Even Elizabeth looked surprised by this bit of trivia.
Erin studied this five-hundred-year-old time capsule of the alchemists’ world. She moved through the room, examining the furnace and glassware. She spied a small door behind the furnace.
Must be that tunnel to the castle.
Rhun suddenly appeared at her side, clutching her arm. She turned, only now noting how the Sanguinists had gone stone-still, looking up. Even Elizabeth cocked her head, her nose high.
“What is it?” Jordan asked. His hand instinctively went to his waist, where he normally holstered his machine pistol, but due to the Czech gun laws, he hadn’t been allowed to pass through customs with any firearms.
“Blood.” Rhun whispered, gazing toward the tunnel that led up to the rooms above. “Much blood.”
March 18, 4:39 P.M. CET
Prague, Czech Republic
The blood is hot upon my tongue . . .
Legion knew it was not actually his own tongue. His body—rooted deep inside the black vessel of Leopold—lay sprawled in the back of a rumbling vehicle. The windows were darkened, shadowing the burn of the late-afternoon sun. He sensed sunset was near, but until then, he must hunt from afar, peering out other eyes, directing his will into those who bore his mark.
Closer at hand, the Sanguinist woman—Abigail—controlled the vehicle, this great rumbling black horse that spewed clouds of poison in its wake. She seemed oblivious of the sun. The wine of the Sanguinist protected her from the light, its holiness acting like a shield.
Legion was determined to brand more like her, to create forces that could move in light and darkness, swelling his ranks for the war to come.
Blood called to him again, drawing his awareness back to the slave who feasted on the old woman in the small room, a space full of dried herbs, dust, and books. He extended his senses farther, seeing out of three more pairs of eyes. Three more slaves, who were bound to his will, skulked through dark tunnels, closing in on the prey hidden below.
Legion had gathered these and others to this city, to destroy that ancient prophecy imbued into the body of the trio: the Warrior, the Woman, and the Knight.
He would allow them no rest, no safe refuge.
The mortals he intended to kill, but the one called Korza . . .
You will be my finest slave, a weapon to wield against Heaven.
But first, Legion needed to flush that Knight out into the open.
He lifted his hand, watching the whorls of blackness swim across his palm. He sent out a command to those who bore his mark.
Kill them . . . but save the Knight for me.
4:50 P.M.
Standing in the furnace room, Jordan pulled Erin behind him. Rhun, Sophia, and Christian drew blades and kept watch on the far stairwell that led up to the museum.
“What are you doing?” Tereza asked, noting the weapons, covering her throat with her hand.
Erin took the woman’s other hand. “Stay close.”
Jordan stepped over and grabbed the only weapon in view: an old iron fireplace poker that lay propped up against the furnace stove.
Not the machine pistol he missed, but it would have to do.
Elizabeth noted him arming himself and did the same. She picked up a flask by its spout and shattered the bulbous base, creating a glass dagger.
Tereza gasped at the damage, but she kept to Erin’s side.
“Smoke,” Rhun said by the door.
Jordan shifted enough to peer over his shoulder. From the stairwell on the far side of the tunnel, a roll of sooty blackness flowed from the steps into the tunnel. The upstairs must be on fire.
“My . . . my mother,” Tereza said. She began to step forward, but Erin restrained her.
And with good reason.
From out of that pall of smoke, a dark figure appeared. It dropped into a crouch, revealing a large shaven-haired man with a muscular physique. He clutched a long knife in one fist. His white T-shirt was stained with the crimson of fresh blood. He bared fangs, sniffing at the air, hunting for them.
As he did so, Jordan spotted a five-fingered black brand on his throat, marking him as an enslaved strigoi, like the one who had attacked them in the cavern in Cumae.
Sophia hissed with recognition.
The strigoi lowered his gaze at the noise—then lunged forward, moving with incredible speed.
Rhun leaped forward into the tunnel, meeting the charge of the creature. The priest held a silver karambit in each hand, the curved metal blades looking like long claws. He slashed out as the beast reached him—but found only empty air.
The strigoi feinted low, then spun, striking out with his knife. But at the last moment, he turned its blade and smashed the steel hilt into the side of Rhun’s head. The blow knocked Rhun against the tunnel wall, clearly dazing him.
The strigoi barreled past him, going straight for Sophia and Christian.
Elizabeth shifted forward, concern ringing in her voice. “Rhun . . .”
Jordan pushed Erin and Tereza farther back. A moment too late, he realized the error of his defense. The creak of old hinges sounded behind him. He swung around in time to see a dark shape burst forth from the small door that led to Rudolf’s secret tunnel.
The strigoi ripped Tereza from Erin’s grip and tore into the young woman’s throat, drowning her surprised scream with blood. Another strigoi followed on that one’s heels, going straight for Erin with a long blade in hand.
Jordan was already moving by then. He reached Erin, spun her by the arm behind him, and blocked the strigoi’s blade with the length of his poker. As steel rang off iron, one thought rose in Jordan’s mind.
I shouldn’t have been able to move that fast.
He had no time to comprehend this mystery, only be thankful for it.
The strigoi snarled, drawing back his blade and crouching in surprise. Behind him, the other beast finished with Tereza and joined his partner, hissing blood at Jordan. For the moment, they seemed cautious of Jordan, wary of his speed and strength.
Then Christian and Sophia joined him, flanking him to either side. Christian lifted a long sword, while Sophia carried two daggers, one in each hand.
Three against two . . . I like these odds better.
Then a third strigoi appeared from the furnace-room tunnel, a massive giant, an ogre of a beast.
So much for those odds.
To the side, Erin grabbed a pair of metal tongs, readying herself to help. “We must get out into the sunlight!”
Easier said than done.
And the sun was close to setting.
Crashes behind him told him that Rhun and Elizabeth were still struggling with their first adversary in the tunnel. So that way was blocked. Plus the stairs leading up were on fire anyway.
Jordan concentrated on the three enemies before him. Beyond them, smoke billowed into the room through the small door, bringing with it the scent of burning wood and gasoline. It seemed their ambushers had set fire to that tunnel, too, ensuring no one escaped that way.
The huge strigoi, clearly the leader of this bunch, pushed past the other two. His face was a map of scar tissue, his fangs yellow. He lifted a broadsword and whirled it in a circle, so fast it became a silver blur.
Christian stepped forward to face the attacker—then one of the smaller strigoi leaped low, moving with that preternatural speed, and tackled Christian to the ground. The other hurtled into Sophia, knocking her against the furnace.
Jordan lifted his poker, realizing the giant had used his dramatic swordplay as a distraction, allowing the smaller two to ambush the Sanguinists, eliminating the larger threats.
Leaving only Jordan and Erin.
So then let’s see what you’ve got, big fella.
Jordan lunged at the armed strigoi. He struck the whirling blade a resounding blow. He felt the impact from his shoulders to his heels.
Then again, so did the strigoi.
The giant dropped the ringing blade and fell back a step. A sneer curl
ed its lip—then it hurled itself at Jordan. It felt like being hit by a truck. Jordan crashed backward into a table, shattering glassware.
Teeth sank into Jordan’s forearm, fangs grinding down to bone.
But rather than crippling pain, Jordan felt a blaze of fire erupt along his arm.
The strigoi screamed, releasing Jordan’s arm. It stumbled back, clawing at its face. Jordan watched as flesh blistered and burned, black blood boiling out. It fell, convulsing to the floor as that conflagration spread, swiftly burning through its body.
Jordan stared down at his wounded arm, then over to the giant.
My blood is poison.
Rather than fear, calm suffused him, growing even stronger, reducing the movement in the room to slow-motion. Sounds became muffled. The light took on a golden hue, turning everything hazy.
The strigoi battling Sophia panicked at what had happened to the giant and fled toward the burning tunnel. Christian took advantage of the surprise to cleave the other’s head clean from its shoulder.
Jordan picked up a piece of broken glass from the table, and without a thought, he was upon the fleeing strigoi. He grabbed it by the back of the neck and sliced its throat open from ear to ear, then let the body drop.
Jordan turned to find Erin yanking on his arm, coughing from the smoke, trying to get him to move.
“It’s all coming down!” she yelled at him, her voice sounding like they were both submerged under water. “The rooms above are starting to collapse into the basement level.”
He followed her, collecting Christian and Sophia along the way.
Out in the tunnel, Elizabeth held the first strigoi in a bear hug from behind, while Rhun lashed out with his knife. To Jordan’s eyes, the priest’s arm moved slowly, the blade in his hand catching each mote of light. The splash of black blood seemed to hang in the air.
As that last body fell, Erin drew Jordan along. She pointed past Rhun, toward the door near the base of the stairs. “We have to make for the tunnel to the old town square!”
As he watched, an oak rafter broke away from the roof and crashed to the stone floor, scattering fiery embers. More smoke washed into the tunnel.
“We’re too late!” Erin yelled.
5:02 P.M.
Erin choked on the smoke, her lungs burning, her eyes weeping. Then Rhun was there, sweeping his jacket over her. Luckily, the Sanguinists did not need to breathe.
“Stay low,” Rhun warned her.
She obeyed and lifted the edge of her rain-soaked collar, breathing through the damp fabric. Ahead, Christian and Sophia led the way, using their strength to forge a path through fiery timbers and tumbles of stone. More debris rained down as the rooms above collapsed into the tunnel.
Farther down the passageway, Elizabeth crouched by the door to their only exit, clearly struggling to get the way open. Beyond the woman’s shoulders, flames filled the stairwell, turning it into the mouth of a massive fireplace.
Erin glanced behind her, coughing hoarsely. Jordan walked leadenly in her wake, seemingly oblivious to the smoke and heat. She remembered what had happened to the huge strigoi, picturing that flesh boiling forth with blood. She had observed such damage before, when angelic blood touched a strigoi.
Was that further proof of Jordan’s angelic nature? And what did it mean for the man she loved?
A loud tearing of metal drew her gaze forward.
Elizabeth had ripped the door off its hinges. “Hurry!” she called out, brushing fiery embers from the shoulders of her habit. The countess immediately set off into the waiting darkness, vanishing away.
Erin feared the woman might very well use this opportunity to escape.
And I wouldn’t blame her.
They all rushed into the tunnel and fled along it, chased by the smoke.
Shoulder to shoulder, Christian and Sophia kept the lead, following Elizabeth’s path, clearly watching for any new dangers, any new attack.
Rhun continued to shadow her, followed by Jordan.
As the light faded behind them, Erin dug into her pocket and removed a metal flashlight. She clicked it on, and a small beam of light pierced the darkness.
She coughed hard, her lungs still aflame, bobbling the light. A crashing rumble echoed from behind. She pictured that alchemists’ tunnel collapsing completely.
Finally, a door banged up ahead, and light flowed into the tunnel.
Sunlight . . . glorious sunlight.
She sped toward it. With each step, the air was fresher, cleaner, colder.
Once close enough, Erin spotted Elizabeth holding the door open for them.
So she hadn’t fled.
They tumbled gratefully out into a sunlit alley—bloody, half-burnt, but alive.
She immediately swung around to face Jordan, concerned that he had not spoken a single word during their entire escape from the tunnels.
She touched his cheek, but his blue eyes were unfocused, staring off into some middle distance. Panic rose up inside her, but she fought it back down.
She kept her palm on his burning cheek. “Jordan, can you hear me?”
He blinked once.
“Jordan . . . come back.”
Jordan blinked again, a shudder passing through him. Slowly focus returned to his eyes. He stared down at her. “Erin . . . ?”
He sounded unsure, as if he didn’t truly know her.
“That’s right,” she said softly, wounded and scared. “Are you okay?”
He finally shook himself once like a dog, then swept his gaze across the others. “I’m fine . . . I think.”
“Perhaps he was disoriented from the smoke,” Elizabeth offered.
Erin wasn’t buying it. Whatever was wrong with him, it had nothing to do with the smoke. She took his arm, parting his torn sleeve to examine the ragged bite mark. Already the wound had begun to heal, the flesh knitting together as if he had been attacked days before, not mere minutes.
More disconcerting, she discovered a red line that curled from his biceps down to the wound, forming curlicues around the edges of the healing flesh. She tugged the remains of his sleeve higher, revealing the source.
It extended from the old scarring from when Jordan was struck by lightning. When he was a teenager, he had that fractal pattern tattooed over as a reminder of his close call, creating an almost flowery decoration.
But this crimson tendril was new.
She ran her finger along it, feeling the heat along that trail. “Your tattoo is growing . . .”
Jordan pulled his arm back and shook his sleeve down.
“Tell me what’s happening,” she demanded.
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, turning slightly away. “It started back when Tommy touched me, healed me. At first, it was just a burning sensation.”
“But since then?”
“It’s been stronger since that strigoi stabbed me in Cumae. And stronger again when I was bitten just now.” Jordan wouldn’t meet her eyes.
She took his hand. At least, he let her hold it.
As if he sensed her distress, Rhun touched her gently on the back.
“We must leave,” Elizabeth warned as sirens wailed in the distance. “The sun will soon be down.”
But where could they go?
5:37 P.M.
Legion studied the burning building as the fires set by his forces spread. He watched red flames dance against a gray sky, remembering this place. It was in a room in this structure that he had been trapped inside that green diamond. Through the tracery of smoke from the six hundred and sixty-six inside him, he drew out snatches of memory of that time.
. . . an old man with a white beard walks on the other side of green glass . . .
. . . sunlight burning skin and bone, leaving nothing but smoke . . .
. . . that smoke being chased by brightness into the dark heart of a cold stone . . .
Beyond the confines of the vehicle where Legion hid, the fire continued to roar, consuming all, turning the painful history into s
o much ash and smoke.
How fitting.
He sent a command to Abigail. The vehicle growled and glided away from the curb, turning from that fire. Through the eyes of his slaves, he had watched his enemy vanquish his forces below. He did not know the fate of the trio of prophecy, but he had left them with only one path to follow. A single open tunnel. If they survived, the enemy would be flushed into his trap.
Already he had summoned additional forces to Prague, a gathering storm waiting to be unleashed. Legion awaited only one last element. He stared through the darkened window, toward the glaring orb of the sun, sitting low on the horizon.
The day may be theirs, but the night will be mine.
March 18, 6:08 P.M. CET
Prague, Czech Republic
Rhun hurried across yet another street, following Erin, who had pulled up a map of Prague on her phone. A chill wind swept down the narrow thoroughfare, as a storm closed in over the city. He smelled distant rain, the crackle of electricity.
Ahead the street ended at a large grassy square dotted with fountains. A verdigris-stained copper sign announced their destination in broad Gothic letters.
“Charles Square,” Erin translated as they stepped into the open.
A sprawling town hall with a tall tower rose to one side, but it was the large Jesuit church, rising in baroque spires, that drew Rhun’s attention. It was the Church of St. Ignatius. Rhun would not have minded spending time there, giving them all a chance to recuperate. Christian had a bandaged arm; Sophia nursed several prominent scrapes and bruises. Even Elizabeth had lost her wimple and bore a ragged scratch across her cheek, which she hid with a fall of dark curls.
But they didn’t have the time to tarry.
As the group crossed the square, the orange sky faded toward red, then indigo, as the sun was near to setting. If more strigoi ranged this city, they would come out before long. Someone had surely sent those strigoi into the tunnels to ambush them, and that threat remained.
En route here, he had watched for anyone hunting their trail, but the city was bustling with springtime tourists. Even now, he heard the heartbeat of people wandering the city, eating at its restaurants, shopping in its stores. He attempted to listen for more furtive sounds, rising from those without heartbeats: quiet footsteps, cold breath. Though he did not hear evidence of such creatures, that did not mean they were not there, skulking in the shadows, biding their time for the sun to fully set.
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