Rhun recoiled slightly in his seat.
Good instinct.
The residual venom inside could probably still kill him.
Erin shifted closer to Jordan, which he didn’t mind one bit.
He examined the green wings. They definitely looked organic, likely plucked from a living specimen. He turned his attention next to the body, an amazing bit of handiwork in brass, silver, and steel. He inspected the tiny, articulated legs, the thin threads of antennae. Keeping his fingers away from the needle-sharp proboscis, he flipped the body over and probed the bottom side, discovering tiny hinges.
Interesting . . .
He sat straighter. “We know the moths have the capability to inject poison into strigoi or Sanguinists,” he said. “But it doesn’t affect us humans, so maybe there is a clue there. Time to do a little experimenting.”
He glanced over to Rhun. “I’m going to need a few drops of your blood.”
Rhun nodded and pulled the karambit from his sleeve. He cut his finger and dribbled a few crimson drops onto the tabletop where Jordan indicated. In turn, Jordan used a razor from the kit to nick his thumb and do the same.
“Now what?” Erin asked.
“Now I need some of the toxin from inside the moth.” Jordan tugged back on his latex glove after placing a bandage on his thumb.
“Careful,” Rhun warned.
“Trust me, during my years of forensics work with the military, I handled both poisons and explosives. I’m not taking any chances.”
Bent over the brass body of the moth, he used tweezers from the medical kit to undo the hinges on the underside of the moth. Once free, he pried open the moth’s body with great care, revealing tiny gears, springs, and wires.
“Looks like the inside of a watch,” Erin said, her eyes shining with amazement.
The craftsmanship was exquisite.
Rhun leaned forward, too, curiosity outweighing his earlier caution.
Jordan noted a tiny glass vial occupied the anterior end of the mechanism. It had cracked, but small streaks of blood remained inside it.
“The blood of Iscariot,” Erin said.
Rhun leaned back again. “Smells like death. The taint is plain.”
Jordan stuck his tweezers into the broken vial and pried it farther open. Then he used two cotton swabs to scoop out droplets of the remaining stain. The first swab he pressed into his own blood.
As expected, nothing happened.
So far, so good.
He picked up the second swab and dipped it into Rhun’s blood. With an audible snap, Rhun’s blood vaporized, leaving only a smudge of soot on the walnut surface.
Into the stunned silence that followed, Jordan met the priest’s wide eyes. “So Iscariot’s blood is definitely inimical to the blood of a Sanguinist.”
“And the blood of strigoi,” Erin added.
One and the same in my book, Jordan thought, but he kept that to himself.
Instead, he turned to his bag of discarded winter clothes and rummaged through it until he found one of his woolen gloves. It was stained with Tommy’s blood from when he had helped extract the boy out of the ice sculpture.
“What are you doing?” Erin asked.
“We know Iscariot and this kid are similarly unique immortals. I want to check if the boy’s blood is toxic, too.”
Rhun squeezed out a few more drops for him to test. Jordan wet a swab with the priest’s blood and applied it to the gloves.
There was no reaction.
Erin’s brow furrowed in thought.
Jordan sighed. “So it seems the boy’s blood doesn’t hurt anybody. In fact, it might have saved my life.”
“Might have?” Erin said. “Something sure did.”
Jordan ignored the burn blazing across his shoulder and down his back and chest. “Either way, the kid and Judas are very different, despite their shared immortality.”
“So where does that leave us?” Rhun asked.
“From here, Erin and I should take point whenever those moths are around. And not just moths. We should be suspicious of anything that creeps, crawls, or flies. I also suggest you all wear thicker armor, showing less skin. Maybe even something like a beekeeper’s mask to protect your faces.”
Rhun nodded. “I will share this information with the cardinal, to warn any Sanguinists in the field, to ready such gear for any fight to come.”
Jordan returned his attention to the moth’s remains. “Which brings us next to its functional mechanism. This clockwork inside is very intricate. I suspect any foreign contamination could wreak havoc, possibly gumming up the gears. Fine dust, sand, oil.”
“I will have the cardinal look into that, too.”
Jordan looked at Rhun. “And for all our sakes, it would be good to have as much advance notice of this manner of assault as possible. Back in the ice maze, were you able to hear the moths when they flew through the air?”
He imagined the gears made some sort of noise.
“I remember a soft whirring, far quieter than a heartbeat. But I’d recognize it if I heard it again.”
“Then that’s a start,” Jordan said.
But would it be enough?
34
December 20, 3:13 A.M. CET
Mediterranean Sea
Tommy gaped as the massive doors of the elevator cage opened into a huge room.
After the hydrofoil had docked at the foot of one of the oil rig’s massive legs, the group had crossed to an industrial freight elevator. It looked old and well worn, an artifact left from the days when the rig actually sucked oil from beneath the Mediterranean Sea. The nondescript steel cage had whisked them to the towering platform above and into the superstructure built on top.
Iscariot stepped out first, flanked by his two huge men.
Tommy followed with Elizabeth.
He had expected to find the same old, industrial look here. Even from below, the superstructure on top had looked like the steel forecastle to an old sailing ship. But as Tommy entered the room now, it was like stepping onto the bridge of Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. The room was a graceful mix of steel and wood, glass and brass, masculine yet elegant.
Directly across from the elevator rose towering windows, arched to a point like those found in gothic churches. The outermost flanking windows were even stained glass, depicting scenes of fishing, of men hauling nets, of small boats with white sails. The remaining windows opened a commanding view of the sea. Moonlight shone on white-capped black waves and thin silvery clouds.
It took some effort to tear his gaze from that view. Underfoot, a rich red carpet cushioned a floor that showed polished hardwood at its edges. Overhead, steel beams had been painted black, the rivets a rich copper. A skylight shone up there, also stained glass, displaying seabirds in flight: gulls, pelicans, herons. In the center, though, hung a white dove with emerald eyes.
Tommy tripped a step, remembering the injured dove he had sought to rescue in Masada. Iscariot caught his hand before he fell, glancing up to the same skylight, his silver-blue eyes returning to Tommy with a curious glint.
“Your hands are cold,” Iscariot said. “I’ve had a fire stoked for our arrival.”
Tommy nodded, but he had a hard time getting his legs to move. The remainder of the space was decorated with leather chairs and deeply cushioned couches, tacked with copper studs. There were also display cabinets and tables, holding brass sextants, old telescopes, a large steel bell. Standing before the center window was even a ship’s massive wheel, of wood and brass, clearly an authentic antique. Hanging on the wall above that same window was an old anchor, gone green with verdigris.
Guy must like to fish, Tommy thought.
He cast a sidelong glance at Iscariot.
Judas, he reminded himself, despite the impossibility of that. But after all he had experienced of late, why the hell not?
Elizabeth touched his arm. “You are shivering. Let’s get you before the fire.”
He allowed himself to be led t
o a set of chairs before a massive hearth. Bookcases rose to either side, climbing from floor to ceiling, so tall that you had to scale a rolling ladder to get to them. His mother would have loved this room, a space warm and cozy, full of books to read.
“Sit,” Elizabeth demanded once they reached an overstuffed chair. She tugged it closer to the fire, showing the depths of her strength.
He sank into it, staring into the flames, at the black andirons, shaped like dolphins dancing on their tails. The entire place smelled like woodsmoke, suddenly reminding him of the ski trips he had taken with his parents before he got sick.
Above a mantel rose a triptych of three maps. He leaned closer, rubbing his hands together over the crackling flames. The middle map displayed the modern world but drawn in an old-fashioned style with spidery lettering. To the left was a map that looked ancient, with vast parts of the world missing. The chart to the right was dated 1502. It showed the edge of North America, colored green, and a tiny bit of South America.
Elizabeth peered closely at that map, her voice drawn softer. “That is how the world looked when I was the same age you are now.”
Her remark caught Tommy off guard as he was suddenly reminded that she was more than four hundred years old.
Tommy pointed to the center map. “That’s how the world looks now. We’ve even mapped it from space.”
“Space?” she asked, glancing back, as if to see if he was joking.
“We have giant satellites. Machines. Orbiting way up, like between here and the moon.”
Her gray eyes clouded up. “Man has gone so far?”
“To the moon and back,” Iscariot said, joining them. “Mankind has sent devices crawling across the surface of Mars and traveling out beyond our solar system.”
Elizabeth sank back, placing a hand on the wingback of Tommy’s chair to steady herself. “I have a great deal to learn,” she said, looking overwhelmed.
Tommy reached up and touched her cold hand. “I’ll help you.”
Her fingers turned and gripped his—at first too strongly, threatening to break bones, but then she softened her hold, reining in that strength. “I would welcome that.”
Iscariot sighed, looking like he wanted to roll his eyes. “Before any of that can happen, Thomas should rest, eat, recover his own strength.”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened slightly again on him. “And then?”
“Then at dawn, Thomas will meet his destiny. As we all must do eventually.”
A chill trickled down Tommy’s spine that the fire could not warm.
What destiny?
One of Iscariot’s men arrived with a tray. Tommy stirred at the sight and smells of a hamburger, french fries, and a chocolate shake.
“I thought you might enjoy such fare,” Iscariot said as the tray was placed next to Tommy on a side table. “You should eat heartily. We have a long day tomorrow.”
Tommy touched the tray, remembering Elizabeth’s earlier warning.
Eat to stay strong.
He knew he would need all his strength to escape.
3:32 A.M.
Elizabeth settled into a chair opposite the hearth from the boy as he ate. She held her palms toward the welcoming heat. True flames warmed her like no modern device could. She closed her eyes and allowed her body to drink in that fire, picturing sunlight on a hot summer’s day.
Warm now and freshly fed, she should be content—but she was not.
I am unsafe here—as is the boy.
She was surprised at how much that last bothered her. Iscariot had plans for the both of them, and she began to suspect that he would treat her no more kindly than the Sanguinists had.
She rotated her injured ankle. It had healed enough that it would not slow her if she needed to flee. But what about the boy? She stared over at Tommy. He displayed appalling manners, devouring everything on his plate. The smell of grilled meat and frying oil repulsed her, but she gave no outward sign. She knew much of the boy’s appetite was driven by the same goal as her, to keep his strength up, to ready himself for escape.
But will the opportunity ever present itself?
Iscariot watched them like a hungry hawk, even as he ate his own meal, a blood-red steak and buttery vegetables. He used a silver fork and knife, the utensils emblazoned with an anchor.
Tommy finally sighed with great satisfaction and leaned back in his chair.
She studied his young face. Color had stolen into his cheeks again. It was uncanny, even for her, how quickly he healed. The food had clearly lent him strength.
“I can’t eat any more,” he declared, stifling a belch with a fist.
It turned instead into a long yawn.
“You should get some rest,” Iscariot said. “We must be up again before dawn.”
Tommy’s tired eyes found hers. He clearly didn’t know how to respond.
She gave him the smallest nod.
Now was not the time to confound their new captor.
“Okay,” he said, standing and stretching his back.
Iscariot gestured to Henrik. “Show the boy to the guest room and deliver him clean clothing.”
Tommy picked at his sweatpants and shirt, stained in spots by dried blood. He plainly could use fresh clothing.
Resigned, Tommy followed after Henrik, but not before casting a worried glance toward Elizabeth. It ached her silent heart.
Once he was gone, Iscariot shifted on the sofa closer to her chair. “Some sleep will do him good.” He caught her gaze with his silver-blue eyes. “But you have many questions for me. Questions better asked and answered with the boy out of the room.”
She folded her hands in her lap and decided to start with the past before addressing the present or future. “I would know more about the fate of my family.”
He nodded, and over the course of several long painful minutes, he told stories of her children, and their children again, of marriages, births, deaths. It was a tale mostly tragic, of a family brought low, a vast tapestry woven from the threads of her sins.
This is my legacy.
She kept her face stoic and buried his words deep inside her. Bathorys did not reveal their pain. Many times she had told her children this, even when she wanted to hold them in her arms and brush away their tears. But she had not learned of comfort from her mother, and she had not taught it to her children. This strength had cost her, but it had also saved her.
Once finished describing her descendants, he asked, “But are you not curious about the modern world?”
“I am,” she said, “but I am more curious about my role in this new world.”
“And I suspect you want to know the boy’s role, too.”
She shrugged, admitting nothing. She let a trace of sarcasm enter her voice. “What kind of monster would I be if I did not care about such a stout lad?”
“What kind of monster indeed.” A hint of a smile crossed his lips.
She read his satisfied expression, letting him believe she was the sort of monster who cared little about such a boy. For she was just such a monster—she had killed many scarcely older than Thomas. But to him she felt a strange kinship, and her kin were sacred.
Iscariot fixed her with a harder stare. “Your role, my dear Countess Bathory, is first and foremost to keep him calm and obedient.”
So I am to play nursemaid.
Keeping ill temper from her voice, she asked, “What do you plan to do to him that you need such soothing services?”
“Near dawn, we will travel to the coast, to the ruins of Cumae. It is there he will find his destiny, a fate he may wish to fight. And while escape is impossible, if he resists, it will go hard for him.”
Elizabeth turned to the flames.
The ruins of Cumae.
A chord of memory rang through her, from her time reading the ancient writings of Virgil and the histories of Europe, as all good noblewomen should. A famous seer had once lived in Cumae, a sibyl who prophesied the birth of Christ. By Elizabeth’s time, the place had
fallen to ruin, the city walls long destroyed.
But something else nagged at her, another story of Cumae. Fear etched into her bones, but she kept it from her face.
“What is the boy’s fate in Cumae?” she asked.
And what is mine?
“He is the First Angel,” Judas reminded her. “And you are the Woman of Learning. Together, we will forge the destiny that Christ has set upon me, to return Him to His world, to bring His Judgment upon us all.”
She remembered Iscariot’s earlier admission of such a lofty goal. “You intend to start Armageddon. But how?”
He only smiled, refusing to answer.
Still, she recalled that last detail concerning Cumae. According to Roman legend, the sibyl’s throne hid the entrance to the underworld.
The very gateway to Hell.
35
December 20, 4:14 A.M. CET
Naples, Italy
Cardinal Bernard strode through the nearly deserted airport outside of Naples. Recessed lights cast a bluish tint across the few early morning travelers, lending them a look of ill health. No one gave him a second glance as he passed swiftly toward the arrivals hall. He had shed the crimson of his formal robes for the dark navy of a modern business suit.
But he had not come to Naples as a cardinal or a businessman, but as a warrior.
Beneath the silk of his suit, he wore armor.
Wary of a mole in their order, he had traveled here in secret, slipping out of Vatican City through a long unused tunnel, across the midnight streets of Rome, where he had blended in. He had flown by a commercial airline versus private jet, using false papers. He dragged a suitcase that held two sets of Sanguinist armor, specially prepared for this trip.
Near the airport exit, he immediately recognized Erin and Jordan, hearing their telltale heartbeats before they stepped through the glass doors.
Rhun and Christian flanked the pair.
Jordan reached him first, moving on his strong legs. “Good to see you again, Cardinal.”
“For now, just Bernard.” He glanced around, then swung the suitcase to Rhun and pointed to a bathroom. “Change. Keep the armor under your civilian clothing.”
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