Patrick ignored his cluttered desk and stepped to a small refrigerator. From inside, he pulled out a metal milk jug and took a large ceramic bowl down from a shelf, then filled the basin to the brim.
As soon as he placed it on the floor, the cub dove straight for the bowl, half-burying his muzzle as he lapped. A loud purr filled the room.
For an odd moment, Rhun felt himself pulled out of his body. He found himself staring down into a white pool in front of his nose, felt icy milk sliding down his throat. Then he snapped back into his own body, stumbling back a step in surprise.
Patrick gave him a pinched look of concern. “Rhun?”
Rhun shook his head, collecting himself, not sure what had happened. He stared at the cub, then back to Patrick, ready to dismiss the event as nothing more than exhaustion. For now, he had more practical concerns to address.
“Thank you for agreeing to watch him. I know the cub will be a burden, but I appreciate you keeping him for as long as you can.”
“I’m happy to do so, but I can’t keep a lion forever, not around horses. Eventually, he’ll need to be given to a zoo, some place with the space to care for him properly.” He stared up at Rhun and patted the cub’s side. “While he’s a charmer, I’ll give you that, it’s not like you to bring home strays. What’s so unique about this little fellow?”
Rhun was not ready to explain about the cub’s blasphemare origins, so he danced around the subject. “He was abandoned. I found him next to the body of his dead mother.”
“Many creatures are alone, yet you don’t drag them to my stable.”
“He’s . . . different, maybe special.”
Patrick waited for more of an explanation, but when it didn’t come, he clapped his hands to his thighs and stood up. “I can give him a few weeks. But just in case, I’ll start making inquiries about a permanent home for him.”
“Thank you, Patrick.”
The phone rang on his desk. The friar frowned at it. “Sounds like someone else needs my attention.”
As Patrick answered the call, Rhun bent down to give the cub’s nape a quick ruffle, then headed toward the door, but as he exited the office, Patrick called back to him.
“It seems I’m mistaken, Rhun. It seems someone needs your attention.”
Rhun stepped back into the office.
Patrick lowered the phone’s receiver. “That was the cardinal’s office. It seems His Eminence wants you to head immediately to Venice.”
“Venice?”
“Cardinal Bernard will meet you there himself.”
Rhun felt a shiver of unease, guessing the source behind this summons. Elisabeta had been sent to Venice after events in Egypt. There she was watched over and guarded at a convent, a prisoner of its walls.
What has Elisabeta done now?
Rhun recalibrated his plans. With the lion dropped off, he had intended on heading straight to Rome, to deliver the satchel of black stones, those drops of Lucifer’s blood mined from the Egyptian sands. But this sudden change required securing the stones first. He didn’t want such malevolence anywhere near Elisabeta.
He stepped to the friar’s desk. Patrick must have read his expression. “What else do you need me to do, my son?”
Rhun removed the leather bag from his pocket and placed it on the desktop. The friar recoiled, sensing the evil. “Can you secure this in the cardinal’s safe here at the castle? No one must touch what’s inside.”
Patrick eyed the satchel with distaste, but he nodded. “You come with many curious possessions, Rhun.”
Rhun clasped the friar’s hand. “You’ve relieved me of two burdens today, my old friend. I appreciate it.”
With the matter settled, he headed out, but he felt little relief. He did not know what to expect in Venice. He knew only one thing for certain.
Elisabeta would not welcome his visit.
SECOND
The Jews therefore strove among themselves, saying, How can this man give us his flesh to eat?
Then Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you.
Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day.
—John 6:52–54
March 17, 8:40 P.M. CET
Airborne above Venice, Italy
As the helicopter swept over the Adriatic Sea, Jordan checked his watch. They’d made good time getting here from Rome. Ahead, the city of Venice glowed against the black backdrop of its lagoon, like some jeweled crown abandoned in the Italian waters.
Aboard the aircraft, he and Erin were accompanied by a trio of Sanguinists. Up front, Christian crouched over the controls, while Sophia and Bernard shared the back cabin with them. The addition of the cardinal on the trip had surprised Jordan.
Guess Bernard got tired of sitting around Rome.
Still, the cardinal and the others were skilled warriors. Jordan certainly didn’t mind the extra muscle, especially after the attack in that underground temple. Even now his belly burned, a fire stoked by some miraculous healing ability. The same heat coursed through the old scar tissue that twined across his shoulder and upper torso from the lightning bolt that had struck him as a teenager.
Erin leaned against that shoulder now. He held her fingers. Every so often during the flight, she had cast him a worried glance. He couldn’t blame her, even Sophia and Baako were spooked by his near death.
The helicopter gave a strong jolt, drawing Jordan’s attention out the window as the city of Venice came into view. Christian swung the aircraft into a turn, tilting for a better view.
“Right below us,” Christian radioed back through the set of headphones they all shared, “is St. Mark’s Square. That red-and-white tower is the Campanile and that building that looks like a gothic wedding cake is the Doge’s Palace. Next to it is St. Mark’s Basilica. The order has its own domain below those sacred grounds, much like at St. Peters. That’s where we’ll spend the night after we question Elizabeth Bathory about that symbol.”
Erin squeezed Jordan’s hand, leaning over him, taking it all in. “Venice has stood like this for close to a thousand years,” she said. “Imagine that . . .”
He smiled at her enthusiasm, but he had to force it a bit. He still felt strangely disconnected. And it wasn’t just his dampened reaction to the woman he loved. Today he had missed both lunch and dinner, and he still wasn’t hungry. And even when he did force himself to eat, the food tasted bland. He ate more out of duty than any true desire.
He rubbed his thumb along the new scar on his belly.
Something has definitely changed.
And while he should be bothered by it, even scared, instead he felt a deep calm, as if whatever was happening was meant to be. He couldn’t put it into words, so mostly avoided talking about it, even with Erin, but it somehow felt right.
Like he was becoming better and stronger.
As Jordan pondered this mystery, Christian flew them away from St. Mark’s Square and landed the aircraft on top of a nearby luxury hotel. As the chopper powered down, Jordan did a quick weapons check: sidearm, machine pistol, and dagger. He glanced around at the others, waiting for Christian to give them the all clear so they could climb out.
Erin looked excited, but he also noted the shadows under her eyes. For an ordinary civilian, she had been through too much in too short a time. She had never really had time to recover, to internalize all that had transpired over the past year.
From the pilot’s seat, Christian waved them permission to exit, but Sophia held them back, plainly wanting to leave first. During the flight here, the small-framed Indian woman had sat with her eyes half-closed, radiating a sense of peace. Whether that stillness came from her faith or an unnatural ability to remain unmoving, Jordan wasn’t sure. Now she opened the door and flowed out to the helipad with a surprising grace.
Bernard followed her, showing no less poise. As the cardinal stepped
free, a gust of wind billowed open his dark coat, revealing the crimson garb of his station beneath. His gaze swept the rooftop for any threats. Though Bernard had spent the trip here in prayer, with his gloved fingers folded piously on his lap, he didn’t look any more settled now.
Then again, the target of this cross-country trip, Elizabeth Bathory, would likely prove a challenge to them all. Especially for the cardinal, who had a long and bloody history with the woman. The two of them had an enmity that spanned centuries.
Christian came around, ducking under the chopper’s slowing blades, to offer a hand to Erin as she exited. The fading rotor wash blew Erin’s blond hair into a gauzy halo as she glanced back to Jordan. Her amber eyes glowed under the stars, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were slightly parted as if waiting to be kissed.
For a moment, her beauty cut through that burning fog that filled him.
I do love you, Erin.
That will never change, he silently swore—but deep inside, he wondered if he could keep that promise.
8:54 P.M.
In her room at the convent, Elizabeth lay fully clothed atop her hard bed and watched the play of city lights that reflected off the canal and dappled her ceiling. Her thoughts were half a world away, with Tommy.
She touched the phone hidden in the pocket of her skirt. As soon as she was free, she would figure out how to help him. Her own children had been stolen from her. She would not let that happen to Tommy. No one took what was hers.
She turned her head toward the window, to where she had hidden the stolen key to Berndt’s boat in a small hole in the stucco. For the moment, she must simply wait, try to keep her breathing even, her heartbeat slow. She could not let the handful of Sanguinist nuns who mingled with their mortal sisters here at the convent sense her anxiety, to suspect her plot to escape these walls this very night.
The convent imposed a midnight curfew on its guests, and as usual, Abigail would keep a post at the front desk until the convent’s gates were barred shut. After that, the old nun would retire to her room at the back of the house. But Elizabeth could not count on her sleeping. Elizabeth remembered how the night always poured energy into her strigoi body, demanded that she go outside and feel moonlight and starlight on her skin. The Sanguinists must have a similar experience, no matter how much they tried to control their pleasures with prayer.
A door slammed closed down the corridor.
Another tourist returning to bed.
As it was spring, the convent’s guest quarters were full, which was a good thing. With so many beating hearts in this wing, Abigail would find it difficult to pick out the rhythm of Elizabeth’s among so many. Those extra heartbeats might be enough to allow her to escape.
And I must escape.
She reviewed her plan in her head: remove the boat key from the window, creep down the carpeted corridor carrying her shoes, unbar the iron gate at the side of the convent, and circle the house to Berndt’s boat. From there, she would cast off the lines, let the current drift her some distance before starting the craft’s engine, and be on her way to freedom.
Her plans after that were troublesomely vague.
Before she fell among the Sanguinists last winter, she had buried a great stash of money and gold outside of Rome, a treasure she had gathered from the bodies and homes of those she had preyed upon after waking up in this era after centuries of sleep in a sarcophagus full of holy wine.
Rhun had trapped her in that stone coffin as surely as he had her imprisoned here.
One hand rose to touch her room’s wall, determined to let nothing stop her from reaching Tommy before it was too late for the boy. Once free, she would find a strigoi and persuade it to turn her—then she would bring that same gift to Tommy’s bedside.
Then you will live . . . and be forever at my side.
Her ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. A large party approached, too many to be a family of tourists.
Had the nuns somehow grown wise to her plans?
She sat up in bed as hard knuckles rapped firmly on her door.
“Countess,” a male voice called out with an Italian accent.
She immediately recognized the barely veiled authority in that voice. It set her jaw to aching. Cardinal Bernard.
“Are you awake?” he asked through the stout door.
She toyed with the idea of pretending to be asleep, but she didn’t see the point—and she was curious about this unexpected visit.
“I am,” she whispered, knowing he would hear it with his acute senses.
She rose to receive them. Her skirts rustled against the cold tile floor as she unlatched the door. As usual, the cardinal was bedecked in scarlet, a vanity that amused her. Bernard must always let everyone know of his elevated status.
Behind his shoulder, Abigail scowled at her. She ignored the nun and nodded to Bernard’s other companions, most she knew well: Erin Granger, Jordan Stone, and a young Sanguinist named Christian. She noted someone conspicuously absent from this entourage.
Rhun was not part of their ranks.
Was he too ashamed to show himself?
Anger flared through her, but she merely pressed her lips more tightly together. She dared not show agitation. “It is late for a visit.”
“My apologies for disturbing you at such an unseemly hour, Countess.” The cardinal spoke with an oily diplomatic smoothness. “We have a matter that we wish to discuss with you.”
She kept her face passive, knowing that whatever had brought this group to her door must be something urgent. She also sensed her chances of escaping this night were vanishing.
“I would be happy to talk to you in the morning,” she said. “I was preparing myself to retire.”
Sister Abigail reached across and hauled Elizabeth bodily into the corridor, not bothering to hide her unnatural strength. “They mean now.”
Jordan placed a restraining hand on the nun’s arm. “I think we can do this without any roughness.”
“And this is a matter of some discretion,” Bernard said, waving Abigail off.
A muscle twitched under the nun’s eye. “As you wish. I have other matters to attend to, so I will leave Lady Elizabeth in your charge.”
Abigail released Elizabeth, turned on her heel, and stalked off.
Elizabeth enjoyed watching her leave.
“Would you like to talk in my bedchamber?” She gestured back at her cell, allowing a vein of irritation to show. “Though it is quite cramped.”
Bernard stepped closer, while glancing down the corridor. “We’ll be taking you to our chapels below St. Mark’s Basilica, where we might speak in private.”
“I see,” she said.
The cardinal reached to her arm, as if to escort her by the hand, but instead, he dropped a cold metal shackle around her wrist and fastened the other end to his own.
“Shackles?” she asked. “One of your strength cannot control a small, helpless mortal woman such as me?”
Jordan grinned. “Mortal or not, I’m guessing there’s nothing helpless about you.”
“Perhaps you are right.” She tilted her head and smiled at him.
He was a handsome man—a strong jaw, a square face, and a hint of wheat-colored stubble across his chin and cheeks. A heat emanated from him, an internal fire that she might enjoy warming herself beside.
Erin took his hand, asserting ownership of her man. Some things did not change with the passage of centuries.
“Lead me to my fate, Sergeant Stone,” Elizabeth said.
As a group, they paraded through the convent and out the main gates. She caught sight of Berndt’s boat and felt a twinge of irritation, but she allowed it to fade away.
While she wouldn’t be taking her boat ride to freedom this night, perhaps a more interesting opportunity had arisen.
9:02 P.M.
Erin trailed behind the Sanguinists as they wended through the alleys and over the small arched bridges of Venice. She held Jordan’s hand, hi
s palm hot in her own. She tried to push back her fears about him. No matter how feverish he felt, he looked healthy, ready to take on an army.
Once they were alone, she would pry out more details about what had happened in that cavern, and why he seemed to be pulling away from her lately. She suspected the source of these changes came from the angelic essence that Tommy had imbued into him when he had saved Jordan’s life. Still, while her mind pondered this possibility, her heart went immediately to more mundane places.
What if he simply doesn’t love me anymore?
As if he guessed her thoughts, Jordan squeezed her hand. “Ever been to Venice?” he asked softly.
“I’ve only read about it. But it’s like I always pictured it.”
Glad for the distraction, she glanced around. The alleys of this island city were so narrow that only two could walk abreast in some places. Small storefronts displayed antique books, pens fashioned from glass, leather masks, silk and velvet scarves. Venice had always been a trading center. Hundreds of years ago, these same shop windows had dazzled other pedestrians with their wares. Hopefully, they would do the same a hundred years from now.
She inhaled deeply, smelling the sea off the canals, the scent of garlic and tomatoes from some nearby restaurant. Closer at hand, the houses were façades painted in shades of ocher and yellow and faded blues, their window glass rippled by the passing centuries.
It was easy to imagine that she’d stepped into a time machine and arrived a hundred years earlier or even a thousand. She’d been raised on a rural compound by parents whose everyday life was more primitive than the people who lived in this city centuries ago. Her father’s faith had caused him to repudiate the modern world, and she sometimes worried that her profession, her curiosity about history, kept her out of sync with time as well.
Am I my father’s child after all?
The group finally crossed along a dark tunnel that passed through an ancient wall. At its end, St. Mark’s Square opened before them, and she faced the city’s famous basilica.
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