Innocent Blood (13 page)

A split second later, the stranger in the suit landed,
on his feet,
next to him.

He grabbed Thomas by an arm and sprinted with him into the desert, vanishing quickly from view.

“We believe that the kidnapper was
strigoi,
perhaps in service to the Belial,” the cardinal said. “But we know for certain the child who survived Masada was no
strigoi
. He was reported in sunlight. The Israeli medical machines showed he had a heartbeat.”

“And I heard it, too,” Rhun added. “I held his hand. It was warm. He was
alive
.”

“But no human could survive a fall like that,” Leopold said, awed, still typing rapidly, as if trying to search for answers.

Erin caught a glimpse of a text box being opened, a message sent, then closed again. All done so quickly, in less than two seconds, that she failed to make out a single word.

“But Thomas survived,” Jordan said. “Like he did in Masada.”

“As if he’s under some divine protection.” Erin touched Leopold’s shoulder. “Show that first video again. I want to see that attacker’s face.”

The monk complied.

As the stranger turned toward the camera, Leopold froze the image and zoomed in. The kidnapper had an attractive face, oval, with dark eyebrows, one raised higher than the other. He had light-colored eyes, with short dark hair parted on the side.

He didn’t look familiar to her, but both Rhun and Bernard tensed with recognition.

“That’s Alexei Romanov,” Bernard said.

Erin let the shock ring through her.

The son of Czar Nicholas II . . .

Rhun closed his eyes, clearly aggrieved by sudden insight. “That must be why Rasputin let go of the Blood Gospel so easily back in St. Petersburg. He had already put plans in motion to kidnap this boy. He was playing an entirely different game from us, keeping cards up his long sleeves. I should have suspected as much back then.”

“You speak of the Romanovs,” the countess interrupted. “In my time, that Russian royal family lost power and were exiled to the far north. Did they then return to the throne?”

“They ruled from 1612 until 1917,” Rhun said.

“And my family.” The countess leaned forward. “What became of them? Did we also return to power?”

Rhun shook his head, looking reluctant to say more.

Contrarily, Nadia was more than happy to extend the branches of the countess’s family tree, to fill in her lost history. “Your children were charged with treason for your crimes, stripped of their wealth, and exiled from Hungary. For a hundred years, it was forbidden to speak your name in your homeland.”

The countess raised her chin a couple of millimeters, but she gave no other sign that she cared. Yet something in her eyes cracked as she turned away, revealing a well of grief behind that cold demeanor, a peek at her former humanity.

Erin changed the subject. “So Rasputin kidnapped this boy. But why? To what end?”

No one answered, and she didn’t blame anyone, remembering her own dealings with Rasputin. The monk was shrewd, conniving, and out merely for himself. To guess the twisted intentions of the Mad Monk of Russia, it would take someone equally as
mad
.

Or at least, a kindred soul.

The countess stirred and gazed around the room. “I would surmise he did it because he hates you all.”

15

December 19, 12:22
P.M.
CET

South of Rome, Italy

As the rattling set of coaches tunneled through the bright middle of the day, Elizabeth pulled on the chain that connected her manacles to the wall of the last car.

The loathsome Sanguinist woman, Nadia, had marched her back into the darkness and secured her in this coach. The chain was locked into a hasp at waist height, the links of silver so short that she was forced to stand while the room rocked around her.

Steps away, Nadia watched her, as patient as a fox watching a rabbit den.

Elizabeth twisted her arms, trying to find a more comfortable position. The silver manacles burned in a ring of fire around her wrists, but she was more at ease here than in the dining car, where the single open curtain had allowed in a stream of sunlight. She had not showed how much it had seared her eyes whenever she looked at the woman and soldier, refusing to reveal weakness before these two humans.

As the train trundled on, she set her feet farther apart to keep from being knocked about by the rocking. She would adapt. The modern world had many powerful objects, and she would master them. She would not let fear of them rule her.

With her hands pressed against the wall, she savored the warmth of the sun-heated steel against her palms. She imagined the sun blazing strong and bright outside, crossing a blue sky with sharp white clouds. She had not seen such sights for centuries, barely remembered what they looked like.
Strigoi
could not stand the sun, as Sanguinists could. She missed the day, with its heat and life and growing things. She remembered her gardens, the bright flowers, the healing herbs she once grew.

But was she willing to give up her freedom as a
strigoi
in order to see the sky again, to convert to the pious life of a Sanguinist?

Never.

She rubbed her warmed hands together and pressed them against her cold cheeks. Even if she tried to convert, she suspected God would know that her heart was black, and the blessed wine would strike her dead.

She had agreed to help the Sanguinists, but her promise had been given under threat of death. She had no intention of keeping her word if presented with a better chance at survival. An oath sworn on pain of death was not binding.

She owed them nothing.

As if hearing her thoughts, Nadia glared at her. Once Elizabeth was free, she would make the tall woman pay for her insolence. But for now she sensed that Nadia would be a difficult captor to escape. The woman plainly loathed her, and she seemed dedicated to Rhun—although more like a fellow knight, not like a woman devoted to a man.

The same could not be said of the human woman.

Dr. Erin Granger.

Elizabeth had easily spotted the telling pink scars on the other’s neck. A
strigoi
had fed upon her recently and suffered her to live. A rare enough event, and certainly no ordinary
strigoi
would have left such careful marks. Those punctures spoke of control and care. From the awkward manner in which the woman and Rhun sat and did not speak, she suspected that Rhun had fallen again, fed again.

But in this instance, he had not killed the woman, nor turned
her
into a monster.

Elizabeth remembered how Erin’s heart had sped when Rhun first entered the car. She recognized the anguish that poured from the woman’s voice when she saw his wounds and spoke his name. This human seemed intertwined with Rhun in a deeper manner than the blood bond of feeding should foster.

Jealousy flared hot and venomous.

Rhun belongs to me and me alone.

Elizabeth had paid dearly for that love and refused to share it.

She thought back to that night, of Rhun in her arms, of their unspoken love for each other finally being expressed in the heat of lips, of the press of flesh, the soft words of love. She knew what was happening was forbidden a priest, but little did she know how much such laws chained the beast that truly lurked inside Rhun. Once broken, that face finally showed its fangs, its darker lusts, and tore her from her old life and into one of eternal night.

And now it seemed Rhun had loosed that same beast upon another woman, another whom he plainly cared for.

In that attraction, Elizabeth also saw possibility. Given a chance, she would use their feelings for each other against them, to destroy them both.

But for now, she must content herself with waiting. She must go along with Bernard’s group, but she held little trust in the cardinal. Not now, and certainly not during her mortal life. Back then, she had striven to warn Rhun against Bernard, sensing the depths of secrets hidden inside his heartless, sanctimonious chest.

In the neighboring car, her keen ears picked out her name being spoken.

“We cannot risk losing her,” Cardinal Bernard said. “We must know where she is at all times.”

The young monk named Christian answered. “Don’t worry. I’ve already taken measures to assure that. I will keep her on a short leash.”

Another spoke with the thick tongue of the Germans, marking him as Brother Leopold. “I will see about getting more coffee.”

Light footsteps left the table, heading to the coach at the front, where food was being prepared and where she could faintly make out another human heartbeat, another servant to this horde.

Those at the table sat silent, apparently having little to say, each probably pondering the journey ahead.

She decided to do the same and turned to Nadia. “Tell me of this Russian connected to the royal Romanovs . . . this Rasputin? Why does the Church have no love for him?”

Perhaps she could make an ally out of him.

Nadia sat silent as stone, but her face betrayed how she loved withholding secrets.

“Your cardinal wishes me to be part of this endeavor,” Elizabeth reminded her, pressing her. “As such, I must know everything.”

“Then let the cardinal tell you.” Nadia folded her arms.

Realizing that no quarter would be given, Elizabeth turned her attention to eavesdropping, but she lost interest as the rattling of the train grew louder as it climbed some long hill, blotting out most sounds.

Minutes later, the steel door to her prison opened, bringing in the sharper smells of food, the blaze of sunlight, and the louder heartbeats of the humans.

Cardinal Bernard entered with the younger Sanguinist, Christian. They were followed by another priest, this one human, likely the cardinal’s retainer. She recognized his sluggish heartbeat from the first car, where the food was being prepared. She was growing hungry herself—and this one had a round belly, fat cheeks, all plump with blood, a pig waiting to be slaughtered.

“We will arrive soon,” Bernard informed Nadia. “Once we leave the train, I am placing you and Christian in charge of Countess Bathory.”

“Do you not mean in charge of the
prisoner
?” Elizabeth corrected. “Even though I have joined your quest, do you trust me so little?”

“Trust is earned,” Christian said. “And you currently have a massive trust deficit.”

She held out her bound hands. “Can you not at least release me to move freely about this prison? With daylight outside, I cannot escape here. I do not see what harm—”

An explosion blasted away her words. As if struck by the hand of God, the entire coach lifted under them, riding atop a thunderous roar, accompanied by the fires of Hell.

16

December 19, 12:34
P.M.
CET

South of Rome, Italy

Rhun moved upon the first shift of air, the first note of the explosion. He rode the blast wave as time slowed to the thickness of liquid glass.

He lunged across the table, wrapped both his arms around Erin, and hit the closed window with his shoulder. The thick curtain wrapped around his body as he crashed through. Glass raked his arms and back. Flames and roaring chased him out into the world.

At his heels as he leaped from it, the train car expanded, growing impossibly bigger until its skin split—and smoke and soot and wood burst outward in a great explosion.

Tossed high, Rhun turned his body to the side and hit the ground rolling, one arm around Erin’s back, the other pulling her head close to his chest. He and Erin rolled across the stubble of a harvested field that bordered the tracks.

The brief smell of dry grass was quickly scorched away by the bitter, chalky smell of explosives, the scratch of charcoal, and the unmistakable odor of burnt human flesh.

The train had exploded.

Someone, maybe everyone, had died.

In his arms, Erin gasped and coughed.

She yet lived—and that made him far happier than it should.

He ran his hands across her body, feeling for broken bones, for blood. He found scrapes, a few cuts, and bruises. Nothing more. His fingers entwined with hers, seeking to reassure her, feeling the shock draining the heat of her body.

He pulled her tighter to him, sheltering her.

Only then did he turn back to face the disaster spread out across the fields.

Chunks of soot-streaked metal pierced the yellow grass, littered the railroad tracks, and scattered across the smoldering fields. Pieces of the black steam engine had been blown from the track. The boiler lay a hundred yards ahead, a hole torn in its metal belly gaping at the sky.

Patches of fire ate the fields, as broken glass rained from the sky, like so much crystalline hail, all mixed with blood. He remembered the biblical quote from Revelation:
There followed hail and fire mingled with blood
,
and they were cast upon the earth.

Was he witnessing that now?

Dust and smoke roiled up from the tracks. A chunk of steel had landed mere feet away, steam hissing where its hot surface touched wet grass.

A high-pitched bell rang without pause in his ears. With one hand, he brushed glass from his robes and pulled pieces from his other arm. Still cradling Erin, he searched around him, but nothing moved.

What had become of the others?

He touched his rosary and prayed for their safety.

He finally untangled himself from Erin. She sat in the grass, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her limbs were streaked with mud and blood. She pushed hair back from her forehead. Her face was clean, protected as it was while he held her against his body.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, knowing he spoke loudly past the ringing of his ears.

She trembled, and he longed to take her in his arms again and quiet her, but the fragrance of blood wafted from her body, and he did not dare.

Instead, her amber eyes met his. He looked deeply into them for the first time since he had left her on the tunnel floor to die months before.

Her lips formed a single word.

Jordan.

She struggled to her feet and stumbled toward the tracks. He followed in her wake, scanning the wreckage, wanting to be near her when she found him.

He did not see how the soldier could have survived . . . how anyone could have survived.

12:37
P.M.

Elizabeth burned in the field, rolling in agony.

Sunlight seared her vision, boiling her eyes. Smoke rose from her hands, her face. She curled into a ball, ducked her chin against her chest, her arms over her head, hoping they might protect her. Her hair crackled like an aura around her.

A moment ago, the train car had exploded, bursting open with a thunderclap. She flew like a dark angel through the burning brightness. Both her hands gripped the silver chain that bound her to a useless scrap of metal. She caught a glimpse of another’s hands also clasped to the chain—then the sunlight blinded her, withering her eyesight.

The mighty boom also stole her hearing, leaving behind a rushing sound inside her ears, as if the sea had torn into her skull and washed back and forth inside her head.

She tried to worm deeper into the cool mud, to escape the sunlight.

Then hands rolled her and threw darkness atop her, protecting her from the sun.

She smelled the heavy wool of a cloak and cowered beneath this thin protection. The burn quickly ebbed into an ache, giving her the hope that she might yet live.

A voice shouted near her head, piercing the sea roiling in her skull.

“Are you alive?”

Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

Who had saved her?

It could only be Rhun.

She ached for him, wanting to be held and comforted. She needed him to lead her through this pain to a future that did not burn.

“I must go,” yelled the voice.

As her head cleared, she now recognized that stern tone.

Not Rhun.

Nadia.

She pictured those other hands clasped to her chain, guiding her fall, covering her. Nadia had risked her life to hold on to that chain and save her. But Elizabeth knew such efforts were born not out of concern or love.

The Church still needed her.

Safe for now, new fears rose.

Where is Rhun? Did he yet live?

“Stay here,” Nadia commanded.

She obeyed—not that she had any choice otherwise. Escape remained impossible. Beyond the edges of her cloak lay only a burning death.

She considered for a moment casting the cloak aside, ending this interminable existence. But instead, she curled tighter, intending to survive, wrapping herself as snugly in thoughts of revenge as in heavy wool.

12:38
P.M.

Erin stumbled across a field scarred by metal shrapnel from the train. Coughing on the oily smoke, her mind tried to sort it out, rolling the explosion backward in her head.

The blast must have centered on the steam engine because the locomotive was nearly obliterated. Black pieces of steel stuck out of the field like ruined trees. But it wasn’t just scorched metal that littered the fields.

A legless body lay by the tracks. She spotted an engineer’s cap.

She hurried and crouched beside him, her knees pressing into stubbly grass.

Sightless brown eyes stared at the smoky sky. A black-clad arm moved past her head and closed the dead man’s eyelids. The engineer hadn’t been involved in any prophecy. He’d just shown up to do an honest day’s work.

Another innocent life.

When will it ever end?

She lifted her face to Rhun. The priest touched his cross to his lips, the blessed silver searing that tender flesh as he whispered prayers over the dead man.

When he finished, she stood and walked on, drawing Rhun with her.

Within a few yards she came upon the second crewman, also dead. He had light brown curly hair and freckles, a smudge of soot across his cheek. He looked too young to be working on a train. She thought about his life. Did he have a girlfriend, parents who were still alive? Who knew how far the ripples of grief would reach?

She abandoned Rhun to his prayers, propelled by the urgency to find Jordan.

Moving down the tracks, she came upon the remains of what she suspected was the galley car. A stove had shot through the air and landed in a crater. Leopold had been in that compartment. She looked for him, too, but found no trace.

Continuing, she reached the ruins of the dining car. Although the front had peeled away, the back was intact. It had derailed and dug a deep furrow through the rich brown soil. A gold curtain flapped through a shattered window at the back.

She pictured the moment before the blast. Rhun must have sensed the explosion. He had yanked her from Jordan’s arms and through that window.

Rhun’s shadow fell across the earth beside her, but she didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, she searched inside the dining car, fearing to find a body, but needing to know.

It was empty.

Stepping away from the dining car, she looked over to the sleeper. The last car lay on its side, one side caved and split. To its right, she spotted movement through the smoke and ran toward it.

She quickly recognized Cardinal Bernard, covered in soot. He knelt over a figure sprawled on the ground, bent in a sigil of grief. Standing vigil behind the cardinal, Christian gripped Bernard’s shoulder.

She struggled across the wreckage to them, fearing the worst.

Christian must have sensed her approach, turning his head, revealing a face covered in black blood. Shocked by the sight of him, she tripped and almost fell headlong.

Rhun caught her and kept her going.

Ahead, Bernard wept, his shoulders heaving up and down.

It could not be Jordan.

It could not be.

She finally reached Christian, who sadly shook his head. She hurriedly stepped around the cardinal.

The man on the ground was unrecognizable—soot smeared his face, his clothing had been burned away. Her eyes traveled from his smudged face, to his bare shoulders, to the silver cross he wore around his chest.

Father Ambrose.

Not Jordan.

Bernard held both of the priest’s burnt hands in his own and gazed upon his lifeless face. She knew Ambrose had served the cardinal for many years. Despite the priest’s sour attitude to everyone else, he and the cardinal had been close. Months ago she had watched the man kneeling in the pope’s blood, trying to save the old man after his attack without a thought to his own safety. Ambrose might have been a bitter man, but he was also a staunch protector of the Church—and now he had given his life to that service.

The cardinal raised his face. “I’ve called for a helicopter. You must find the others before the police and rescue workers arrive.”

“We must also be wary of whoever blew up this train,” Christian added.

“It could have been a simple, tragic accident,” Bernard corrected, already turning back to Ambrose.

She left Bernard to his grief, tripping over smoking debris, walking around fires, her eyes scanning the scarred field. Christian and Rhun flanked her, moving with her, their heads swiveling from side to side. She hoped their keener senses could help her to discover any clue to Jordan’s fate.

“Over here!” Christian called and dropped to his knees.

On the ground in front of him, a familiar blond head.

Jordan.

Please
,
no . . .

Fear immobilized her. Her breath caught, and her eyes watered. She tried to steady herself. When Rhun took her arm, she broke free of his grip and crossed the last few feet to Jordan on her own.

He lay flat on his back. His dress blue uniform jacket lay in tatters, his white shirt under it torn to pieces.

She fell to her knees next to him and grabbed his hand. With trembling fingers, she searched for his pulse. It beat steady under her fingertips. With her touch, he opened his clear blue eyes.

She wept with relief and took his warm hand in hers.

She held him, watching his chest rise and fall, so grateful to find him alive.

Jordan’s gaze steadied and looked at her, his eyes mirroring her relief. She stroked his cheek, his forehead, reassuring herself that he was whole.

“Hey, babe,” he mouthed. “You look great.”

She put her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

12:47
P.M.

Rhun watched Erin cling to the soldier. Her first thought had been of Jordan, as it should have been. Likewise, Rhun had responsibilities as well.

“Where is the countess?” he asked Christian.

He shook his head. “When the car blew, I saw her and Nadia thrown outside.”

Into the sunlight.

Christian pointed beyond the main wreckage. “Their trajectory would have tossed them to the far side of the tracks.”

Rhun glanced down to Erin and Jordan.

“Go,” Erin said. She helped Jordan sit up and start gaining his feet unsteadily. “We’ll meet you back by Cardinal Bernard.”

Freed of this responsibility, Rhun set off with Christian. The younger Sanguinist jogged across the field, jumping holes as lightly as a colt. He seemed unaffected by the explosion, while Rhun ached everywhere.

Once beyond the tracks, Christian suddenly sped to the left, perhaps spotting something. Rhun struggled to catch up.

Out of the pall of smoke, a tall figure dressed in black limped toward them.

Nadia.

Christian reached her first and hugged her tightly. He and Nadia had often served together on prior missions for the Church.

Rhun finally joined them. “Elisabeta?”

“The demon countess still lives.” Nadia pointed to a mound a few hundred yards away. “But she’s badly burned.”

He hurried toward her cloaked body.

Christian followed with Nadia, filling her in on the status of the team.

“And what of Leopold?” Nadia asked.

Christian’s face grew graver. “He was in the galley car, closer to the explosion.”

“I will continue the search for him,” Nadia said. “You two can care for her majesty. Get her ready to go.”

As Nadia trotted off into the smoke, Rhun crossed the last of the distance to Elisabeta. Nadia had covered Elisabeta with the countess’s traveling cloak. He knelt next to the mound, smelling charred flesh.

Rhun touched the surface of the cloak. “Elisabeta?”

A whimper answered him. Pity filled him. Elisabeta was legendary for her ability to withstand pain. For her to be reduced to this, her agony must be terrible.

“She will need blood to heal,” Rhun told Christian.

“I’m not offering up mine,” Christian said. “And you have none to spare.”

Rhun leaned down to the cloak. He didn’t dare lift it to examine the extent of her injuries. Still, he slipped his hand under the cloak and found her hand. Despite the pain it must cause, she gripped his fingers, holding to him.