Blood Infernal

by James Rollins

  . . . giant stones falling from the sky. Bombs. Another war, greater even than the last. Weapons that can annihilate everything that man was given . . .

  . . . a man with eyes the color of thunderclouds and cold skin. He takes her blood and offers his in return . . .

  . . . a battlefield of mud. Brown eyes, slanted at the corners. Bombs falling, destroying good and evil alike. Another war, Korea, and she hunts with the man with the storm-cloud eyes . . .

  . . . a choice given by a woman wearing a cross. Repent or die. Wine burning against her lips . . .

  Legion took in the nun’s life, breathing it all in, but her past held little interest. He pushed aside those memories and searched for fresher ones.

  . . . The face of a woman appears. She has curls of black, eyes of silver gray. She is beautiful, and the cold form of Abigail hates her . . .

  Legion extracted her name.

  Countess Elizabeth Bathory.

  She was of no use to Legion. Losing patience, he concentrated instead on a single purpose, focusing it into the woman he embraced.

  Where are they going?

  Abigail’s lips moved, already close to his ear. “They head to Prague.”

  Legion shivered at that name, a place tied to his own history, where he had been first imprisoned. It seemed as much as he hunted the trio, they were closing in on his past.

  He drew his intention into a single word.

  Why?

  Quiet words reached his ear. “They search for the journals of John Dee.”

  This time, his own memories overwhelmed him.

  . . . The man with a beard as white as milk and clever dark eyes . . .

  . . . those eyes smile at me on the other side of the green flame. He is my jailer . . .

  . . . I burn with pain and hatred . . .

  He shoved Abigail away from him, holding her at arm’s length, his mark emblazoned on her cheek. He now knew where he must go.

  To Prague.

  He already had slaves nearby and would gather them toward that old city, but he intended to go there himself. Abigail could travel in the daylight, and she could help him do the same.

  In that city, he would avenge his past, protect his future . . . and destroy the hopes of all mankind.

  THIRD

  For wickedness burneth as the fire: it shall devour the briers and thorns, and shall kindle in the thickets of the forest, and they shall mount up like the lifting up of smoke.

  —Isaiah 9:18

  March 18, 2:40 P.M. CET

  Airborne over the Czech Republic

  Seated at the back of the helicopter, Elizabeth held on to her safety harness with both hands. Rivers, trees, and towns had passed under their tiny aircraft with dizzying speed. Her window showed a toy world, and she was the child who looked down upon it, ready to play.

  Within her blood, burning wine pushed against the dark strength. Still, she felt whole again, right for the first time in months.

  This is who I am, who I am supposed to be.

  Perhaps she could even forgive Rhun for all that he had cost her, because he had showed her the way here, led her to this moment.

  Throughout the flight from Venice, Rhun cast long looks at her, as if he expected her to disappear. Across the cabin, Erin and Jordan had drifted off to sleep quickly, while Sophia and Christian sat together in the cockpit, piloting their craft along never-ending rivers of air.

  This was an amazing time to be alive.

  And I will drink it all in.

  She searched the lands rolling ahead, knowing they would soon be in Prague. She wondered if she would recognize it or if it would be foreign to her, as so much of Rome had been. In truth, she did not care. She would learn and adapt, flow through the changes to come for all eternity.

  But not alone.

  She pictured Tommy’s small face. In the past, he had taught her much about these modern times. In turn, she would teach him the wonders of the night, of the pleasures of blood, of the march of years that would never touch them again.

  She smiled.

  Who needs the sun with a future so bright?

  The radio crackled in the headphones she wore. Christian’s voice woke the others, stirring Rhun straighter. “We’re coming into Prague.”

  Rhun noted the smile still on her face and matched it with one of his own. “You look well.”

  “I am well . . . so very well.”

  Rhun’s dark eyes were happy and kind. It would pain him when she abandoned the order. She was surprised to discover how much that thought bothered her.

  She turned her eyes back to the window. Their helicopter skated over modern structures of glass and ugly buildings, but farther ahead, she recognized an older section of the city with red tile roofs and twisted narrow streets.

  As the helicopter followed the flow of the wide Vltava River, she recognized the brick bridge that forded it, spanning the water in a row of majestic arches. She was happy to see not all had changed. It seemed Prague still retained many of its towers and landmarks.

  “That’s the Charles Bridge,” Erin said, noting her attention.

  Elizabeth stifled a wry smile. It had once been simply called the Stone Bridge. She watched people strolling along its span. In her days, horses or carriages once thronged the bridge.

  So some things have changed.

  As the helicopter headed toward the heart of the city, she drank in the sights, searching for streets and buildings that she had known in the past. She recognized the twin spires of Týn Church near the town square. The tower of city hall still bore the majesty of the Orloj, the city’s famous astronomical clock.

  Erin had followed her gaze. “It’s a marvel, that medieval clock. It’s said that the clockmaker was blinded by order of the Councilors of Prague, so that he would never build another.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “With a hot iron poker.”

  “Harsh,” Jordan said. “Not much of a bonus for completing the job.”

  “They were harsh times,” Elizabeth said. “But it is also said that the clockmaker took his revenge, that he crawled into the tower and destroyed the delicate mechanism by touch alone—then died in that tower. The clock could not be repaired for another hundred years.”

  Elizabeth stared at the clock’s fanciful face. It was good that some of the past was still preserved and revered. Though the clockmaker had died, his masterwork had survived the march of years.

  As will I.

  Christian radioed back to them. “We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes.”

  Elizabeth’s phone vibrated deep in her pocket. She covered it with her palm, hoping Rhun hadn’t heard it past the roar of the engine and the muffle of the headphones. It had to be Tommy. But why was he calling? Fearing the worst, she shifted impatiently in her seat, wishing she could talk to the boy. But to do so, she needed a moment alone.

  As the phone’s vibrations ended, she clasped her hands together, squeezing hard, wishing this aircraft would land. Thankfully, it didn’t take long. As Christian had promised, they were soon on the ground. After some moments of wrangling, she found herself outside, following the others across hard pavement toward a long, low building.

  The air was colder than in Venice, but she still burned. She held her palm open toward the midafternoon sun. As a strigoi, her skin would be blistering, burning to ash, but it seemed the holy blood protected her. But not completely. There remained enough darkness inside her that the sunlight still stung. She withdrew her hand and tilted her face down, shading her features in the shadows of her wimple.

  Rhun noted her reaction. “You’ll grow accustomed with time.”

  She frowned. Even the daytime was not wholly open to a Sanguinist. Such a life was one of constant accommodation and pain. She longed to shake loose such restraints and limitations . . . to be truly free again.

  But not yet.

  She followed the others into the airport terminal. She scowled at its unsightly utility, impersonal, gray, and white. Men in this
modern age seemed frightened of color.

  “May I have a moment to wash the dust from my hands and face?” Elizabeth asked Rhun, seeking to find a private moment to return Tommy’s call. “I found the journey most disorienting.”

  “I will take her,” Sophia offered. The small woman spoke a touch too quickly, displaying her distrust.

  “Thank you, Sister,” Elizabeth said.

  Sophia led her down a side hall to a many-stalled bathroom and followed her inside. Elizabeth crossed to the sink and washed her hands in the warm water. Sophia joined her, splashing water on her face.

  Elizabeth used the moment to study the dark-skinned woman, wondering what she had been like before becoming a Sanguinist. Did she have a family that she left behind in the passing of years? What atrocities had she committed as a strigoi before taking the holy wine?

  But the woman’s face remained a stoic mask, hiding whatever pain haunted her past. And Elizabeth knew there must be something.

  We are all haunted in our own ways.

  She pictured her son, Paul, remembering his bright laughter.

  It seemed the passage through life was but a gathering of ghosts. The longer you lived, the more shadows haunted you. She stared at herself in the mirror, surprised by the single tear coursing down her cheek.

  Rather than wipe it away, she used it.

  “May I have a moment by myself?” Elizabeth asked, turning to Sophia.

  Sophia looked ready to object, but then her face softened, seeing the tear. Still, she glanced around, plainly looking for windows or another exit. Finding none, she touched Elizabeth on the arm, then retreated. “I will wait outside.”

  As soon as Sophia was gone, Elizabeth retrieved her phone. She left the water running to mask her voice and quickly dialed Tommy’s number.

  It was answered immediately. “Elizabeth, thanks for calling back. You caught me just in time.”

  She was relieved that he sounded calm. “Is everything well?”

  “Well enough, I guess,” he said. “But I’m so excited that I get to see you soon.”

  She frowned, not understanding. The boy could not know that she intended to join him as soon as she could escape these others. “What do you mean?”

  “A priest came by. He’s taking me to Rome.”

  She went stiff, her voice going hard. “What priest?” Her mind was on fire, struggling to comprehend this news. It was unexpected and felt wrong, like a trap. “Tommy, do not—”

  “Hold on,” Tommy said, cutting her off. She heard him talking to someone in the background, then he was back. “My aunt says I have to get off the phone. My ride is here. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He sounded so eager, but dread filled her.

  “Do not go with that priest!” she warned, her voice sharp.

  But the line went dead. She dialed his number again, pacing the bathroom. The phone rang and rang, but he did not answer. She clenched a fist around the telephone, imagining reasons why they might have taken him.

  Maybe they were whisking Tommy to safety because of all of the strigoi attacks.

  She cast this hope aside, knowing the Church had no interest in the boy any longer.

  So then why were they taking him? Why was Tommy suddenly important to them again?

  Then she knew.

  Because of me.

  The Church knew Tommy was important to her. Someone was taking control of the boy, intending to use him like a pawn, a way to attach a leash around her neck. Only one priest would use such an innocent boy as leverage. Even imprisoned, that villain must still be exercising his power.

  Cardinal Bernard.

  She slammed her fist against the mirror. It shattered outward in rings from the point of impact.

  Elizabeth glanced at the door, knowing Sophia waited out there. It was a rash act, one born of rage. But if she was to save Tommy, she must be smarter. Before Sophia came in to investigate, she turned off the water and hurried toward the entrance.

  As she exited, Sophia eyed her suspiciously.

  Elizabeth straightened her wimple and brushed her hand down her rosary. A tingle of pain crossed her fingertips from the silver. She used that sting to steady herself.

  “I . . . I believe I’m ready to continue,” she said.

  They returned to the others.

  Erin had a map opened on her phone, another wonder of this modern age. “We’re not too far from the old palace. Most of the alchemy labs are in its shadow.”

  “The laboratory that we seek is not there. We must go to the town center, by the Orloj,” Elizabeth said, intending to bide her time.

  I will wait and watch.

  Her time would come.

  As would Bernard’s.

  3:10 P.M.

  Erin hiked her backpack higher as they headed toward the terminal exit, very conscious that she carried the Blood Gospel over her shoulder. She worried that she should have left the book in Rome, where it could be locked up safely, but with the book bound to her, she refused to let it out of her sight.

  It felt like a part of her now.

  Ahead, Rhun walked alongside the countess, as graceful as a panther in his dark jeans and long black coat. Elizabeth, in turn, glided with a measure of command in her step. The two made a handsome couple, and a pang of jealousy struck Erin with unexpected force. It surprised her. Did she want to be the woman at Rhun’s side, even if such a thing were possible?

  She looked up at Jordan. His blue eyes scanned the room, always looking for danger, but his shoulders were down and relaxed. Golden stubble covered his square jaw. She remembered the scratchy feel of those whiskers against her stomach, her breasts.

  Jordan caught her looking, and she blushed and looked down at the floor.

  As they stepped out into the cool afternoon, Elizabeth shifted her wimple to better cover her face. Rhun’s jacket was hooded, but he didn’t bother to pull it up.

  Erin leaned toward Christian. “Why does the sunlight seem to bother Elizabeth more?”

  “She is new to the cloth,” Christian explained. “I don’t know if it’s simply the passing of time or the many years of penance, but I do know that Sanguinists become more inured to the light as they get older.”

  “How could you not know exactly how it works?” Erin asked, surprised by the Sanguinists’ lack of curiosity about their own nature. “You can’t check your brain at the door. What’s wrong with finding out what’s been done to you?”

  Sophia answered from Christian’s other side. “ ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding,’ ” she quoted, a touch sharply. “That is not to be questioned.”

  “Being a Sanguinist is not a scientific process of discovery,” Christian added. “Our journey is about faith. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Not the proving of such things.”

  Jordan rolled his eyes. “Maybe if you had all asked more questions earlier, we wouldn’t be in such a mess now.”

  No one disagreed, and Christian pointed ahead to a small coffeehouse with an outdoor patio. “How about a little refueling? We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

  Only Erin and Jordan needed that refueling, but Christian was right. A little caffeine would be good . . . and a lot would be even better.

  Christian went inside to place an order, while Jordan pushed two small round tables together under a patio umbrella. Christian returned shortly with a tray holding two coffees in wide-lipped ceramic mugs and a pile of pastries. Before placing the tray down, he leaned forward and inhaled the steamy aroma from the cups.

  He sighed with appreciation.

  Erin smiled, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sophia’s lips pinch with disdain. The Sanguinists considered any trace of humanity a weakness. But Erin found the lingering traces of Christian’s humanity endearing, making her trust him more, not less.

  Erin held the mug in her palms, letting it warm her, to steady her. She stared around at the others. “Wha
t’s the plan from here? It feels like we’re tapping through the dark, like a blind man. It’s time to change that. It’s time we started asking the hard questions. Like understanding the nature of Sanguinists and strigoi. That seems to be critical to our quest.”

  Jordan nodded, looking pointedly at Christian and Sophia. “The less we understand, the more likely we are to fail.”

  “I agree,” Elizabeth said. “Ignorance has not served us in the past, and it will not serve us now. There are things that the Church should know. They have had two thousand years to study such matters, yet they cannot answer the simplest questions. Like what animates a strigoi?”

  “Or another question: How do you change when you take the vow of a Sanguinist?” Erin added. “How does the wine sustain you?”

  Her questions erupted into a brief, but heated discussion. Rhun and Sophia took the side of faith and God. Erin, Jordan, and Elizabeth argued for the scientific method and reason. Christian played reluctant referee, trying to find common ground.

  In the end, they all ended up even farther apart.

  Erin shoved her empty mug away. All that was left on her plate were pastry crumbs. Jordan had taken only a single bite of his apple Danish, but it looked like he’d had enough—if not of the pastry and coffee, then at least of the conversation.

  “We should be going,” he said, standing up.

  Sophia checked her watch. “Jordan is right. We’ve wasted enough time.”

  Erin bit back a sharp retort, knowing it would get them nowhere.

  Surprisingly, Elizabeth offered a more conciliatory response. “Perhaps we’ll discover the answers to these questions in John Dee’s laboratory.”

  Erin stood up.

  We’d better find them . . . or the world is doomed.

  March 18, 3:40 P.M. CET

  Prague, Czech Republic

  Rhun stood beside Elizabeth in the center of Prague’s old town square. Clouds had rolled in, and a light rain had begun to fall, pebbling against the cobblestones. She had stopped, staring up at the golden face of the astronomical clock, the famous Orloj. Then she turned her attention to the surrounding buildings.