern as his body fought to expel that fire, to cough, to gag. But there was nothing to replace it but more water.

He fought until he could fight no more and hung motionless.

Drowned.

But he was the boy who could not die.

His lungs ached, but they no longer struggled to force out the water. He opened his eyes again and stared around him, wanting to cry.

Knowing now he would not die, he searched the cavern.

The woman must have drawn him down here for some reason.

He remembered her pointing him to the cave.

Why?

The source of the cavern’s light rose from an upwelling of glass in the room’s center, like a miniature volcano. It was so bright that he had to shield his eyes against it. Still, he spotted something silver at its heart.

He leaned deeper into that glow, able now to make out a foot or two of thin silver sticking out of the block, topped by a wider, shielded hilt. He noted the grip was indented, for fingers to clutch it firmly.

His right hand reached to do just that—then he remembered the story above, of Archangel Michael’s sword. He looked closer and could even make out the long notch along one side, where a shard had been chipped from it.

His other hand rose to his neck, remembering that pain.

He reached a single finger and touched the round knob at the hilt’s end. As his skin brushed the metal, power fired through him, like touching a raw electric wire—only it left him feeling
stronger
. He felt like he could shatter mountains with his fists.

He studied the blade. Most of its length looked buried in the sandy glass.

Like King Arthur’s Excalibur.

Tommy knew what was expected of him. An angel had carried this sword, and it was up to the First Angel to free it, to return it to the sun, to be used against the darkness above.

But he withdrew his hand.

He didn’t want to touch it.

What did he care about the world above? He had been kidnapped, tortured, and kidnapped again—only to be finally sacrificed on an altar.

He suddenly realized the sword could end that misery.

It can free me.

The blade could deal a wound far greater than the stab to his neck. He could bring both wrists to its edge, drag them swiftly down, cutting deep.

He could die.

I could see Mom and Dad again.

His mother’s face rose up in his mind, as he remembered how she would tuck her short curly hair behind her ears, how her brown eyes almost glowed with concern whenever he was hurt. A look he saw often while battling his cancer. He also recalled how she would sing him lullabies in the hospital, even when he was probably too old for them, how she would make him laugh, even when he knew that she wanted to cry.

She loved me.

And his father no less. His love was more practical: trying to cram as much life into those few last years. Tommy got to drive a Mustang convertible, learned to shoot pool, and when he was too weak, his father would sit cross-legged next to him on the couch and help him slay zombies in
Resident Evil
. And sometimes they had talked, really talked. Because they both knew there would come a time when they couldn’t anymore.

He knew one other certainty.

I was supposed to die first.

That was the deal. He was sick; they were well. He would die, and they would live. He accepted that deal, made rough peace with it—until the stupid dove had ruined everything.

He stared at the sword and made a decision.

They could fight this war without him.

He reached for the sword, ready to cut a bloody path back to his parents’ arms. He hovered his hand over the hilt’s grip, preparing himself. Once ready, he snatched hard to the silver handle.

A jolt rang through him. Below him, the blade glowed brighter and brighter, ramping up to a supernova. He squeezed his eyes shut, fearing the brilliance would blind him. The light pierced his lids and filled his skull.

Then it slowly faded again.

He opened one eye, then the other.

Between his legs, the glass had melted away. In his hands a giant sword glowed a dull orange. Its weight held him anchored to the sandy bottom.

He brought his thumb to its edge. It sliced deeply before he even knew he’d made contact. Blood spilled upward in a red cloud. He followed that trail, knowing how easy it would be to draw that edge over his wrist.

A sting at best . . . then it would be over
.

He moved the blade toward his wrist.

Who would miss me here?

He turned his eyes from that impossibly sharp edge to the roof above him, picturing the hot desert. He remembered cold fingers lifting his chin, touching his throat, making sure he was safe.

Elizabeth.

She would miss him. She would be angry.

He pictured the others: Erin, Jordan, even the dark priest Rhun. They had risked everything to bring him to this desert, to save his life. And right now, they might be dying.

Dying for me.

4:39
P.M.

Out of bullets, Erin snatched up Agmundr’s longsword. She needed both hands to lift it. She swung from her hips, bringing her arms and the blade into the air, slicing the space between her and the nearest
strigoi
.

The monster laughed, took a step back, and charged toward Christian, ignoring her.

She searched for someone to attack.

None of the
strigoi
or the
blasphemare
would come near her, obeying Iscariot’s order that she not be killed. His troops kept their distance until he came down to claim her.

Maybe that’s my better weapon.

A howl of a lion swung her around. Yards away, Rhun struggled, pinned under one of the shadowy
blasphemare
lions. Jordan rushed to his aid, swinging his pistol like a club.

She dropped the heavy sword and ran toward them both.

Jordan got batted away like a horsefly, claws ripping clean through his leather jacket, almost tearing off a sleeve. He landed on his back. But the distraction allowed Rhun to roll free, losing a large swath of skin.

The lion lunged at its escaping prey.

And Erin did the stupidest thing in her life.

She jumped between Rhun and the lion, spreading her arms and hollering, throwing out her chest like a showboating prizefighter.

The lion dropped low, hissing, haunches high, tail swatting angrily.

“Can’t attack me, can you?” she challenged it.

It curled black lips and snarled, backing away, especially as Christian slid to her side to back her up.

He glanced at her. “Didn’t know lion taming was on your résumé.”

She smiled, letting her guard down too soon.

The lion launched itself, expertly hitting Christian, while raking her shoulder with its claw as it passed, knocking her aside.

Erin fell to her knees and grabbed her wound. Hot blood seeped through her fingers and ran down her arm and chest. She realized the error of her ways. Iscariot said she couldn’t be
killed
—but he said nothing about
maiming
her.

To the side Rhun and Christian battled the lion.

Jordan called her name.

The world had slowed down.

She collapsed sideways into the sand. Its grittiness under her cheek comforted her. She was in the desert. She loved the desert.

4:40
P.M.

Jordan ran toward Erin and skidded on his knees to her side. He knew he was too late to help her. Blood poured out of her shoulder and soaked the golden sand.

Erin raised her head.

Her caramel eyes met his—then looked past him.

Wonder filled her face, inexplicable from all the blood, howls, and screams in the air. She raised a bloody hand and pointed over his shoulder.

Jordan turned to see what she meant.

What the—?

Out of the mouth of the well, a single curl of orange flame rose from the darkness below. It twisted like a tight whirlwind, perfectly straight to the dark sky.

Jordan couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Even the battle slowed, as a wary, fearful calm spread outward.

Eyes and faces turned toward it.

When the flame sprouted as long as his arm, a hand came into view below it, as if pushing the fire upward. The spit of fire continued to rise. The strange torchbearer was dragged up from below with it, lifted free of the well, and gently lowered to its edge.

Tommy.

As his feet touched ground, the fire snuffed out to reveal a silver sword held aloft, a few licks of flame still traced it, dancing brilliantly along its length.

The boy’s eyes met Jordan’s.

Fire danced there, too.

“I think this belongs to you!” Tommy yelled, half boy, half something dreadful.

The kid—if he was still a
kid
—twisted back his arm and flung the sword high. It spun end over end. Jordan wanted to duck, but instead his left arm rose on its own. The hilt landed perfectly in his palm, as if it was always meant to be there. The low burn in his tattoo flared to flaming life. Through a rip in his jacket and shirt, he saw the curled tracery of his old lightning scar blaze with an inner fire.

Strength flowed into his body.

Jordan danced the sword around him in a pattern of fire and steel, as if casting some arcane spell. He had never wielded a sword in his life.

A lion roared, turning to go after Erin again.

Jordan thought, and he was there, blocking it.

He slashed the sword across the lion’s paw, as it swiped at him in irritation.

As soon as the blade pierced its skin, the creature roared in agony. Flame followed the line where the sword had cut it—then swept up the leg and over its body. Maddened by pain, the lion leaped back and fled through the dark army, forging a flaming path through them, igniting everything in its wake.

Jordan checked out the sword.

It was one hell of a weapon.

Or make that
heaven
of a weapon.

Jordan spun in a circle, catching a
strigoi
on the arm, another on the thigh. Both howled as flames spread from their wounds. He swept outward, moving on legs that defied bone and muscle.

As swift as any
strigoi
, any Sanguinist.

Creature after creature fell before his blade.

Then he headed deeper—after his true enemy.

Iscariot.

4:42
P.M.

Judas watched the Warrior of Man stalk across the field of battle. Beasts fled from his path, scattering out into the desert. Those few that stayed were hunted by the others. He saw the countess grab the boy; the angelic glow in the child’s eyes faded after relinquishing the sword to its bearer on Earth. The boy hugged hard to the ancient creature.

Judas felt no fear.

It had come to this moment.

He had spent centuries trying to find a purpose in his long life, centuries again to bring the world to this brink of damnation, where he could die.

And now the time was upon him.

The soldier would kill him, but only if he put up a fight. He was not a man to strike down an unarmed opponent. So Judas bent and picked up a discarded blade, an ancient chipped scimitar.

His last bodyguard tried to join him, lifting an assault rifle. The man’s partner, Henrik, had died in the cavern back in Cumae, but this one had lived, escaping with him.

“Go,” Iscariot ordered.

“My place is always at your side.”

“Forgive me.” Judas swung the sword and decapitated the man. He stepped away from the body. No one would interfere with his destiny.

The Warrior of Man’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t slow down.

Others closed behind him, including Dr. Granger, holding a sopping rag to her shoulder.

“Stay back, Erin,” Jordan called. “This is my fight.”

The woman looked as if she wanted to argue, but she didn’t.

Judas lifted his bloody sword into a guard position. “How often must I kill you, Sergeant Stone?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

His sword shone white-hot in his hands, sparking with spats of fire.

Judas shivered in anticipation.

The soldier circled him, suspicion plain in his face, as if he suspected some trick.

You must play your role
,
Warrior. Do not disappoint me.

To ensure that, Judas lunged for him, and the man parried. He was unnaturally quick. Knowing this, Judas fought harder, no longer needing to feign incompetence. He had been trained under many different sword masters over the centuries.

He attacked again and again, enjoying the true challenge, his last. It was fitting to find a worthy opponent. But that was not his destiny. He allowed his guard to drop, as if by accident.

Jordan struck.

The blade pierced Judas’s side.

The same place where a Roman soldier had stabbed Christ on the cross.

Judas offered a quick plea of gratitude before he fell to his knees. Bright red blood poured from his wound. It soaked through his shirt. He dropped his sword.

Jordan stood before him. “We’re even.”

“No,” Judas said, reached to his leg. “I am forever in your debt.”

He fell to his side, then rolled to his back. Gray sky filled his vision. He had done that. The world surrounded by ash and blood. The sun was minutes from setting. Nothing could stop what he had started.

My death heralds my success.

He took it as a sign, his reward for opening the gates of Hell and bringing about the final Day of Judgment.