She needed a moment of peace.
She reached the open well.
The holiness here, likely born from the sword preserved below, had kept the fighting away from this spot. She glanced back to the carnage, to both beasts and strigoi.
Their group had paid a terrible price, but they had come through it.
Just not all of them.
Her eyes fell upon poor Agmundr, picturing his huge grin.
Thank you for protecting us.
She remembered Nadia on the snow, even Leopold on the floor of the cave. They had met their ends far from the lands of their birth and those who had loved them.
Just like Amy.
She knelt by the edge of the spring and peered into the clear water. Stars reflected there, a wash of the Milky Way shining brightly back at her, reminding her of both the smallness and majesty of life. The stars above were eternal. She listened to the swish of sands across the surrounding dunes, whispering as it had for millennia past.
This spot had long been a peaceful, holy place.
Erin surveyed the panels that told the story of Christ’s first miracle and what followed. It was a reminder that anyone could make an error, take a misstep. Like Christ, she had not known the deadly consequences of her actions in Masada, how the events would bring death and ripples across time.
She looked back at Bernard as an uncharitable thought crossed her mind. So much bloodshed could have been spared if the cardinal had not kept so many secrets. If she had known the importance of the deadly information that she had shared with Amy, Erin might have been more cautious. Instead, the secrets that the Sanguinists had kept from her had cost Amy her life and the lives of others.
She focused on the book in her hand. While she would accept the mantle of the Woman of Learning, she would no longer allow truths to be kept from her. The Vatican authorities must throw open their libraries and reveal all their secrets, or she would no longer work with them.
The book was now bound to her, and she would use it to break down all doors.
She owed that to Amy.
She reached to her pocket and slipped out the marble of amber. She held it up to the moonlight, revealing the delicate feather inside. The amber had trapped it as surely as her memories held Amy: forever preserved, never free to float away.
While she would never forget her student, perhaps she could let something go.
She tilted her palm forward until the amber slid down to her fingertips. Then it tumbled off them and fell into the spring. She leaned forward and watched the marble break the reflection of stars and vanish into that eternity.
Now part of Amy would always be here in Egypt, at rest in one of the holiest places on Earth, near ancient secrets that might never be discovered.
Erin stared into that well, making a promise.
Never again.
No more innocent blood would be spilled to preserve the secrets of the Sanguinists. It was time for the truth to shine.
She gripped the book and stood.
Ready to change the world.
CHRISTMAS DAY
12:04 A.M. CET
Vatican City
Buried far below St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sanguinists gathered in the cavernous vault of their order, their holy of holiest places, simply named the Sanctuary. They came in their greatest numbers every year to celebrate a midnight Mass in honor of the birth of Christ.
Rhun stood at the edge of the congregation. Others of his order filled the space, unmoving, in silent vigil. Not a breath nor a heartbeat nor even the rustle of a robe disturbed the utter peace. He drank in the quiet, as he knew the others around him did, too. The world above had grown ever louder across the centuries, but here he found the calm peace that his battered spirit so longed for.
Above him, the roof soared, its smooth and simple lines drawing his eyes up toward Heaven. The cold stone had been hewn smooth by thousands of hands in the early years of the Church. It contained none of the adornments of regular churches. This space spoke to the simplicity of a Sanguinist’s faith—hard stone and simple torches were enough to lead the damned creatures to Him. Although he was deep beneath the streets of Rome, he felt closer to Him in his glory here than anywhere else.
This Christmas Mass was also known as the Mass of the Angels. Never had it felt more appropriate to Rhun than on this holiest of nights so soon after he had walked with angels.
The smoky fragrance of incense drew his gaze from the roof to the center of the room. There, he found the holiest of priests walking with slow grace through their congregation. The head of the Order of the Sanguines wore simple black robes tied with a rough cord. He eschewed the costumes of cardinals and bishops and the pope—preferring to clothe himself as a simple and humble priest.
Yet, he was so much more.
He was the Risen One.
Lazarus.
Without him, they would be condemned to live out their existences as foul beasts, murdering innocent and guilty alike until they met their deaths at the end of a sword or a ray of sunlight. The Risen One had found another road for them to tread, a path of holiness and service and meaning.
Rhun knew now that it was no sin to be a Sanguinist.
He had made the right decision in the desert. His existence now served God, and that had been his truest wish since his earliest days. He had strayed from that path when he corrupted Elisabeta, but he had been given a chance to wash that sin clean. Now he could serve Christ again without a shadow on his conscience.
Lazarus passed by him.
Rhun stared at his long fingers, knowing they had touched Christ. Those shadowed eyes had stared at Him. That stern face had spoken to Him, laughed with Him.
Two other Sanguinists flanked Lazarus.
A man and a woman.
They were said to be even older than the Risen One, but their names were never spoken. In fact, the ancient pair was seldom seen, not even among the Cloistered Ones, the order’s elders who spent their time in eternal prayers and meditation. Rhun had once longed to join the Cloistered, but he had been drawn back into the world of the living instead.
The man carried an ancient cross, its wood turned from brown to gray with the passing of the centuries. The woman swung a silver censer of incense. Delicate smoke wafted into the room, filling Rhun’s nostrils with frankincense and myrrh. The holy scent surrounded him, settling on his robe and his hair and his skin.
A chant began, and Rhun’s voice rose in harmony with the other Sanguinists. Their beautiful chorus resonated through the vast chamber, hitting subtle notes beyond normal hearing. In the Sanctuary, gathered here with his order in the long darkness, he did not need to hide his otherness and could truly sing.
Lazarus stopped in front of the ancient stone altar and raised his pale hand to form the sign of the cross. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Amen,” answered the congregation.
The familiar routine carried Rhun away. He neither thought nor prayed. He simply existed in each moment, letting the chain of them draw him ever forward. He belonged here with his brothers and sisters of the cloth. This was the pious life that he had wanted when he was a mortal man, and the life that he had chosen as an immortal one.
And so they came to the Eucharist.
Lazarus spoke the words in Latin. “The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”
He held the ancient chalice high that they might all look upon the source of their salvation.
Rhun answered with the others and lined up to receive Holy Communion.
When he stood in front of the Risen One, Lazarus met his eyes, and a faint smile chased across his face. “For you, my brother.”
Rhun tilted his head back, and Lazarus poured in the wine.
Rhun savored the silkiness as it flowed down his throat, spreading through his limbs. Tonight it did not burn.
On this holiest of nights, even for one such as he, there was no penance.
Only His love.
2:17 P.M.
Rome, Italy
Tommy flipped through the channels on Elizabeth’s tiny television. Every single one showed a Christmas celebration in Italian. It had been like that all day—nothing to watch. He sighed and clicked it off.
Elizabeth sat stiff-backed on the sofa next to him. He had never seen her slouch, and she wouldn’t let him lounge either.
Both feet on the floor at all times, he had been sternly lectured.
“Had you expected different programming?” she asked.
“Not expecting. Hoping.”
Besides, he was Jewish and didn’t celebrate this holiday, but he’d missed Hanukkah, too. The only acknowledgment of the season to reach him came from a most unexpected place, a Christmas card sent to him by Grigori Rasputin. Somehow the Russian had discovered that he was staying at this apartment in Vatican City.
Elizabeth had scowled upon finding the card taped to the apartment door.
Written on the front of the envelope was Merry Christmas, my angel!
The card showed an angel, complete with a golden halo.
He didn’t know if it was a threat, a joke, or sincere.
Considering that guy: probably all three.
He handed Elizabeth the remote control, but she set it down on the coffee table. He had instructed her on how to use it, and she was a quick learner. She was curious about everything in the modern world, and he was glad to teach her.
After leaving the deserts of Egypt, Tommy had ended up in Rome, at an apartment supplied by the Church. He’d had his blood tested several times since he got back, but otherwise everyone left him alone. He was just some orphaned kid now. He had been offered other temporary accommodations, a place to himself until he was returned to the States, but he preferred to stay with Elizabeth.
Bored, he asked, “Want to learn how to use the microwave?”
“Is the microwave not a device for cooking meals?” She tightened her lips. “That is servant’s work.”
Tommy lifted an eyebrow toward her. She clearly needed to learn far more about the modern world than just its technology. “Don’t you think you’ll need to cook for yourself?”
Her eyes darkened. “Why should I waste time on such trivialities?”
He waved his arm around the room. “You can’t live here forever. And when you leave, you’ll have to get a job and earn money and cook for yourself.”
“The Church has no intention of letting me go,” she said.
“Why? They’re letting me go.” He was being sent to his aunt and uncle in Santa Barbara, a couple he barely knew.
“You are but a child. They see you as no threat. So they will send you to this California without fear.”
He sighed, trying not to whine. Elizabeth hated when anyone complained. He finally just blurted it out. “I don’t want to go.”
She turned to him. “You will go.”
“I don’t know those people. At all. I think I met them once.”
“They will care for you, as their familial duty requires.”
But they won’t love me, he thought. Not like Mom and Dad.
“When do you depart?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.” He hung his head.
She tapped his chin. “Sit straight. You’ll crook your back.”
Still, he saw she did that to hide her shock. Apparently no one had told her.
“I just found out this morning myself,” he said. “Merry Christmas to the both of us.”
She frowned at him. “Why should I feel anything other than happiness that you are to be reunited with your family?”
“No reason,” he mumbled.
He stood and walked into the kitchen. He had nothing else to do. He didn’t have anything to pack, just a couple of outfits that Christian had brought him and a handful of books that Erin had given him before she and Jordan left for the States themselves.
“Tommy. ” Elizabeth stood and crossed to him. “You might find it difficult to live with these people, but they are your family. It is better than being trapped here . . . with me.”
He opened and closed a cupboard, not that he needed anything, just to do something. He slammed it a bit too loudly.
She turned him by the shoulders and grabbed his chin. “Why are you so angry? What? You wish me to weep at your farewell? To beg you to remain with me?”
Maybe a little.
“No.”
“Such displays of hysteria did not happen when I was a girl,” she said. “I have seen much such silliness on your television, but I find it crass.”
“It’s fine,” he said.
She touched his arm. “I shall miss your presence. You have taught me much and brought me joy.”
He guessed that her words were like a modern woman falling on the floor weeping.
“I’ll miss you, too,” he said.
She pulled a gray box out of her pocket and placed it in his hand. “For a parting gift, since you do not celebrate Christmas.”
Tommy took off the wrapping carefully. It was a prepaid cell phone.
“If you are ever in need of me,” she promised, “call and I will come.”
“I thought you were a prisoner.”
She scoffed. “Like they can ever keep me caged.”
Tommy felt tears threatening and struggled to hold them back.
She bent to stare him in the face. “There are few in this world who are trustworthy. But I trust you.”
“Same here.”
That was why he had stayed here with her. The others were loyal to their beliefs, but she was loyal to him.
He hugged her, to hide his tears.
“Such foolishness,” she said, but she squeezed him even harder.
10:12 A.M. CST
Des Moines, Iowa
Erin sat on the carpeted stairs of Jordan’s parents’ house. She was hiding out from action in the living room below, taking a moment to brace herself from the Christmas morning chaos. She inhaled the sugar of fresh-baked gingerbread and the burnt allure of freshly brewed coffee. Still, she stayed put.
She lingered on the stairs studying the pictures hung on the neighboring wall. They showed Jordan at different ages, along with various brothers and sisters. His entire childhood was immortalized here, from baseball games to fishing trips to prom.
Erin didn’t have a single picture of herself as a child.
A glance below revealed Jordan’s nieces and nephews bouncing around the living room like popcorn, full of sugar from the treats in their Christmas stockings. It was the kind of thing that Erin had only ever seen in movies. When she was a child, Christmas was a day of extra prayers, not presents or stockings or Santa Claus.
She stuck one hand in the pocket of her new fleece robe. Her other arm was in a sling. Her shoulder was almost healed from the lion attack. Jordan had just changed the bandages up in her bedroom and was already back down, dragged below by his nephew Bart. Erin had promised to follow right after, but it was peaceful on the steps.
Finally, Jordan poked his head around the corner, discovered her, and joined her on the steps. He tucked the edges of his new robe between his legs as he sat. Both of their robes had been gifts from Jordan’s mother.
“You can’t hide forever,” he said. “My nieces and nephews will hunt you down. They can smell fear.”
She smiled and bumped him with her elbow. “It looks very merry down there.”
“I know they’re a bit much.”
“No, they’re fun.” She meant it, but his family seemed so normal, so very different from hers. “Just takes some acclimatizing.”
Jordan stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, the simple touch reminding her why she cared so much about him. “Are you telling me that you’ve faced down lions and wolves and bears and all kinds of undead, but you’re afraid to go in there with four little kids, their exhausted parents, and my mother?”
&nb
sp; “That pretty much sums it up.”
He pulled her into his arms, and she rested her cheek against his flannel-covered chest. His heart thumped steadily under her ear. She savored the sound, knowing how close she had come to losing him. She tightened her arms around him.
He rumbled at her. “You know . . . we can always move to a hotel, a place with one bed for the two of us?”
She smiled up at him. His mother had insisted that they sleep in separate bedrooms when they arrived yesterday. “It’s damned tempting. But it’s sort of fun seeing you in your native environment.”
A child’s voice piped up from below, demanding, “Where’s Uncle Jordan?”
“It seems Miss Olivia is growing impatient.” He tugged her to her feet. “C’mon. They don’t bite. Except maybe the little ones.”
Her hand felt warm and safe in his as he led her down the last steps and into the noisy living room. He guided her past the decorated Christmas tree to a couch.
“Best to stay out of the combat zone,” Jordan warned.
His mother, Cheryl, smiled at her. She sat in a brown leather chair with a knitted afghan over her knees. She looked pale and frail. Erin knew that she was battling cancer, and no one was sure if she would see another Christmas.
“My son’s right,” Cheryl said. “Avoid the tree until the madness dies down.”
“Grandma!” Olivia shouted, near the top of her lungs. “Can’t we open presents now?”
A similar chorus rose from the other children.
Cheryl finally lifted a hand. “All right already. Dig in!”
Like lions on a downed gazelle, the kids dove into the presents. Paper tore. Squeals of delights filled the air, and one disappointed voice called out, “Socks?”
Erin tried to imagine what kind of person she would be if she’d grown up here.
Olivia dropped a plastic unicorn into Erin’s lap. “This is Twilight Sparkle.”
“Hello, Twilight.”
“Uncle Jordan says that you have stitches. Can I see? How many are there? Does it hurt?”
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