Bernard had ordered him to find the beast that had been terrorizing the local village. The rogue strigoi had arrived only days before but had already killed four souls. Rhun must turn its foul appetites to holy ones, as Bernard had done with him, or slay the beast.
A creak drew his attention to the corner where a rough-hewn wooden table had been pushed up against the wall. His sharp vision picked out a shape in the darkness beneath it.
The strigoi he sought crouched there.
Another sound reached his ears.
Weeping.
In a single bound, Rhun crossed the distance to the table, yanked it away with one hand, and hurled it across the room. With his other hand, he dropped his blade against a dirty white throat.
A child.
A boy of ten or eleven gazed up at him, his eyes wide, his short brown hair trimmed by loving hands. Dirty fingers wrapped around his bare bony knees. Tears stained his cheeks—but blood stained his chin.
Rhun dared show no mercy. Too many Sanguinists had died because they had underestimated their prey. An innocent young face often masked a centuries-old killer. He reminded himself of that, but the child seemed harmless, piteous even.
He spared a quick glance to the dead bodies on the floor, reminding himself not to be fooled. The boy was far from harmless.
He twisted the boy around and clutched him against his chest, gripping him from behind, pinning his arms down. Rhun dragged him to the fireplace. A mirror hung above a crude wooden mantel.
The reflection showed the child to be quiet in his embrace, unresisting.
Unhappy brown eyes met his in the mirror.
“Why am I a monster?” those young lips asked.
Rhun faltered at the unexpected question, but he took strength from what he had been taught by Bernard. “You have sinned.”
“But I did not, not of my own will. I was a good boy. A creature broke through my window in the night. It bit me. It made me feed on its blood, then fled. I did not ask for that to happen. I fought against it. Fought with all my strength.”
Rhun remembered his own initial struggles against the strigoi who had stolen his soul and how he had succumbed in the end, embracing the bliss that was offered to him. “There is a way to stop the evil, to serve God again.”
“Why would I want to serve a god who let this happen to me?”
The child didn’t seem to be angry, merely curious.
“You can turn this curse into a gift,” he said. “You can serve Christ. You can live by drinking His holy blood, not the blood of humans.”
The child’s eyes strayed to the bodies on the floor. “I didn’t want to kill them. Truly, I didn’t.”
Rhun loosened his hold. “I know. And you can stop killing now.”
“But”—the child met his gaze in the mirror again—“I liked it.”
Something in the boy’s eyes sang to the darkness inside him. Rhun knew this first mission was as much a test of him as it was of the boy.
“It is a sin,” Rhun stressed.
“Then I will end up in Hell.”
“Not if you turn from this path. Not if you dedicate yourself to a life of service to the Church, to Christ.”
The child considered this, then spoke. “Can you promise me that I won’t go to Hell if I do as you say?”
Rhun hesitated. He wished he could offer a sounder truth to the boy.
“It is your best hope.”
Like so much in his life, it was a matter of faith.
A burning log slipped off the fire and rolled against the fireplace stones. Bright sparks flew onto the floor and extinguished there. Rhun sensed that the morning approached swiftly. The child looked toward the window, likely feeling it, too.
“You must decide soon,” Rhun said.
“Does the sun burn you?” the child asked, wincing from remembered pain.
“Yes,” he said. “But through Christ’s blessing I can walk under the noon sun. His blood gives me the strength and holiness for such.”
The boy’s round eyes looked doubtful. “What if I drink His blood but don’t truly believe?”
“Christ will know the falsehood. His blood will burn you to ash.”
The child’s small body shivered in his arms. “Will you let me go if I say no?”
“I cannot allow you to keep killing the innocent.”
The boy tilted his head toward the couple on the floor. “They were less innocent than I ever was. They stole from travelers, they trafficked in whores, and they once slit the throat of a man to steal his purse.”
“God will judge them.”
“But you will judge me?” the child asked.
Rhun winced.
That was his role, was it not?
Judge and executioner.
His voice faltered. “We have little time. Sunrise is only—”
“I always had little time, and now I have none at all.” Tears appeared and ran down his cheeks. “I will not go with you. I will not become a priest. I did nothing wrong to become this monster. So do it now. And do it quickly.”
Rhun gazed into those wet but resolute eyes.
It is God’s will, he reminded himself.
Still, he hesitated as the burning sun threatened.
What had this child done to deserve to be turned into a beast? He had been innocent, he had fought evil when attacked, and he had lost to it.
Rhun had been no different—except that he had chosen to serve Him.
The smell of cold blood drifted from the bodies on the floor. Such wreckage was what the boy would leave behind him to the end of his days.
“Forgive me,” Rhun whispered.
The boy said one word that would haunt him for centuries to come.
In spite of that, he drew the blade across the child’s throat, spattering dark blood across the mirror.
Rhun came to himself on the floor of the cell. At some point, he had crawled under the bed and curled into a ball, weeping. He lay there alone, staring at the slats of the bed, only a handsbreadth from his face.
Why was I shown this moment?
He had done as he was instructed, obeying the word of God.
How was that a sin that needed penance?
Was it because I hesitated at the end?
He climbed from under the bed and sat on its edge. He planted his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his hands, and prayed for solace.
But none came.
Instead, he remembered the boy’s clear brown eyes, his high voice, how he had nestled back against Rhun and raised his chin so that the blade would find a true home.
Rhun remembered asking him for forgiveness.
The boy had answered.
No.
Still, in the name of God, he had slaughtered the child.
Since that time many innocent faces had died under his blade. He no longer paused, no longer hesitated. He killed without a pang of regret. His years of service had led him to this place—to where he could slaughter children without remorse.
Covering his face, he wept now.
For himself, and for the boy with brown eyes.
23
December 19, 2:36 P.M. CET
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
Jordan stretched beneath the bedsheets, every part of his naked body in contact with Erin’s. She murmured in her sleep, and he pulled her closer against him.
God, how he’d missed her.
A tap on the door woke Erin, clearly startling her. She sat up quickly. Blond hair brushed her shoulders, and the blanket fell down from her bare breasts. In the dim light coming through the shuttered windows, she looked beautiful.
He reached for her, unable to stop himself.
Christian called through the door, sounding very amused with himself. “You two have fifteen minutes! So finish what you started . . . or start what you want to finish. Either way, you’ve been given fair warning.”
“Thanks!” Jordan called back and grinned at Erin. “You know it’s a mortal sin to disobey a priest’s dir
ect order.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s true,” she said with a relaxed smile—then pointed to the shower, to the promise of hot soapy water and naked skin. “But maybe for the sake of our souls, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
He matched her grin, hauled her into his arms, and carried her toward the bathroom.
By the time Christian knocked again, they were both showered, dressed, and strapped with their new weapons. Despite the scrapes and bruises, Jordan hadn’t felt so good in a long time.
Once out in the hall, Christian put a finger to his lips and handed each of them a small flashlight.
What is this about? Jordan wondered.
Still, he trusted Christian enough not to question the man’s actions. Jordan and Erin followed him to the end of the corridor, down a series of stairs, and through a long tunnel that had no lights.
Jordan clicked on his flashlight, and Erin did the same.
Christian set a grueling pace down the passageway. It looked hewn out of the natural bedrock and stretched at least a mile. Finally Christian reached a steel door at the end and stopped. He entered digits in an electronic keypad and stepped back. The door swung soundlessly inward. It was a good foot thick and could probably withstand a mortar blast.
Bright sunlight flowed into the dark passageway.
Jordan smelled pine and loam.
Must be an emergency exit, one possibly designed to whisk the pope to safety in case of a threat at the castle.
Christian stepped through, then motioned for them to keep close.
Growing worried at all the subterfuge, Jordan shifted his assault rifle into a ready position and kept Erin between him and Christian. He wanted her protected front and back.
They stepped into a dense evergreen forest. It was cold beneath the shadowy bower. As he walked, his breath hung in the quiet air. A carpet of fallen pine needles muffled the sound of his feet.
Erin zipped up her wolf-leather jacket.
Even that small sound was too loud for this quiet forest.
Ahead of them, three figures melted out of the shadows. While Christian relaxed, Jordan kept firm hold of his rifle. Then he saw it was Nadia, leading Rhun and Bathory. Or at least he assumed it was the countess, as the woman was veiled from head to toe against the sun. But the silver handcuff secured to one of her thin wrists left little doubt that it was Bathory. The other cuff was fastened to Rhun.
The Sanguinists were taking no chances with the countess.
Personally, Jordan would rather be handcuffed to a cobra.
Nadia motioned Jordan behind the thick bole of a pine for a private meeting. It was unnerving that no one spoke. He gave Erin’s elbow a quick squeeze, leaving her with Christian, then followed Nadia.
Once out of sight. Nadia pulled out a single thick sheet of paper, folded and sealed with red wax, bearing the insignia of a crown with two crossed keys.
The papal seal.
With one long fingernail she broke the seal and unfolded the paper to reveal a hand-drawn map of Italy. A blue line traced north from Castel Gandolfo, ending near Rome. Highway numbers were marked, along with a timetable.
Nadia lifted a lighter and rasped a flame to life, ready to burn the paper, her eyes on him.
Clearly he was supposed to commit this map to memory.
Sighing silently, he memorized the highways and timetables. Once done, he met her eyes.
She mimed a driving motion and pointed to him.
Looks like I’m driving.
She lifted the lighter to the page. Yellow flames licked up the thick paper, consuming everything to ash. The purpose of all this pantomime was plain. Jordan, and Nadia, and whoever wrote the note—probably the cardinal—were the only ones who were supposed to know their destination and route.
They weren’t giving the bomber another chance to take them all out.
With the matter settled, Nadia led him back to where the others waited.
Once they were all together, they set off across the forest to a parking lot. Only two vehicles were parked there: a black Mercedes SUV with dark tinted windows and a Ducati motorcycle, also black and with lines that screamed speed.
He looked longingly at the bike, but he knew he would end up with the SUV.
Proving this, Nadia hiked a leg over the motorcycle and raised an eyebrow toward him. He grinned, remembering their wild ride through Bavaria a few months back. He’d never been so scared or exhilarated. Her preternatural reflexes had let her handle the bike at speeds he had not imagined possible.
But that wasn’t going to be today.
She tossed him the keys to the SUV before starting up her bike and roaring off.
Jordan’s group headed for the SUV. Rhun helped the countess into the back, flanked on her other side by Christian. Jordan held open the front passenger door for Erin. He was not about to let her sit in the back with Rhun and the countess.
Even the front seat was too close to that pair.
3:14 P.M.
As the vehicle fled up a road paved to a smooth black finish, Elizabeth clenched her free hand into a fist. Automobiles terrified her. In Rome, she had avoided their foul smells, their grumbling engines. She had no desire to get near one, and now she sat inside one.
It was very like a carriage from her day, except such carriages were never so fast. Never had a horse traveled across the ground at such a pace. How did the soldier maintain control over it? She knew the vehicle was a mechanical device, like a clock, but she couldn’t help thinking of it spilling them from its warm leather cocoon and dashing their brains against the hard road.
She monitored the hearts of the humans in the front, using them to measure the potential danger. Right now, both hearts beat at a slow, relaxed pace. They did not fear this belching, growling beast.
She did her best to mirror their emotions.
If they do not show fear, she could not allow herself to either.
As the minutes passed, her initial terror dulled into simple boredom. The black ribbon of road unspooled before her with an eerie sameness. Trees, villages, and other automobiles passed to either side, unremarkable and unremarked.
Once her fear settled, her thoughts returned to Rhun. She remembered him holding her hand, his lips on her throat. He was not so passionless and dedicated to the Church as he seemed—not now or before. He had come so close again to betraying his vows in the cell.
She knew it was not mere bloodlust.
He wanted her.
He still loves me.
Of all the strangeness of this modern world, that struck her as the oddest. She considered this now, knowing she would wait for the right opportunity to exploit it.
To break free.
Perhaps to break them both free.
The automobile passed a row of rustic Italian houses. In a few windows, she glimpsed people moving about inside. She envied them the simplicity of their existence—but she also recognized how stifled they were, trapped by the span of one lifetime, living lives of frailty, forever worn down by passing years.
Such fragile and fleeting creatures, these humans were.
After more driving, the automobile entered a vast field of the same hard material as the road and pulled beside a giant metal structure with massive open doors. The soldier turned the key, and the automobile’s growling ended.
“What is this place?” she asked.
Rhun answered, “A hangar. A place that houses airplanes.”
She nodded. She knew airplanes, having seen their lights in the night sky often over Rome. In her small apartment, she had pored over pictures of them, fascinated by such wonders of this age.
In the shadows of the hangar, she spotted a small white airplane with a blue stripe on its hull.
From a doorway in its side, Nadia appeared at the top of a short set of stairs. Elizabeth’s fangs drew a fraction longer, her body remembering the countless small humiliations the tall woman had subjected her to.
Rhun guided Elizabeth out of the au
tomobile, their movements clumsy because of the burning shackles that bound them together. They followed the others into the deep shadows of the building.
Nadia joined them. “I’ve checked the aircraft thoroughly. It is clean.”
Rhun turned to Elizabeth. “It is dark enough inside here. If you like, you can remove your veil for now.”
Happy to do so, she reached up with her free hand and pulled the cloth away. Cool air flowed across her face and lips, bringing with it the smell of tar and pitch and other scents that were acrid, bitter, and burnt. This was an era that seemed to run on fire and burning oil.
She kept her face away from the open doors. Even the diffuse sunlight hurt her, but she did her best to conceal her pain.
Instead, she watched the soldier as he stretched his back and stamped blood back into his legs after the drive. He reminded her of a restless stallion, loosed after being stabled for too long. His title—the Warrior of Man—fit him well.
He kept close to the woman, Erin Granger. He was clearly besotted with her, and even Rhun seemed more aware of the woman’s presence than Elizabeth liked.
Still, Elizabeth had to admit the historian had an athletic grace about her and a fine mind. In another time, another life, they might have been friends.
Nadia headed back toward the airplane. “If we’re to make our rendezvous, we must leave now.”
The group followed her up the stairs and into the aircraft.
Ducking inside, Elizabeth glanced to the left, to a small room with two tiny chairs, angled windows, and red and black switches and buttons.
“That’s called the cockpit,” Rhun explained. “The pilot flies the plane from in there.”
She saw the youngest of the Sanguinists, the one called Christian, taking a seat inside. It seemed the skills of the Sanguinists had adapted to this new age.
She turned her back and headed into the main space. Rich leather seats lined each side of the small airplane with a narrow aisle down the middle. She paid heed to the small windows, imagining how it would be to view the world from the air, the clouds from above, the stars from the sky.
This was indeed a time of wonders.
Her eyes strayed past the seats and settled on a long black box in back, with handles on the ends. The box was plainly of modern construction, but its shape had not changed since long before her time.
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