Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  Once free, Bathory stepped to join Iscariot. “Thank you, sir, for the kindness that you show me now, as you have always shown my family.”

  Iscariot barely noted her, which drew a small pique of irritation upon the countess’s lips. Instead, the man drew out a large pistol from his pocket, pointed it forward, and fired.

  Erin flinched from the noise of the gunshot—but the weapon had not been aimed at her.

  Jordan’s grip on her arm slipped away.

  He slid to the snow beside her.

  Crying out, she fell to her knees beside him. A wet stain spread from the left side of his chest. She ripped his shirt open, revealing a bullet wound. Blood pumped out of his wound, running across the blue lines of his lightning tattoo, sweeping over his chest, pooling under him.

  She pressed her hands tight against the hole. Slippery warm blood coated her fingers. He would be fine. He had to be. But her heart knew better.

  “Why?” she cried at Iscariot.

  “I’m sorry,” he said matter-of-factly. “According to the words of the prophecy, you are the only three in the world who hold any hope of thwarting me, of stopping the Armageddon to come. To break that prophecy, one of the trio must die. Once accomplished, the other two become irrelevant. So I give you your lives. As I said, I am not a craven man, merely practical.”

  He shrugged.

  Erin covered her face with her hands, but she could not hide the truth so easily. She had killed Jordan with her cleverness. By saving Rhun, she had doomed the man she loved.

  Iscariot would not be thwarted.

  If the Knight of Christ lived, the Warrior of Man had to die.

  Under her palms, Jordan’s chest no longer rose and fell. Blood continued to spread, steaming across the cold snow. A snowflake fell onto his open blue eye and melted there.

  He did not blink.

  “You cannot help him,” Christian whispered.

  She refused to believe that.

  I can help him. I must help him.

  As tears streamed down her cheeks, she couldn’t breathe. Jordan could not be gone. He was always strong, always came through. He could not die from a simple gunshot. It was wrong, and she would not let it happen.

  She stared up at Christian, clutching his pant leg with a bloody hand. “You can bring him back. Make him one of you.”

  He looked at her in horror.

  She didn’t care. “Turn him. You owe him that. You owe me that.”

  Christian shook his head. “Even if it were not forbidden, I could do nothing. His heart has already stopped. It is too late.”

  She gaped at him, trying to make sense of his words.

  “I’m sorry, Erin,” Rhun said. “But Jordan is truly gone.”

  A crunching in the snow told her that someone moved toward her, but she did not care who. A hand, skin cracked and bleeding, touched Jordan’s chest.

  She raised her head to find the boy crouched next to her, barely on his feet. He slipped the coat off his shoulders—Jordan’s coat—and returned it to its former owner, gently draping it over the wound.

  The boy licked his cracked lips. “Thank you.”

  Erin knew he was thanking Jordan for far more than the coat.

  “Enough,” Iscariot said as the sirens crashed louder around them. “Take him.”

  One of his burly assistants picked the boy up as if he were a sack of potatoes, carrying him in his arms. The boy cried out at the rough handling, fresh blood dripping from his many wounds, melting holes into the snow.

  Erin half stood, wanting to go to him. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  She was ignored. Iscariot turned and held out his hand, and Bathory took it, her white hand coming to rest in his, making her choice of whom to follow.

  “Stay, Elisabeta,” Rhun pleaded. “You do not know this man.”

  The countess touched the scarf that covered the barely healed incision on her neck. “But, my love, I know you.”

  Covered in moths, Rhun could only watch as they departed.

  Erin returned to Jordan’s body. She caressed his lifeless cheek, his stubble rough under her fingertips. She touched his upper lip, then leaned forward, kissing him one last time, his lips already cold, more like Rhun’s.

  She pushed that thought roughly away.

  At her shoulder, the two Sanguinists chanted a prayer. She recognized the words, but she stayed mute. Prayers did not comfort her.

  Jordan was dead.

  None of their words could change that.

  29

  December 19, 10:11 P.M. CET

  Cumae, Italy

  Leopold stood on the shore of a blue lake in southern Italy, starlight reflecting in the quiet waters. He took in a deep breath, readying himself for what must come. He noted traces of sulfur in the air, the odor too faint for mortal senses to detect, but it was still there, revealing the volcanic nature of Avernus Lake. Thick woods rose along the ancient crater’s steep banks. Across the water, a scatter of lights marked distant homesteads and farms, and much farther out the city of Naples glowed at the horizon.

  In the past, the lake had once steamed heavily with volcanic gases, so strongly that birds passing overhead would drop from the sky. Even the name Avernus meant without birds. Ancient Romans came to believe that the entrance to the underworld could be found near this lake.

  How true they were . . .

  He studied the unruffled blue waters, picturing this peaceful place birthed out of fire, born from lava blasting into the sky, burning the land, killing every creature that crept, crawled, or flew. Now it had become a calm valley, offering a haven for birds, fishes, deer, and rabbits. The surrounding pines and shrubs teemed with new life.

  He took that lesson to heart.

  Sometimes fire was necessary to cleanse, to offer a lasting peace.

  That was Leopold’s hope, to bring salvation to the world through the fires of Armageddon.

  He stared out at the lake, pausing from his task to thank God for sparing the lives of those on the train. He had called the Damnatus after viewing his own coffin at Castel Gandolfo, only to learn that the others had survived, that the Damnatus had made a pact with that Russian monk to ambush the others in Stockholm.

  Resolved to do what he must, he turned his back on the lake. His leather sandals scuffed red volcanic soil as he followed a path that led toward the Grotta di Cocceio. It was an old Roman tunnel, a kilometer long, built before the birth of Christ, burrowing from the lake to the ruins of ancient Cumae on the far side of the crater wall. Damaged during World War II, the tunnel was closed to the public, serving now as the perfect place to hide secrets.

  Leopold reached the entrance, an archway of dark stone sealed with an iron gate.

  It took little of his strength to break the lock and slip inside. Once through, he had to crawl and traverse a broken landscape of rock, to reach the main tunnel. With the way now open, he ran through the darkness, not bothering to hide his unearthly speed. No one would see him here.

  His footsteps slowed when he reached the far end, where it opened into a complex of ruins outside the crater. He stepped out into the cool breezes off the neighboring sea. Above his head, perched at the rim of the valley, was a temple to Apollo, an ancient complex of broken pillars, stone amphitheaters, and crumbling foundations of structures long gone. That was not his destination. From the tunnel entrance, he turned right, ducking into another tunnel. The passageway here was cut through yellow stone, carved trapezoidal in shape, narrow at the bottom with walls that slanted outward.

  It was the entrance to the grotto of the Cumaean sibyl, the timeless prophetess mentioned by Virgil and whose image was painted on the Sistine Chapel, marking her as one of the five seers who had predicted the birth of Christ.

  Leopold had been instructed on precisely what he must do from here. By now, the Damnatus should have secured the First Angel. Leopold must do the same with another. A chill swept his cold skin, threatening to drive him back.

  How dare I assault
such a one?

  But he pictured Avernus Lake, where peace and grace were born out of fire and brimstone. He must not balk when their goal was so close.

  The passageway stretched a hundred yards into the depths below the crater. According to Virgil, the path to the sibyl was a hundredfold, hinting at the maze buried beneath these ruins. What was visible to the tourists was but the tiniest fraction of the true lair of the prophetess.

  Still, he reached the tunnel’s end and lingered at what was considered the sibyl’s inner sanctum. Standing at the threshold, he examined the carved archways and empty stone benches. Once it had been grander, filled with frescoes and flowers. Beautiful offerings would have lined the walls. Blossoms would have released their scents to the underground air. Fruit would have ripened and rotted here.

  Across the way stood her carved throne, a simple bench of stone.

  He pictured the Sibyl of Cumae singing her prophecies from there, imagining the stir of leaves that were said to accompany her predictions, leaves upon which she recorded her visions of the future.

  Despite the ancient accounts, Leopold knew the true power did not lie in this room—but far below it. The sibyl had chosen this site because of what lay hidden at the heart of her lair, something she protected from the world at large.

  Before he lost his courage, he rushed across the chamber to her throne, to the archway behind it. Drawing up to the far wall, he studied the pattern of stones found there. Following the directions given to him by the Damnatus, he pushed in a series of the stones, forming the rough symbol of a bowl, the ancient icon representing this sibyl.

  As he pushed in the last stone, he heard a crack, and black lines formed, spilling dust, marking a door. He knew there were other secret ways to the maze below, but the Damnatus had been clear that he must approach her from this path. The Damnatus knew her from another life, learned of this sanctuary of hers. Over the centuries, he had tracked her steps across the earth, knew she resided here now, likely awaiting them.

  Leopold shoved open the door with a grate of stone but remained at the threshold. He dared not enter her domain without permission. He retreated to the front of the throne and knelt before it.

  He drew a knife and cut his wrist.

  Dark blood welled out, letting the blessing of Christ inside him shine forth.

  “Hear my prayer, O Sibyl!” he chanted. “The time has come for your final prophecy to come to fruition.”

  He waited on his knees for what seemed like hours, but was likely minutes.

  Finally to his keen ears came the soft pad of bare feet on stone.

  He looked beyond the stone seat to the dark doorway.

  A shred of shadow melted out, stepping into view, revealing the lithe perfection of a dark-skinned woman. She wore a simple linen shift. Her only bits of adornment were a gold cuff upon her upper arm and a shard of silver hanging from a gold chain. Not that she needed any such decoration. Her dark beauty captured his every imagination, stirring even sinful ones. How could any man resist her? She was mother, lover, daughter, the very embodiment of womanhood.

  But she was not a woman.

  He heard no heartbeat as she stepped around and sat atop her throne.

  She was something far greater.

  He lowered his face from her beauty. “Forgive me, O Great One.”

  He knew her name—Arella—but dared not use it, finding himself unworthy.

  “My forgiveness will not ease your burdens,” she said softly. “You must put them down of your own accord.”

  “You know I cannot.”

  “And he sent you in his stead, unable to come himself.”

  He glanced up, noting the depth of sorrow in her eyes. “I’m sorry, my blessed lady.”

  She laughed quietly, a simple sound that promised joy and peace. “I am beyond your blessing, priest. But are you beyond mine? You can yet set aside the task he set for you. It is not too late.”

  “I cannot. From fire will come a lasting peace.”

  She sighed, as if scolding a child. “From fire comes only ruin. It is only love that brings peace. Did you not learn that from He who blesses the very blood you spill at my doorway?”

  “We only seek to bring His love back to this world.”

  “By destroying it?”

  He remained silent, resolute.

  The Damnatus had tasked him with this mission—and one other. He felt the weight of the emerald rock in the inner pocket of his robe. It would have to wait. Now, he must complete his first duty, no matter how much it pained him.

  He bared his face to the sibyl.

  She must have read his unwavering determination. With a look of profound sadness, she simply held out her wrists. “Then let it begin. I will not interfere. Children must make their own mistakes. Even you.”

  Hating himself, Leopold stood and bound her wrists in soft cords of leather. Unlike him, she had no unnatural strength to resist, to fight him. The scent of lotus blossoms floated off her skin as she pushed gracefully to her feet. He took hold of the cord that ran to her bound hands and walked her, his legs trembling at his impertinence, back to the dark doorway.

  As he crossed the threshold first, a pall of sulfur and brimstone from below washed away the gentle wisp of lotus. Swallowing against it, he headed down into darkness, toward a destiny of fire and chaos.

  30

  December 19, 10:18 P.M. CET

  Stockholm, Sweden

  He can’t be gone . . .

  Rhun touched Erin’s arm, but she barely felt it. When he spoke, his voice sounded far away. “We must leave this place.”

  Sirens rang loudly all around.

  The emerald butterflies had lifted a moment before, rising away upon some silent signal of their vanished master, leaving only ruin behind. There remained little of the dead, clothing and bits of blackened bone amid piles of corrupted ashes.

  Nothing bound them here any longer.

  Still, she clung to Jordan, unable to let go. She saw no need to leave. Everything had gone to ashes. The First Angel was gone, the Woman of Learning had abandoned them for the enemy, and the Warrior of Man lay dead at her knees.

  Jordan . . .

  He was far more than that prophesied title.

  A sound of rushing feet drew her eyes to the side. The small shape of Alexei appeared from one of the maze archways. Though he was a monster, she was glad he still lived. He must have been left to guard the outer walls of the ice palace, escaping the slaughter here—but not the pain. He sprinted to Rasputin and fell into his arms, like any scared boy seeking the comfort of his father. Tears streamed down his face as he stared across the tattered remains of the others, his dark family.

  Christian stood, holding the body of Nadia wrapped in a cloak, what little there was left of her. “There’s a cathedral close by. We can seek refuge there, decide our next course of action.”

  “Next?” Erin still watched Alexei, reminding herself that there was another child at great risk. She would not abandon the boy without a fight. Anger dried her tears. Determination steeled through her grief. “We must rescue the First Angel.”

  Tommy, she reminded herself, not allowing herself to relegate him to a cold title. He had been given that name by a mother and father who had loved him. That was far more important than any prophesied name.

  Rhun spoke, staring down at Jordan. “But with the trio destroyed, there is no—”

  She cut him off. “We cannot leave Tommy in that monster’s hands.”

  Rhun and Christian looked down at her, worry on their faces.

  Let them worry.

  Erin rested her hand on Jordan’s shoulder. She would see to it that he was buried in Arlington, like the hero that he was. He had saved many lives, including hers. To honor that, she would save that boy.

  Complete the mission.

  It was what Jordan would have wanted.

  She could do no less.

  A snowflake fell on his cold eyelid and melted, the droplet shedding from h
is eye like a tear. She reached a thumb to wipe it away. As she did so, she noted that the dusting of snow on his cheeks had begun to run and slide from his skin.

  “Rhun,” she whispered.

  She yanked her glove off and put her bare palm on his neck.

  His skin was warm.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. She yanked back the grimwolf coat that Tommy had draped so gently across his body.

  Blood swamped Jordan’s chest, pooled in the well of his sternum. She wiped at it with her bare palm, exposing his tattoo, the stretch of skin over firm muscle. She used both hands now, smearing his chest clean.

  She stared up at Rhun, at Christian.

  Even Rasputin was drawn by her frantic action.

  “There’s no wound,” she said.

  Rhun dropped beside her, his hand over Jordan’s ribs, but he refrained from touching the traces of blood found there. Then suddenly Jordan’s chest rose under his palm, as if trying to reach the priest’s hand. Rhun fell back in shock.

  As Erin watched, Jordan’s chest rose again.

  “Jordan?” Her voice shook.

  Christian spoke. “I hear a heartbeat.”

  How could that be?

  Erin placed her palm atop his chest, wanting to feel it beat. Then Jordan’s arm rose on the far side and reached for her hand, resting his warm palm over hers.

  She looked up to find his eyes open, staring at her, his gaze addled, as if waking from a deep sleep. His lips parted. “Erin . . . ?”

  She cupped his face in her palms, wanting to both cry and laugh.

  Rhun helped pull Jordan into a sitting position. He felt for the exit wound in Jordan’s back. Then simply shook his head when he found nothing.

  “A miracle,” Rhun breathed.

  Jordan looked dazedly to her for an explanation for all the commotion.

  Words failed her.

  Rasputin spoke. “It must have been the touch of the First Angel. It was the boy’s blood.”

  Erin pictured Tommy placing his bloody hand on Jordan’s chest.

  Could it be?