Blood Infernal: The Order of the Sanguines Series (44 page)

A previous principle echoed in her head.

As above, so below
.

She stared down to her toes, then dropped to her knees. She leaned down and swept the straw from the floor, searching. She scuffled around until she found a stone with a distinct scalloped indentation.

Like a cup.

“It’s under here,” she said hesitatingly, then louder and more certain. “You’ve turned the
Sanguis
into the heart of your church, Monsieur de Payens! You’ve hidden it here.”

The others rushed over, stirring a flight of dark birds across the bricked vault.

Hugh followed.

Rhun reached her first, lowering beside her. He held his palm over the chunk of stone she had found. “She is right. I can even feel a whisper of holiness rising from here.”

Sophia joined him, warming her hands with that glow. Of all the Sanguinists, only Elizabeth hung back, her arms crossed, showing little interest.

Even the lion trotted over. The cub had kept close to Hugh, mostly eyeing the bird on the man’s shoulder with a natural feline curiosity. The cat licked its chops a few times. Still once near, the cub pawed at the cupped indentation, batting at whatever it felt.

The motion drew Erin’s attention back to that small feature. She ran a finger along the scalloped rim, reminded that
blood
was likely the key here, too.

“This is a Sanguinist gate, isn’t it?” Erin stated. “The only way it can be opened is with the blood of a Sanguinist.”

“You are truly a remarkable woman,” Hugh admitted. “With a mindfulness that is impressive.”

She stared at him, sensing there was still more. “Something tells me opening this particular gate isn’t that simple.”

“Indeed, such gates can be locked in many unique ways.”

Erin remembered Bernard shutting them out with the
pro me
command.

“Even I can no longer open it,” Hugh admitted. “I’ve secured it with a command few Sanguinists still remember. Not even my dear friend Bernard.”

Erin nodded. At least that made sense. It was locked in such a way that no one could force Hugh to open it under duress.

“I am too tainted to open it now,” Hugh said. “It will take purity to unlock the holy stone.”

“Purity?” Erin asked.

“It will only open for a Sanguinist who has never supped of blood before drinking the wine and accepting Christ’s offer.” Hugh stared at them. “It will take the blood of the Chosen One.”

Erin turned to Rhun.

6:18
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.

Rhun backed from the gazes of the others.

I am no Chosen One . . . at least, no longer
.

It was true that he had not tasted human blood before becoming a Sanguinist. He remembered being attacked at his sister’s gravesite by a
strigoi
, only to be saved by a trio of Sanguinists who brought him before Bernard. There, on his knees, Rhun had taken his vows, drank the wine, and accepted his mantle to join the order.

But I am far from pure now
.

“It can only be you,” Erin pressed him.

“It cannot be. I have sinned. I have tasted blood.”

“But you were forgiven your sins in the desert,” she said quietly, touching his bare shoulder. “It is
you
.”

Elizabeth frowned at him. “You are the purest of us all, Rhun. What is the harm of trying? Does the fear of failure, of being found wanting, frighten you so? I thought you were of stronger mettle than that.”

Rhun felt shame rise in him. Elizabeth was correct. He was scared, but he also recognized that he could not shirk from this task if there was even a chance it might do good.

He reluctantly knelt on the cold stone and bowed his head. He gripped his silver pectoral cross. The searing in his palm reminded him of his unholy nature and how it ruled him. But he must try anyway. He held his palm above the indentation in the stone, and realized that he did not have another hand to hold the knife to slice his own palm.

How far I have fallen . . . a Knight with only one arm
.

Sophia came to his aid, accepting a small knife from Hugh. She pricked the center of Rhun’s palm. Dark blood welled up from of the wound. Rhun turned his wrist, squeezing a fist, and spattered his cursed blood into the hollow of the stone.

Once done, he crossed himself and went through the ritual, ending with
mysterium fidei
.

Everyone stared.

Still, the stone did not move.

I have failed
.

Despair drove him down, crushing him with certain truth.

My sins have doomed us all
.

March 19, 6:22
P
.
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CET

Pyrenees Mountains, France

Elizabeth stared down at Rhun, his back bowed, his head hanging. He was the very sigil of defeat. She sighed at the fragility of these Sanguinists, leaning upon their faith like a beggar’s crutch. Knock it away by casting doubt, and they fall so easily.

Sophia played the Greek chorus in this drama. “Rhun was our only hope. He was the only member of our order—going back millennia—who never drank blood before accepting Christ’s gift.”

That is not true
.

At least, the archaeologist fought. “There must be another way. If we took chisel and hammer to the floor . . .”

“I will not allow the church to be desecrated in such a manner,” Hugh said. “And in any such attempt, the gem will be dumped into a river that flows through the heart of this mountain, where it will be lost forever.”

“So you booby-trapped your secret vault,” Jordan said. “Gotta say, you covered your bases well.”

As Elizabeth watched Rhun’s lips move in futile prayer, she pitied him. He had given everything for his God, and his sacrifice had been wasted. In the eyes of the Lord, he was judged as impure as any feral
strigoi
. This failure was his reward for centuries of service to Christ.

So Rhun would certainly find it particularly galling at who would save them now, who could open this vault when he could not.

“Step aside,” Elizabeth said, slipping the knife from Sophia’s fingers.

Elizabeth knelt beside Rhun and used a fistful of straw to scrub his blood from the receptacle in the stone.

Rhun watched her. “What are—?”

“Quiet,” she scolded.

Still on her knees, she cut her palm and studied the blood as it pooled. In its glossy surface, the reflection of her own face shone back at her.

Sorry, Rhun, I know how this will pain you
.

She chanted the proper Latin words.
“ ‘For this is the Chalice of My Blood, of the new and everlasting Testament.’ ”

She then turned her hand and let her blood drip into the indentation on the floor. It quickly filled the shallow reservoir. Once it was full, she chanted the final words of the incantation.
“Mysterium fidei.”

With a soft scrape, the stone sank into the floor, then moved to the side.

She heard the gasps of disbelief.

Only Erin laughed.

The others turned to her.

“I get it,” Erin said. “Elizabeth was made whole when Rhun returned her soul in the desert. Then back at St. Mark’s, when Bernard stripped her of that new soul by making her a
strigoi
again, she wasn’t allowed to drink any blood. Instead, she was forced to drink the wine that very night.”

“And I’ve not touched a drop of blood since then,” Elizabeth added, as she turned to Rhun. “By the dictates of the Church, my being remains pure. I am the Chosen One. And here is your proof.”

She shifted aside to allow a beam of sunlight from the church’s windows to fall inside the hollow. Fiery light reflected back from the surface of a dark red gemstone hidden inside, setting its facets ablaze. The brilliance seemed to pour forth from the stone’s heart.

Though her eyes were dazzled, Elizabeth gazed deep into the crimson stone, stunned by its beauty. She had beheld many gems in her lifetime. In her mortal life, she had been one of the richest women in the world. But none of those gems had held the same fascination as this one.

She was not the only one so captured.

Jordan crashed to his knees, the light dappling his face, looking like fresh blood.

“It sings,” he moaned.

6:27
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Jordan’s heart sang to the fiery stone, and it answered in a holy symphony, drawing him ever deeper into its melody, into its light. Around him, the world faded to shadows before such brilliance.

How could it not?

Distantly he heard the others chattering, but their words were mere undertones before the glory of that singing.

“Can’t you hear it?” he asked, trying to get them to listen.

A sharper voice cut through the melody, ringing between the individual notes. “Erin Granger, take the stone! Cover it from the light before he’s lost to it forever!”

He recognized the voice of the hermit.

Then moments later, the radiance dimmed, muffling that eternal song. The world found its substance, weight, and shadows. He saw a woman wrapping the gem in white linen, dousing its fire. Her eyes looked upon him with fear and worry.

Another carried a bag to her, and she stuffed the treasure into it. The sound of the zipper closing was loud in the quiet church.

Jordan’s arms lifted toward the woman, toward the pack. He ached to take the stone from its hiding place, to bare it to the sunlight, to hear its song to the end.

The woman took another step back. “Did any of you hear
singing
?” she asked.

A chorus of denial answered her.

Slowly, more of the world grew solid around him. But if he strained, he could still hear a faint whisper of that song from the pack, even an echo from his own pocket. That echo was a darker emerald, full of verdant life, and the promise of root and leaf, flower and stem.

“Jordan,” a sweet voice said at his ear. “Can you hear me?”

Yes
.

“Jordan, answer me. Please.” Then softer as she turned away. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He is unbalanced.”
The hermit again
.

“What does that mean?”

“He was touched by angelic blood. While it protects him and heals him, it also consumes more of his humanity each time it saves him. You can see a map of this war written on his skin. If the angelic force prevails, he will be lost to you forever.”

A hand touched his forehead, as icy as snowmelt against his hot skin.

“How can we help him?”
Her name is . . . Erin
.

“Do not let him forget his own humanity.”

“What exactly does that mean? What do we do?”

He heard a change in that faint song, drawing his attention away. It was a whisper of minor chords, a darker thread woven through the song, inserting deeper notes of warning.

He forced his lips to move. “Someone’s coming.”

Silence followed, letting him listen more closely.

“Impossible,” the hermit started again. “I have guards posted all around. In the shadows of the forest, in the dark tunnels. They would have warned me. You are safe.”

The black notes beat louder in his head.

The lion growled, its white fur bristling with warning.

Jordan stood, strode to a wall, and grabbed a long-handled weapon.

“Put down the hoe,” the hermit said. “There is no need for violence.”

Jordan turned to face the deep shadows at the rear of the church.

Too late.

He is here
.

6:48
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.

Legion stepped into the dark tunnel from the shadowy bower of the old forest. Others led him, those he found lurking in the woods, those of a corrupted nature who had thought to find peace on this mountaintop. Instead, they ended with Legion’s palm resting upon their cheek, where he branded them, claimed them. He took in their memories, their knowledge of the lair of the hermit, learning the secret ways into that mountain.

Earlier in the day, after gaining knowledge of this place through the eyes and ears of Father Gregory, Legion had left Prague, his still-weak body carried by those who bore his mark. A trio of branded Sanguinists had secured a vessel, a helicopter with windows shaded against the sun so he could be whisked over lands bright with the new day.

They had landed on the far side of the mountain from where the enemy’s helicopter sat. From there, this old forest protected him from the sun’s touch. As he had climbed, he had basked in the scent of the rich loam, the mold of decaying wood, the sweetness of leaf and bark. His eyes drank in the dark emerald of the canopy, the soft petals of flowers. His ears heard every rustle, chirp, and scurry of life, reminding him of the paradise this world could be, if untouched by the molestation of man.