Blood Infernal

by James Rollins

  For the first time in eternity, Legion screamed.

  7:10 P.M.

  Erin clapped both hands over her ears, dropping her flashlight, falling to her knees at the assault. Tears rose in her eyes, as she fought not to pass out.

  Must help Jordan . . .

  Steps away, Jordan grappled that ebony-faced monster. He slammed his opponent’s body hard against the wall, knocking the air from those lungs to stop the ear-shattering wail.

  The impact jarred loose roof tiles from the hole above, sending them crashing to the attic floor. She looked up—to find a pair of eyes glaring down, shining crimson, marking the corruption inside the massive beast.

  A grimwolf.

  For the moment, the hole was too small for its huge body, but the wolf dug at the edges, widening the hole, plainly intending to come to its master’s defense. On the far side of the attic, Jordan continued to wrestle with their shadowy assailant.

  Erin retreated until her back was pressed against the grime-slick surface of the glass bell. Her hands searched the floor for a weapon, but only found the metal gear she had knocked off its hook earlier. Her fingers closed on it, useless though it may be.

  Still . . .

  With her back against the bell, she scooted up until her fingers could reach a long glass pipe that protruded from the bell’s side. She swung around and smashed the gear through the base of the pipe, where it connected to the larger bell. Its length broke free and clattered to the ground, shattering into shorter pieces.

  She snatched up the longest and thickest.

  With the glass spear in hand, she faced the wolf. The beast was almost through. Reacting to her challenging stance, it shoved its head as far as it could, snapping toward her, saliva flying from its snarling lips. But its massive shoulders still restrained it.

  At least for the moment.

  Intending to take full advantage of that moment, she pushed off the bell and headed toward where Jordan grappled with their adversary. It looked as if he were wrestling his own shadow. They were on the floor, rolling and thrashing, moving with a speed that defied her eyes.

  She gripped her spear, fearful of striking out, lest she impale Jordan by mistake.

  And what exactly was he fighting?

  She had caught a look at the enemy’s face when he first crashed down. His skin had been black, darker than coal, and it had seemed to suck in the feeble glow of her flashlight. She remembered seeing a similar shadowy figure on Cardinal Bernard’s computer, from the video of the attack at that disco in Rome, but the feed had been too fuzzy for true details.

  Not any longer.

  She had recognized those features now, blackened though they may be.

  Brother Leopold.

  Jordan got a fleeting advantage in his fight and pinned that mystery to the floor under him. On top, Jordan let go of Leopold’s black wrist and grabbed his throat.

  Erin noted how the freed wrist had turned pale, matching Jordan’s palm and fingers, as if those shadows had fled from Jordan’s touch. As she watched, the darkness filled back in, flowing like oil over the pale wrist.

  Then Erin heard Jordan gasp, pulling her attention to Leopold’s face.

  As Jordan gripped the man’s neck, those shadows bled away from the hand that gripped that black throat. Darkness receded across Leopold’s chin, over his mouth and nose, revealing the monk’s pale features.

  His face contorted in agony, his lips struggling to speak.

  “Kill me,” Leopold wheezed.

  Jordan glanced over his shoulder to her, unsure what to do, but refusing to let go.

  Erin rushed forward, hoping for some explanation. “What happened to you?”

  Desperate blue-gray eyes stared toward her. “Legion . . . a demon . . . you must kill me . . . can’t hold—”

  His voice died away as a smoky oil began to swim across his eyes. The freed hand lashed out and grabbed Jordan by the throat—and twisted hard.

  Bones snapped in Jordan’s neck.

  No . . .

  A savage growl erupted behind her. A glance revealed the grimwolf plunging its bulk through the hole, coming to finish them off.

  7:14 P.M.

  Elizabeth raced across the rain-slick rooftop, trailing Rhun. Though unholy power fueled her limbs, she could not keep up with him now. He was a black raven sweeping ahead of her, his speed stoked not by damnation but by fear and love.

  The pair of them had managed to fight their way out of the house, collecting the severely wounded Christian along the way. Once outside, they had barricaded the door, trapping as many of the strigoi inside as they could. Christian still kept a post down there, protecting their rear.

  But once the pair of them had reached the roof—following the sounds of fighting and the heartbeats of Erin and Jordan—they had spotted a grimwolf burrowing through the tiles, trying to reach the attic.

  Rhun reached the beast ahead of her, slamming into its flanks, knocking it away from the hole. She did not slow and leaped over them, swinging her sword low as she flew, lopping off one of the beast’s ears as it raised its head.

  She landed, skidding on the wet tiles, turning to face the grimwolf as it howled its rage.

  To her right, Rhun rolled to his feet, baring his silver karambit. As if sensing the weaker of the two, the beast lowered its head and shifted its weight to face Rhun.

  Elizabeth took a step forward, intending to dissuade the wolf of this action—when a shift of shadows drew her attention to the left. A dark figure appeared through the veils of rain, as if brought down from the clouds. The newcomer wore a black habit that matched what was left of Elizabeth’s.

  “Sophia . . . ?” Rhun called out, but he was mistaken.

  Lightning flashed, and in its quick light, Elizabeth found an older face beneath a damp nest of gray hair. The nun carried a curved scimitar in one hand.

  “Abigail?” Elizabeth struggled through her surprise.

  What was that sour-tempered Sanguinist doing here?

  Lightning burst even brighter, revealing a new feature on the old nun’s face: a black handprint emblazoned on her wet cheek.

  Abigail rushed Elizabeth, moving with that unnatural speed of the possessed.

  Elizabeth’s blade barely parried Abigail’s first blow. The cantankerous old nun spun to the side with a speed and grace that Elizabeth admired as much as she feared. Abigail raised her blade again, her eyes as dead as a corpse’s.

  Rhun tried to come to her aid, but the grimwolf slammed into him. The two rolled across the tiles. Yellow teeth gnashed at Rhun’s face, while the silver karambit flashed.

  Abigail lunged, moving swiftly, no longer slowed by the holiness of the Sanguinists. Instead, she was strengthened by an evil much darker than Elizabeth’s own heart.

  Elizabeth feinted right and managed to slice Abigail’s left shoulder.

  The nun gave no sign she was hurt. Her sword lashed out again and again. Elizabeth did her best to parry the flurry of blows, but Abigail’s strikes were quick and sure.

  The last thrust cut deep across Elizabeth’s thigh, striking bone.

  Her leg buckled under her.

  The nun moved toward her, as implacable as the sea.

  7:18 P.M.

  Erin heard the fighting and howling from the rooftop. A moment ago, a dark shadow had knocked the grimwolf away from the hole above, protecting her. Only one person was that foolhardy and brave.

  Rhun . . .

  Taking courage from his efforts, she closed upon Jordan and the possessed form of Leopold. Jordan remained atop that monster, but the demon’s black hand throttled him, turning his face purple, setting his eyes to bulging.

  Jordan saw her approach, and with all of his remaining effort, he rolled to the side, dragging Leopold’s body up and around, presenting the former monk’s back to her.

  She wanted to hesitate. Leopold had been her friend; he had saved her life more than once in the past. But she hurried forward instead, raising her only weapon: the spear
of broken glass.

  She stabbed downward with the strength of both arms, impaling Leopold through the back, aiming for that dead heart.

  A pained gasp burst from Leopold’s throat. The choking hand loosened from Jordan’s throat. Leopold’s body toppled to his side, as if a string had been cut. His fingers twitched once and went still.

  Though freed now, Jordan remained on his back, his face turned away. Erin dropped to her knees next to him. His neck was bruised to the bone. A hard knot protruded from his cervical area. His spine had been broken.

  “Jordan?” she called softly, her hands out, too afraid to move him.

  He did not answer, but another faint voice did. “Erin . . .”

  She turned to see Leopold staring at her. The darkness had bled from his face, draining along with the black blood that flowed from his impaled chest. She knew Sanguinists could control their own bleeding, willing it to stop.

  Leopold did not, plainly wanting to die.

  Grief welled up inside her, knowing there was goodness inside the former monk, misguided though it might have been.

  “You saved me before,” she whispered, remembering those dark tunnels under St. Peter’s.

  A cold hand touched her wrist. “. . . saved me.” He gave her a small nod of reassurance.

  A sob escaped her.

  Even in death, he sought to comfort her.

  His voice became as faint as a breath. “Legion . . .”

  She leaned closer, hearing the urgency even now.

  “Three stones . . . Legion seeks them . . .”

  “What are you talking about? What stones?”

  Leopold seemed deaf to her, already far gone, speaking across a vast gulf. “The garden . . . defiled . . . sewn in blood, bathed in water . . . that is where Lucifer will . . .”

  Then those blue eyes went glassy, those lips forever silent.

  Erin wanted to shake more answers from him, but instead she touched Leopold’s cheek.

  “Good-bye, my friend.”

  7:20 P.M.

  Collapsed on the rooftop, Elizabeth cursed her wounded leg.

  Abigail loomed over her, smelling of wet cotton. Lightning flashed off her raised blade. Her dead eyes stared down at Elizabeth, not coldly, but with the gaze of an uncaring predator.

  Across the roof, Rhun battled the grimwolf, both bloodied, but still fighting.

  Unarmed, Elizabeth braced herself for the attack. Regret flashed through her. Her death would seal Tommy’s fate. She had been unable to save her own children, and she would not save this child either.

  Then the wolf howled, a sound unlike any heard before.

  A noise full of rage and pain and shock.

  She saw the grimwolf barrel into Rhun, knocking him far, then turned and fled—straight toward Elizabeth and Abigail.

  “Run!” The word was spoken with a familiar authority, coming from above her.

  Elizabeth looked up at Abigail. The nun’s eyes were sharp now, shining with fury. Her cheek was free of any blemish, the mark vanished from her flesh.

  Abigail grabbed Elizabeth, dragged her up, and shoved her to the side. “Go!”

  Elizabeth stumbled away as Abigail raised her scimitar and faced the beast as it reached them. The grimwolf slid on its paws, claws gouging and shattering clay tiles. It stared at Abigail, looking momentarily dumbfounded at this threat from a former ally. But confusion quickly stoked to rage—and it leaped at the old nun.

  Abigail swung her blade. Much slower now, she missed, and teeth snatched her arm. Still, she forced her legs to push, dragging the massive beast by sheer strength. She reached the roof’s edge and flung herself and the beast over its lip.

  Elizabeth hobbled forward in time to see their bodies strike the pavement four stories below. Abigail looked like a broken doll, limbs akimbo, neck twisted. Black blood washed into the gutter. The grimwolf somehow survived the fall. It rose up drunkenly, then loped off into the shadows.

  Below, Christian stumbled into view on the street below. A pair of strigoi was on his heels, but like the wolf, these beasts took flight, dropping their weapons and fleeing into the night.

  Across the way, Rhun rushed to the ragged hole dug by the grimwolf and dropped into the attic below, checking on the others.

  Alone on the roof, she remained standing, wondering what had so suddenly turned the tides of this war. She pictured the mark vanishing from Abigail’s cheek. The woman had clearly broken free of her possession.

  Is that why the others had fled, too?

  But something struck her as odd. Elizabeth had briefly locked gazes with the grimwolf before it attacked and fled. She had read the intelligence shining there—far more than any ordinary beast should possess, even one so corrupted.

  But what did that mean?

  She shuddered, fearful of the answer.

  7:25 P.M.

  “I can’t get Jordan to respond at all,” Erin told Rhun, glad to have him at her side. “And look at his neck.”

  Jordan lay stretched out on the floor next to Leopold’s body. The bruising had faded, but there remained a disturbing crook to his cervical vertebrae. She gently checked his pulse. It throbbed steadily under her fingers, as slowly and evenly as if he were merely asleep.

  “Jordan!” she called, afraid to shake him. “Come back!”

  Jordan showed no response, his open eyes just stared straight ahead.

  Rhun looked equally concerned. He had already examined Leopold, pressing his silver cross against the monk’s forehead. The silver didn’t burn into the skin, suggesting the evil had truly fled him.

  But where it went was a concern for later.

  A muffled shout rose from below, coming from under the attic floorboards. “Erin! Jordan!”

  Erin straightened, twisting to stare toward the attic’s trapdoor, suddenly remembering. “Sophia is still down there.”

  With a grimwolf.

  But that wasn’t the only threat.

  Erin noted the smoke rising through the planks from below. Rhun stepped over and hauled the trapdoor open and flung it wide. A wash of heat rolled up, bringing with it a fresh clot of smoke.

  She coughed, holding the crook of her arm over her nose.

  Rhun reached down and helped haul Sophia into the attic. The small Sanguinist was soaked in blood—some her own, some the grimwolf’s. She did her best to straighten the shreds of her clothing.

  “The wolf fled,” Sophia said, her eyes still panicked-looking. “Don’t know why.”

  Erin stared over at Leopold, guessing what had changed.

  A trampling of feet overhead drew their attention up to the hole. Everyone tensed, expecting more trouble, but then Christian poked his head through.

  “Time to go,” he warned. “Whole place looks like it’s about to go.”

  Working quickly, Sophia and Rhun hauled Jordan up. They passed him up to Christian, who caught his shoulders and dragged him to the roof with the help of Elizabeth.

  Rhun turned to Sophia. “Help them get Jordan to the street. Erin and I will follow. We can make for St. Ignatius. We should be able to find refuge there.”

  With a nod, Sophia leaped up, caught the edge, and vanished.

  Rhun turned to Erin.

  “What about Leopold’s body?” she asked.

  “The fires will take care of it.”

  Regret panged through her, but she knew they had no other choice. Rhun helped get her through the hole to the roof. The cold air and clean rain helped push back her sense of hopelessness.

  Jordan will heal.

  She refused to believe otherwise. She searched the roof, but the others had already vanished, climbing down with Jordan’s comatose form. Not wanting to leave him out of her sight for long, she hurried toward the edge with Rhun.

  “I’ll carry you down,” he said, already reaching an arm toward her.

  She turned to him with a grateful smile—when the roof collapsed under her.

  She plummeted into hot, smoky darkness.
r />   March 18, 7:29 P.M. CET

  Prague, Czech Republic

  Rhun fell with Erin.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her hard against his chest. He wrapped his limbs protectively around her as they crashed through fiery timbers, smoke, and raining plaster. Then they struck a floor that was still intact. He did his best to roll, to bleed away the force of that impact.

  He ended up on his knees, cradling Erin’s limp form. She was dazed. Blood ran from a deep scalp wound across her face. Flames and smoke roiled around him, but he recognized the round room where they had landed: Edward Kelly’s old alchemy room.

  He lifted Erin, feeling her lungs laboring in the smoke, hearing the fluttering of a weakening heart as she suffocated. He stumbled, half blind, toward the wall, intending to follow it to the door, then to a window.

  Overhead, a crack sounded as another roof beam gave way. Something huge crashed through from above. Flames lit its greenish hue, glowing through the glass.

  The bell.

  Instinctively, Rhun raised his arm against its evil, protecting Erin, shielding her with his body. The bell struck his arm, his back, and drove him to the floor. Thick glass shattered over him, cutting into his arm, his shoulder, slashing muscle and breaking bone.

  Pain blinded him as he cried out.

  Erin heard, stirring with a jolt under him. “Rhun . . .”

  He rolled off her, slicing up more of his flesh. “Go,” he moaned.

  She crawled free, but instead of following his order, she grabbed his good arm and tried to drag him away from the ruins of the bell. Before she could, the fire-weakened floor gave way under the weight of the broken bell. As burning boards fell away under him, he twisted and saw the limp form of Leopold tumble from the attic above and follow the wreck of the shattered bell, chasing it down into the fiery pit of the house.

  Rhun’s body slid to follow, but Erin dragged him away from the gaping hole, keeping him in this round room. Pain consumed him, but he forced himself to fight through it, to stay in this room with Erin. He could not leave her. He might yet be of service to her.

  Smoke boiled into the room from the hole left by the bell. Wind drew it up through this makeshift chimney to the roof. Most of the floor had already been burned through. Flames roared beneath them.