Innocent Blood (15 page)

18

December 19, 1:34
P.M.
CET

Castel Gandolfo, Italy

Rhun carried Elisabeta down a dark passageway that smelled of wood and aged wine. This corner of the castle’s subterranean levels had once served as the pope’s personal wine cellar. Some long-forgotten rooms still held huge oak casks or racks of green bottles thick with dust.

He followed Nadia down yet another set of stairs, heading toward the floor reserved for their order. He felt his arms trembling as he held Elisabeta. He had taken a quick sip of consecrated wine aboard the helicopter. It had fortified him enough to make this journey below, but weakness still plagued him.

At last, passing down a stone passageway dug out of the volcanic bedrock, Nadia stopped at a bricked-up archway, a seeming dead end.

“I can pay the penance,” Rhun offered.

Nadia ignored him and touched four bricks, one near her head, one near her stomach, and one near each shoulder—forming the shape of a cross.

She then pressed the centermost stone and whispered words that had been spoken by members of their order since the time of Christ, “Take and drink you all of this.”

The center brick slid back to reveal a tiny basin carved in the brick below it.

Nadia unsheathed her dagger and poked its tip into the center of her palm, in the spot where nails had once been driven into the hands of Christ. She cupped her palm until it held several drops of her blood, then tipped the crimson pool sideways into the basin.

In his arms, Elisabeta tensed, likely smelling Nadia’s blood.

He stepped back a few paces, allowing Nadia to finish.

“For this is the Chalice of My blood,” she said, “of the new and everlasting Testament.”

With the last word of the prayer, cracks appeared between bricks in the archway, forming the shape of a narrow door.

“
Mysterium fidei,
” Nadia finished and pushed.

Stone grated against brick as the door swung inward.

Nadia slipped through first, and he followed, taking care not to brush Elisabeta’s body against the walls to either side. Once across the threshold, Elisabeta softened in his arms. She must have sensed that she was deep underground now, where sun could never reach her.

Nadia’s thin form glided ahead, revealing how much effortless speed and strength of limb she possessed compared to him. She hurried past the entrance to the castle’s Sanguinist Chapel and led Rhun toward a region seldom trespassed—toward the prison cells.

He followed. No matter how grievous her wounds, Elisabeta remained a prisoner.

Though the cells were rarely used in this age, the stone floor had been worn smooth and shiny by the centuries of boots passing this way. How many
strigoi
had been imprisoned down here and put to the question? Such prisoners entered as
strigoi
and either accepted the offer to join the Sanguines or they died down here as damned souls.

Nadia reached the nearest cell and hauled open a thick iron door. Its heavy hinges and stout lock were strong enough to hold even the most powerful
strigoi
.

Rhun carried Elisabeta inside and placed her atop the single pallet. He smelled fresh straw and bedding. Someone had made the room ready for her. Next to the bed, a beeswax candle sat atop a rough wooden table, casting a flickering light across the cell.

“I will fetch healing ointments for her burns,” Nadia said. “Are you safe to be alone with her?”

At first, anger rose in him, but he brought it under control. Nadia was correct to worry. “Yes.”

Satisfied, she swept away, the door thudding closed behind her. He heard the key turn in the lock. Nadia was taking no chances.

Alone now, he sat next to Elisabeta on the pallet and gently shifted the cloak to expose her small hands. He winced from the fluid leaking from broken blisters, the skin beneath them burned pink. He felt the heat radiating from her body, as if it were trying to expel the sunlight.

He drew the rest of the cloak off, but she turned away, her head hidden in the hood of her velvet cape.

“I don’t wish you to see my face,” she said, her voice a harsh rasp.

“But I can help you.”

“Let Nadia do it.”

“Why?”

“Because”—she shifted farther away—“my appearance will disgust you.”

“Do you think I care about such things?”

“
I
care,” she whispered, her words barely louder than a breath.

Honoring her wishes, he left her hood alone and took one of her burnt hands in his, noticing her palm was untouched. He pictured her clenching her hands in agony as the sunlight engulfed her in fire. He leaned against the stone blocks and rested, keeping hold of her hand.

Her fingers slowly closed over his own.

A deep weariness filled the marrow of his bones. Pain told him where he had been wounded—lacerations across his shoulders, scrapes on his forearms, a few burns on his back. His eyes began to drift closed when a quick knock thumped the door. A key turned in the lock, and the hinges complained.

Nadia stepped into the room. She frowned upon seeing Rhun’s hand clasped to Elisabeta’s, but she said nothing. She carried an earthenware bowl covered with a brown linen cloth. The smell rolled across the cell, filling the space.

His body quickened, and Elisabeta growled next to him.

Blood filled that bowl.

Warm, fresh,
human
blood.

Nadia must have collected it from a volunteer among the castle staff.

She crossed to the pallet and handed him the bowl.

He refused to take it. “Elisabeta would prefer it if you tend to her wounds.”

Nadia arched one eyebrow. “And I would prefer
not
to. I already saved her royal life. I will do no more.” She slipped free a leather flask and held it out to him. “Consecrated wine for you. Do you wish to drink it now or after you have tended to Countess Bathory?”

He set the flask down on the table. “I will not let her suffer a moment longer.”

“Then I will fetch you soon.” She retreated to the door and out again, relocking the cell.

A moan from Elisabeta returned him to his task.

He soaked the linen cloth in the bowl, sopping it heavily with blood. The iron scent drifted into his nostrils, even as he held his breath against it. To steady himself against a craving that rose from his bones, he touched his pectoral cross and muttered a prayer for strength.

He then picked up the hand he had been holding and slid the cloth along it, the fabric grazing her skin.

She gasped, her voice muffled by the hood.

“Have I hurt you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

He bathed one hand, then the other. Where he touched, blisters fell away and raw skin healed. Once done, he finally reached for the edge of her hood.

She grabbed his wrist with her bloodstained fingers. “Look away.”

Knowing he could not, he drew the hood back, revealing first her white chin, streaked with grime and pink from the burn. Her soft lips had cracked and bled. The blood had dried in black rivulets from the corners of her mouth.

He steeled himself and pulled the hood fully away. Candlelight fell on her high cheekbones. Where once clear white skin had invited his touch, now he saw blackened and blistered ruin, all overlaid with soot. The soft curls of her hair were mostly gone, burned away by the sun.

Her silver eyes met his, the corneas cloudy, nearly blind.

Still, he read the fear there.

“Am I hideous to you now?” she asked.

“Never.”

He soaked the cloth and brought it to her ravaged face. Keeping his touch light, he ran it across her forehead, down her cheeks and throat. Blood smeared her skin, soaked into blisters, and stained the white pillow under her head.

The smell intoxicated him. Its warmth tingled his cold fingers, heated his palms, inviting him to taste it. His whole body ached for it.

Just one drop.

He stroked the cloth down her face again. The first pass had mostly just washed the soot away. He now attended to her damaged skin. He bathed her face over and over again, watching in wonder each time as he wiped away the damage—and unblemished skin slowly appeared. A field of black curls took root, shadowing her scalp with the promise of new growth. But it was her face that enchanted him, as flawless as the day he had fallen in love with her, in a long dead rose garden beside a now ruined castle.

He traced her lips with the soft fabric, leaving behind a thin sheen of blood. Her silver eyes opened to him, clear once again, but now smoky with desire. He bent his head toward her lips and crushed them with his own.

The taste of the crimson fire spread through his body, as swiftly as a match set to dry grass. She threaded blood-wet fingers through his hair, enfolding him in a cloud of hunger and desire.

Her mouth parted under his kiss, and he lost himself in her scent, her blood, her softness. He had no time for gentleness, and she asked for none. He had waited so long to join with her again, and she with him.

He promised himself in that moment that he would exact swift vengeance on whoever had sent her blazing into the sunlight.

But until then . . .

He fell atop her, letting fire and desire burn away all thought.

19

December 19, 1:36
P.M.
CET

South of Rome, Italy

Burrowed deep in the giant hay bale, Leopold strove for a comfortable position. Straw pierced his robe and gouged his tender burns. Still, he dared not leave this shelter.

As the train had exploded, he had jumped clear, riding the blast wave across an expanse of stubbly fields. Only by the hand of God had he been standing in the lee of the boiler when it blew. The metal tank bore the brunt of the explosion, saving him from being incinerated on the spot.

Instead, he had been blown free of the car. He had tumbled through the air, burnt and bleeding, and skidded into the cold mud of the winter fields. Dazed and deafened, he had crawled into a hay bale to hide, to think, to plan.

He did not know then if he was the only survivor.

While he waited, he had stanched the blood flowing from his many wounds. Finally, as the ringing in his ears faded, he heard the rhythmic sound—
thump, thump, thump
—of a helicopter landing, muffled by the straw surrounding him.

He did not know if the aircraft had been summoned by the cardinal or if it marked the arrival of rescue workers. Either way, he kept hidden. Though he had not set the bomb himself, he knew he bore the blame for the attack. As soon as he had texted the
Damnatus,
informing him that everyone was on board, along with sharing their theory concerning the identity of the First Angel, the train had exploded—catching Leopold entirely by surprise.

Perhaps he should have expected as much.

Whenever the
Damnatus
spotted what he wanted, he moved in for the kill.

Never any hesitation.

After the helicopter lifted off and headed away, he heard Cardinal Bernard calling his name, the grief plain in his voice. Leopold longed to go to him, to assuage his sorrow, to beg for forgiveness, and to truly rejoin the Sanguinists.

But, of course, he did not.

Though brutal, the
Damnatus
’s goal was right and pure.

Over the next hour, more helicopters arrived, followed by rescue vehicles with sirens and shouting men and tromping feet. He curled smaller in the straw. The commotion should mask any sounds he made when he did his penance.

Finally, he could drink the holy wine and heal.

With some difficulty, he freed his leather wine flask and brought it to his lips. Using his teeth, he unscrewed the top and spit it out, and drank deeply, allowing the fire to take him away.

Far beneath the city of Dresden, Leopold knelt in a dank crypt lit by a single candle. Since the air-raid siren had sounded, no one dared show a light, fearful of drawing the wrath of the British bombers down upon them.

As he listened, a bomb detonated far overhead, the boom shaking loose pebbles from the ceiling. The church above had been struck weeks ago. Only this crypt was spared, the entrance dug out from the inside by the Sanguinists who lived there.

Leopold knelt between two other men. Like him, they were both
strigoi,
preparing to take their final vows as Sanguinists on this dark and violent night. Before him stood a Sanguinist priest, dressed in fine robes and cupping a golden chalice in his clean white palms.

The
strigoi
next to him trembled. Was he afraid that his faith was not strong enough, that the first sip of Christ’s blood would be his last?

When it came to his turn, Leopold bowed his head and listed his sins. He had many. In his mortal life, he had been a German doctor. Early in the war, he had ignored the Nazis, resisted them. But eventually the government drafted him and sent him into battlefields to care for young men ripped apart by guns and bombs or brought low by disease, starvation, and cold.

One winter night, a rogue pack of
strigoi
set upon his small unit in the Bavarian Alps. The half-frozen soldiers fought with rifles and bayonets, but the battle lasted no more than a handful of minutes. In the first sweep by the beasts, Leopold had been wounded, his back broken, unable to fight or move. He could only watch the slaughter, knowing his turn would come.

Then a
strigoi
the size of a child dragged him into the empty cold forest by his boots. He died there, his blood steaming holes into dirty white snow. All the while, the child sang in a high clear voice, a German folk song. That should have been the end of Leopold’s miserable life, but the boy had chosen to turn him into a monster.

He fought against the blood being poured into his mouth—until revulsion became hunger and bliss. As Leopold drank, the child continued to sing.

In the end, wartime was a
strigoi
’s paradise.

To Leopold’s great shame, he feasted.

Then one day he met a man he could not bite. His senses told him that a drop of that man’s blood would kill him. The stranger intrigued him. As a doctor, he wanted to understand this one’s secrets. So he sought him out night after night, watching him for weeks before daring to speak. When he finally did confront the stranger, the man listened to Leopold’s words, understood his disgust over what he had become.

In turn, the stranger offered him his true name, one so cursed by Christ that Leopold still dared only to think of him as the
Damnatus
. At that moment, Leopold was offered a path to salvation, a way to serve Christ in secret.

That was what brought him to this crypt beneath Dresden.

On his knees, listing his sins, alongside these others.

Leopold had been instructed to seek out the Sanguinists, to enfold himself among them, but to remain the
Damnatus
’s eyes and ears within the order.

He swore his allegiance back then—as he must do again this night.

Another bomb fell above, shaking dirt from the crypt’s roof. The penitent on his left yelped. Leopold remained silent. He did not fear death. He had been called for a greater purpose. He would fulfill a destiny that had spanned millennia.

The penitent pulled himself back under control, crossed himself, and finished his litany of sins. Eventually, his words stopped. He had given his sins up to God. He could be purified now.

“Do you repent of your sins out of the truest love to God and not out of fear of damnation?” the Sanguinist priest intoned to Leopold’s neighbor.

“I do,” the man answered.

“Then rise and be judged.” The priest’s face was invisible under his cowl.

The penitent rose, trembling, and opened his mouth. The priest lifted the golden chalice and poured claret-red wine onto his tongue.

Immediately the man began screaming, smoke roiling from his mouth. Either the creature had not fully repented or he had lied outright. No matter the reason, his soul was judged stained, and his body could not accept the holiness of Christ’s blood.

It was a risk they all took to join the order.

The creature fell to the stone floor and writhed, his shrieks echoing off the bare walls. Leopold bent to touch him, to still him, but before his hand reached him, the body crumbled to ash.

Leopold said a prayer for the
strigoi
who had sought to change his ways, even if his heart was impure. He knelt then, and once more folded his hands.

He finished his own long confession and waited for the wine. If his path was righteous, he would not burn to ash before this holy Sanguinist. If he and the one he served were wrong, a single drop of wine would reveal it.

He opened his mouth
,
allowing Christ to be poured into his body.

And lived.

Leopold came back into his trembling body, pressed on all sides by the sharp hay. He had never considered his conversion from
strigoi
to Sanguinist as a sin, something that needed penance.

Why had God sent this vision to him?

Why now?

For a sickening moment, he worried that it was because God knew that his conversion was done under false pretenses, knew Leopold was destined to betray the order, like the
Damnatus
had with Christ.

He lay there for a long time, thinking upon this, then swallowed back his fears.

No.

He had seen the vision precisely
because
his mission was true.

God had spared his life back then to serve the
Damnatus,
and He spared it again today. Once the sun sank and the rescue workers left for the night, he would leave the hay bale under the cover of dark and continue his purpose, no matter the cost.

Because God told him so.