A sneer rose to her lips.
How could these fools follow a God who demanded such endless suffering?
Bernard confronted her. “You will tell me what I need to know. Here. In this room.”
She kept her tone cold, her words simple. “First pay my price.”
“You know that I cannot do so. It would be a grievous sin.”
“But it’s been done before.” She touched her throat, remembering teeth ripping into that tender flesh. “By your Chosen One, by Rhun Korza.”
Bernard glanced away, his voice dropping. “He was young, new to the fold. He fell in a moment of lust and pride. I am not so foolish. The rules are clear. We must never—”
She stopped him. “Never? Since when has that word ever been a part of your vocabulary, Cardinal? You have broken many of your order’s rules. Going back centuries. Do you think I do not know this?”
“It is not for you to judge,” he said, heat entering his words. “Only God can do that.”
“Then surely He shall judge me as well.” By now, her bare feet ached from the cold, but she stood her ground. “Surely it must be His will that I am here at this time, the only one who holds this knowledge. A truth that you can receive if you only pay this price.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Bernard’s face.
She took advantage of it and pressed him harder. “If your God is all-knowing and all-powerful, why has He placed me in front of you as the sole repository of the knowledge you seek? Perhaps what I ask of you is His will?”
She instantly knew she had taken a step too far—she read it in the hardening of his features.
“You, a fallen woman, dare to interpret His will?” He scowled at her, his words consigning her to the level of a woman who sold her body for money.
How dare you!
She slapped his supercilious face, leaving a smear of her own blood on his skin. “I am not a fallen woman. I am Countess Bathory de Ecsed, of royal blood that dates back centuries. And I will not be insulted by such slander. Especially by you.”
His response was lightning fast. His fist struck her a hard blow in turn. She fell back a step, her face throbbing. She quickly collected herself, drawing her back stiffly. She tasted blood in her mouth.
Excellent.
“I can do anything to you in here,” he said in a dark tone.
She licked her lips, wetting them with her own blood. She knew he must already smell the fresh blood drying on his cheek. She noted how his nose lifted slightly, revealing the animal within him, the monster lurking behind that mask.
She had to break that beast free of its shackles.
“What can you do to me?” she challenged him. “You are too weak to ever persuade me to help you.”
“Do not mistake my composure for weakness,” he warned. “I remember the Inquisition, when pain in service to the church was raised to an art form. I can inflict agony on you such as you have never experienced.”
She smiled at his anger. “You can teach me nothing of pain, priest. For one hundred years it was forbidden to speak my name in my own country because of the acts I committed. I have given and received more pain than you could ever imagine . . . and received more pleasure. These things are entwined in ways that you will never understand.”
She stepped closer, forcing him to withdraw, but the handcuffs kept him from moving too far.
“Pain does not frighten me,” she continued, exhaling the hot scent of her blood toward him.
“It . . . it should frighten you.”
She wanted him to continue talking, knowing to speak required breath. And with each breath, he drew her scent more deeply into him.
“Hurt me,” she warned, “and see which of us enjoys it more.”
He retreated from her until his back was pressed hard against the silver mosaics that covered the walls. But the handcuffs drew her along with him, ever at his side.
She bit deeper into her bruised cheek, while tilting her head low. She parted her mouth, letting fresh blood run past her lips. She then drew her head back, exposing her neck in a languorous stretch, allowing the candlelight to glisten against that red ribbon as it ran down and pooled into the hollow of her throat.
She felt his eyes follow that warm trail, to the promise it held. Its rich warmth called to the beast buried in every drop of his own damned blood.
She knew how the scent bloomed within the room in ways that she could no longer sense. How the smell could fill one’s nostrils, even one’s mouth. Long ago, she had felt what he felt now. She knew its immense power. She had learned to embrace it, and in doing so it made her strong.
He denied it—and that kept him weak.
“How would you torture me now, Bernard?” She slurred the words through a mouthful of blood, using the intimacy of his name.
He fumbled his free hand to his pectoral cross, but she blocked him, covering the silver with her own palm, keeping him from touching it, denying him the comfort of holy pain. His fingers closed on her hand, squeezing, as if he thought that her hand was his cross, his salvation.
“I will tell you what you need to know,” she whispered, speaking aloud his innermost desire. “I will help you save your church.”
His fingers tightened, coming close to breaking the small bones of her hand.
“It will be simple for you,” she urged. “You have committed blood sins before, and I know that your sins are much darker than anyone suspects. You have committed many sins in His name, have you not?”
His face told her that he had.
“Then do this now,” she said. “And your act will give you the power to protect your church, your order. Would you have your world fall, to lose all because you were too frightened to act? Because you placed your own fear of the rules above your holy mission?”
She drew the tip of her tongue along her lips again, freshly coating them, knowing how bright her blood must look against her pale skin, how the sight and smell of it must sing to him.
Without knowing that he did so, he licked his own lips.
“How can saving His world with the tools that He has given you be a sin?” she questioned him. “You are stronger than the rules, Bernard. I know this . . . and down deep, you know this, too.”
She drew in a slow breath, never taking her eyes from his. Her words had sunk in, playing on his doubt, stoking his hubris.
He trembled before her—wanting her answers, wanting her blood, wanting her.
He might be a Sanguinist now, but he had been a strigoi before, and a man before that. He had devoured flesh, tasted pleasure. Those urges were ingrained in every fiber of his being, always.
Her heart raced, and her cheek throbbed with heat from his blow. She had always loved pain, needed it like she would later need blood. She closed her eyes and let the pain beat through her—from her cheek, from her torn wrist.
It was bliss.
When she opened her eyes, he still held her hand pressed against the cross by his heart. His eyes traveled from her blood-bright lips to the pulse in her throat, to the tops of her shoulders, so white against the silken slip. She shifted to the side to let her torn dress fall from her shoulders. Now the candlelight fell on her breasts, so easily visible through her silk underdress.
He stared at her for several long heartbeats.
She leaned forward with infinite slowness—then rose up on her tiptoes and lightly, barely skimming the surface, she brushed her lips against his. For one long breath she stood so, letting him feel her warmth, draw in the scent of her ripe blood.
“If it is not His will, then why am I here?” she whispered. “Only you can be strong enough to get the answer from me. Only you have the power to save your world.”
Then she parted his cold lips with hers and slipped her tongue between, bringing with it the taste of blood.
He moaned, opening his mouth to her.
She felt fangs there now, growing as she deepened their kiss.
With their lips still sealed together, he turned and sla
mmed her against the wall, crushing his body against hers. Old tiles broke loose beneath her, the glass edges cutting through her thin silk slip and slicing into her skin. Blood ran warm down her back and pattered to the stone floor.
She pulled her mouth away from his, offering her neck instead.
Without hesitation, he bit her.
She gasped at the pain.
He immediately drew in a great draught of her blood, taking with it her warmth. She shivered as her limbs grew colder. Icy pain shot through her heart. This was not the rapturous joining that she had experienced with Rhun.
This was animal need.
A painful hunger that left no room for love or tenderness.
He might kill her and leave her with nothing, but she had to take that chance, trusting that knowledge was as important as blood to the man that clutched to her.
He will not let me die with the secrets I hold.
But having freed the beast inside of the man, would that hold true?
Her body slumped toward the floor. As her heart weakened, doubt filled those empty spaces—and fear.
Then an eternal darkness took away the world.
March 17, 9:38 P.M. CET
Venice, Italy
Rhun strode briskly across the polished floor of St. Mark’s Basilica. He had landed in Venice a quarter of an hour ago. From a message left for him, he had learned that Bernard and the others had taken Elisabeta here. Only when he arrived, he found the door to the church unlocked, and no one seemed to be here.
Had they already proceeded to the Sanguinist chapel below?
He stared across the nave toward the north transept of the basilica. As he recalled, a stairwell on that side led down to a subterranean crypt and the secret gateway to the Sanguinists’ spaces. He headed toward it, but then movement drew his attention to the south transept. Out of the darkness, the flow of shadows rushed toward him, moving with preternatural speed.
Rhun tensed, crouching, unsure who this party was, wary after the recent attacks.
Surely no strigoi would dare attack on such holy ground.
A voice called to him as the shadows moved farther into the light, revealing themselves to be a clutch of Sanguinists: two men and a woman.
“Rhun!” He recognized Sophia’s burnished features.
The small woman hurried to his side, drawing the others with her. “You’ve come just in time.”
He read the anxiety in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Come with us,” she said and headed toward the north transept. “There’s trouble at the Sanguinist gate.”
“Tell me,” he said, checking the karambit sheathed at his wrist as he accompanied her, matching her swift speed.
She told him about what had transpired below, how Bernard had taken Elisabeta through the gate and locked it behind him.
“Christian is already down there, but it will take three of us to open the door again.” She motioned to the two priests behind her. “I came up to fetch more help, but it has taken me too long to find them. And Erin fears the worst.”
Upon reaching the stairwell, Rhun took the lead. He trusted Erin’s judgment. If she was worried, there must be good reason. Halfway down the stairs, he heard two heartbeats echoing up from the lower crypt.
Erin and Jordan.
He could easily discern between them, as readily as their voices. Erin’s quick heartbeat told him of her fear. He reached the crypt and saw Christian pounding on the far wall, calling Bernard’s name.
He knew what had so excited the young Sanguinist.
Past the gate, he detected another heartbeat, one muffled by the stone, but still audible to his sharp senses, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the long crypt.
Elisabeta.
Her heart faltered, growing weaker with each beat.
She was dying.
Christian turned, hearing them approach. “Hurry!”
Rhun needed no such urging. He flew across the crypt. Erin stepped forth to meet him, but he slid past her without a word. There was no time.
He pulled his blade from its sleeve and pricked his palm, dripping blood onto the stone chalice held by the statue of Lazarus. Sophia and Christian flanked him, quickly adding their blood to his.
Together they chanted, “For this is the Chalice of our blood. Of the new and everlasting Testament.”
The outline of the door appeared in the stone.
“Mysterium fidei,” they intoned in chorus.
Slowly—too slowly—the door cracked open. The ripe smell of blood billowed out immediately, thick and heady, redolent with danger.
As soon as the way was open enough, Rhun slipped in sideways and ran, following that scent of blood toward its source.
He reached the threshold to the main chapel—in time to hear Elisabeta’s heart stop. He took in the impossible sight. In the sacred room, under the glow of the silver mosaics, Elisabeta lay on her back, her limbs limp and lifeless.
But she was not alone.
Bernard knelt beside her, chained by the wrist to her, his mouth bloody. He turned toward Rhun with anguish etched in his face. Tears ran down the cardinal’s cheeks, parting through the crimson stain of his sin.
Rhun ignored that pain and ran to Elisabeta’s side, skidding to his knees, lifting her in his arms, cradling her. He pulled her body as far from Bernard as he could with the two of them shackled together.
He wanted to rage against this sin, to let fury burn away the grief that overwhelmed him. Someday he would make Bernard pay, but not this day.
This day was only for her.
Christian was the first to reach his side. He touched Rhun on the shoulder in sympathy then dropped to a knee and fiddled with the shackles. The metal bands dropped from her slim wrist and clattered to the floor.
Now that she was freed from her murderer, Rhun gathered up her cold body and stood, needing to put distance between her and Bernard.
Sophia marched her two Sanguinist companions to the cardinal’s distraught form. They drew him roughly to his feet. From their low murmurs, they could not believe that the cardinal could have done such a thing.
But he had—he had killed her.
“Rhun . . .” Erin stood with Jordan, leaning on his arm, holding on to him, to that life inside him that burned so brightly.
He could not face that and turned away, taking Elisabeta toward the altar, wanting her to be surrounded by holiness. He made a promise that she would always remain in such grace from here. He swore to find where her children were buried and rest her near them.
She had earned it.
Long ago, he had stolen her from her rightful place, but now he would do his best to restore what he could. It was all that he could do for her.
Rich silvery light bathed her pale skin, her long lashes, and her black curls. Even in death she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He kept his gaze away from the savage wound on her throat, the blood that ran down her shoulders and soaked into her fine silk nightdress.
Upon reaching the altar, he could not put her down on that cold bed. When he released her, she would truly be gone from him. Instead, he crumpled to the floor next to the altar, pulling down the white altar cloth to wrap her naked limbs.
With the edge of the blessed cloth, he wiped blood from her chin, her full lips, her cheeks. A bruise covered the side of her face. Bernard must have struck her.
You will pay for that, too.
He leaned closer to her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had spoken those words many times to her—too many times.
How often I have wronged you . . .
His tears fell on her cold, white face.
He stroked her cheek, gently over the bruise as if she could still feel it. He touched her soft eyelids, wishing that she could simply step back from death, that she could open them again.
And then she did.
She stirred in his arms, awakening like a flower, petals softly opening to a new day. Initially, she began to pull away, the
n she recognized him and went quiet.
“Rhun . . .” she said faintly.
He stared at her, speechless, hearing no heartbeat from her, knowing the truth.
God, no . . .
He glanced over a shoulder, rage building, replacing his grief. Bernard had not only fed on her—he had forced his own blood into her. He had damned her as readily as Rhun had centuries ago, defiling her. She was a soulless abomination again.
Only months ago, Rhun had sacrificed the return of his own soul to save hers—and Bernard had cast such a gift to ruin and ash.
The cardinal stood, surrounded by Christian and the other three Sanguinists. Bernard had committed the greatest sin, and he would be punished, perhaps even with death.
Rhun felt no pity for him.
Elisabeta dropped her head against his chest, too weak even to lift it. She murmured to him, more breath than words. “I am weary, Rhun . . . weary unto death.”
He held her, matching her soft whisper. “You must feed. We will find someone who will give us blood to restore your strength.”
Sophia spoke behind him, looming over them. “That is impossible. She cannot be allowed to exist. She is a strigoi now and must be destroyed.”
Rhun looked to the others, finding no dissent. They intended to slaughter her like an animal. But he found succor from the most unlikely source.
Bernard spoke as if he still had a voice in such matters. “She must drink the wine, become one of us. I took this sin of her creation upon myself . . . because the countess swore to face this challenge. To drink the holy wine and join our order.”
Or die in the effort.
Rhun looked down at Elisabeta in shock. She would never have agreed to such a thing. But Elisabeta lay in his arms with her eyes closed again, having faded away in her weakened state.
Sophia touched the silver cross that hung round her neck. “Even if she passes such a test, it will not ameliorate your sin, Cardinal.”
“I will accept my punishment,” he said. “But she must take the holy wine—and accept God’s judgment.”
Rhun protested. “This is not her sin.”
Christian crossed to join Sophia. “Rhun, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter how she was changed, only that she’s now a strigoi. Such creatures cannot be allowed to live. They must either face this trial, drink the wine—or be killed.”
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