Blood Infernal

by James Rollins

  Erin held him, cradling him this time. She had dragged him to the wall. Rhun wished that she had left him and escaped.

  “Leave me,” Rhun forced out, turning his face toward the door, toward the faint glow of a streetlamp through the smoke. “Make for the window . . .”

  Cold blood gushed down his side. He had been in enough battles to recognize a fatal wound. But perhaps Erin could climb out that window, scramble down the front, and escape to safety. She did not have to die with him.

  Still, she did not let go of him. Instead, she yanked off her leather belt, fastened it around his shoulder, and pulled it tight.

  Rhun gasped as new pain flared.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, coughing. “I had to stop the bleeding.”

  Rhun looked past the belt’s tight constriction.

  Below the leather strap—his arm was gone, severed by the broken bell.

  7:33 P.M.

  Erin pressed her wrist against Rhun’s lips. “Drink,” she ordered.

  The tourniquet had slowed the hemorrhage to a trickle, but he would not survive long without a fresh source of blood.

  Rhun turned his head weakly to the side, refusing.

  “Damn you, Rhun. You need the strength found in my blood. Sin now, repent later. I won’t leave you, and I can’t move you on my own.”

  She shook him, but he had sagged against her, unconscious.

  She tried to slide him toward the door, but his bulk was too much for her. She could barely breathe; her eyes wept with stinging tears, born equally of smoke and frustration.

  A few feet away, a floor joist cracked and gave. Another section of floor fell into the fire below. Heat blazed against the side of her face, as hot as the mouth of an open furnace. Flames roared at her.

  Then the smoke shifted by the door, swirling open to allow a dark shape to fly into the room.

  Christian fell upon her like a dark angel. He must have followed her heartbeat. He went to grab her, but she pushed Rhun into his arms.

  “Take him,” she coughed out.

  He obeyed, tossing Rhun over one shoulder, and hauled her up with his other arm. He dragged her stumbling form along with him toward a wash of fresher air. Her heels crackled across broken glass to a third-story window. Christian must have crashed through it to reach them.

  “How are we going to—?” she started.

  Whipping around, Christian scooped her up and threw her headlong out the window.

  She plummeted with a scream trapped in her throat. The ground rushed toward her—then Elizabeth and Sophia appeared below. Hands caught her before she struck the cobblestones, softening her landing, but she hit the pavement hard enough to jar her teeth.

  She twisted to see Christian strike the ground yards away, rolling across the cobblestones, then smoothly to his feet, Rhun in his arms.

  Relieved, Erin remained on the wet cobblestones, coughing. Between coughs she drew in as much of the fresh outside air as she could. Her lungs ached.

  A shape loomed over her, then dropped to a knee. “Erin, are you okay?”

  “Jordan . . .”

  His eyes shone brightly at her. He had come back to himself again. Fresh tears rose to her eyes, but concern still rang through her.

  “Your neck?”

  He rubbed the back of his collar, looking sheepish. “Still hurts like a motherfu—I mean, it hurts bad.”

  He smiled at her.

  He had healed.

  Again.

  “C’mon,” he said, changing the subject. “We need to go.”

  He lifted her to her feet, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Her knees trembled, barely holding her upright. She stared up at him, drinking in the sight of him.

  “Don’t do that again,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

  But he didn’t seem to hear her.

  Instead, he drew her toward Christian, where Elizabeth helped the Sanguinist with Rhun’s body. Rhun already looked dead, his head hanging loose, his limbs lifeless. Blood still dripped from Erin’s makeshift tourniquet.

  Sophia swept up to Jordan’s side. “We must get him to St. Ignatius. To our chapel there. Hurry.”

  The small woman led them quickly across the dark, rain-swept square. Erin stumbled after them, Jordan holding her up. The Faust House raged behind them as the fire ate its secrets.

  Ahead, firelight flickered off the golden halo surrounding the figure on top of St. Ignatius Church. Sophia skirted to the side of the baroque façade and headed for a section of wall sheltered under a large tree. A small marble basin protruded from the wall, like a font that might hold holy water at the threshold of a church. The nun bared a seeping laceration on her arm and let her blood drip into it.

  Stone scraped against stone, and a small door opened for them.

  Elizabeth took Rhun in her arms and carried him in first. They all followed, but Sophia lingered behind at the gate, where she whispered, “Pro me.”

  Erin glanced back, remembering Cardinal Bernard had spoken those same words to lock himself in the chapel at St. Mark’s, so that only a trio of Sanguinists could open the door. Sophia must have done the same, fearful of Legion’s enslaved forces that might still be nearby, especially any that might be Sanguinists.

  Even here, their group might not be safe.

  The door closed behind Sophia, and darkness swallowed them all.

  A rasp of a match sounded, then a candle bloomed ahead of Erin. Christian used that flame to ignite more, slowly illuminating a simple stone chapel. She moved into it. A whitewashed-brick roof arched above their heads, while plain plaster walls surrounded them. The scent of incense and wine enveloped her, offering comfort and promising protection.

  Between rows of rough-hewn pews, an aisle led to a white-clad altar crowned by a portrait of Lazarus receiving his first wine from the hands of Christ. His brown eyes blazed with certainty, and Christ smiled upon him.

  Christian strode to a cupboard beside the altar and removed a white metal box with a red cross on the front. A first-aid kit. He tossed it to Jordan, while Sophia went behind the altar to a silver tabernacle. She opened it and pulled out flasks of blessed wine, the equivalent of first-aid kits for the Sanguinists.

  Elizabeth draped Rhun’s limp form on the floor before the altar. She tore away the remains of his jacket and shirt, exposing his arm and chest. Hundreds of deep wounds shone dark against his pale skin, but none were as serious as his severed arm.

  Elizabeth examined the tourniquet, then her silver eyes met Erin’s.

  “You did well,” the countess said, “thank you.”

  Erin heard true appreciation in the woman’s voice. No matter how much she strove to deny it, Elizabeth cared about Rhun.

  Erin nodded, covering a deep cough with a fist. Jordan moved to her side and drew her to a pew. As she set down her backpack, he opened the first-aid kit, searched through it, then removed a pair of small water bottles. He passed her one. While she took a long drink, he used the other to dampen a cloth.

  He gently wiped Erin’s face clean. His hands slid gently across her body, checking for serious wounds, his touch awakening feelings that were completely inappropriate in a chapel full of priests. She found herself staring into his eyes.

  Jordan matched her gaze, then bent down, and gave her a long, slow kiss.

  As much as she wanted to believe this gesture of affection was one of passion, she could not help but feel he was also kissing her good-bye. When he finally leaned back, his brows crinkled ever so slightly. He wiped away the fresh tears from her cheeks, plainly not understanding their source.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  She swallowed, nodded, and wiped at her eyes. “Just too much . . .”

  She tried to take a deep breath, but a sharp pain in her chest stopped her. She might have a cracked rib. But her injuries were minor compared to Rhun’s.

  The Sanguinists knelt around his body.

  But were they trying to heal him . . . or were they also s
aying good-bye?

  8:04 P.M.

  Elizabeth dripped wine into Rhun’s mouth, as frustration rankled through her, trembling her fingers. Wine splashed down his cheek.

  Christian reached and steadied her hands. “Let me,” he whispered, slipping the silver flask from her burning fingertips.

  She let him, rubbing her palms on her knees, trying to wipe away the holiness of the wine and sting of the silver. She stared aghast at the ruins of Rhun’s body. They had stripped him nearly naked, leaving little more than the loincloth that Christ wore on the cross above the altar. But even Christ had not suffered so severely. She read the map of Rhun’s agony in the hundreds of cuts and torn skin. Her gaze ended at the stump of his arm. It had been severed between shoulder and elbow.

  Tears rose to her eyes, blurring her sight, as if trying to erase the horrible image.

  She wiped them angrily away.

  I will bear witness . . . for you, Rhun.

  While Christian continued to trickle wine between Rhun’s bloodless lips, Sophia bathed a wine-infused cloth over his wounds, cleaning them, burning them with holiness. Each touch caused Rhun’s skin to twitch in pain.

  Elizabeth found his hand, holding him, wanting to take this agony from him, but at least it was evidence that Rhun still lived, buried somewhere deep in his ravaged body.

  Come back to me . . .

  Sophia picked up a flagon of wine and poured it over the ragged stump of Rhun’s arm. His body clenched upward, lifting his buttocks off the stone, his mouth open in a scream. His hand tightened on Elizabeth’s fingers. Her bones ground together, but she accepted that pain if it would help him even a little.

  Finally, his body sagged back to the floor.

  Sophia sat on her heels, her face a mask of concern.

  “Will he recover with the wine?” Elizabeth asked.

  “He needs rest,” Sophia said, but it sounded like the nun was trying to convince herself.

  “He needs to drink blood,” Elizabeth said, letting a note of fury enter her voice. “You all know this, yet you’re doing nothing but torturing him.”

  “He must not drink,” Sophia said. “Sinning in this chapel would strip him of the strength of the holiness of these grounds. Such an act could kill him faster.”

  Elizabeth did not know whether to believe her or not. She considered taking his body and running from this place. But the holy ground weakened her, and these other two Sanguinists had drunk deeply of their wine, taking additional strength from Christ’s blood.

  And what would I do with Rhun alone on those empty streets?

  If he must die, let it be in a place he loved.

  And beside those who loved him.

  She squeezed his hand.

  A voice spoke behind her. “Elizabeth is right,” Erin said. “Rhun needs blood if he’s going to live.”

  Christian looked up sadly at her. “Sophia spoke the truth. He must not drink, the sin would—”

  “Who says he has to drink?” Erin said, dropping to her knees among them. She carried a dagger in her hand. “What if I bathe his wounds with my blood? I would take that sin—if it is a sin—onto myself.”

  Christian exchanged a hopeful look with Sophia.

  “No,” Sophia said, her voice firm. “Blood sin is blood sin.”

  Christian looked less sure.

  Erin shrugged. “I’m doing it.”

  Elizabeth felt a surge of affection for the woman’s pluck.

  “I won’t allow it,” Sophia said, moving to stop her.

  Christian blocked Sophia with an arm. “We have nothing to lose for trying.”

  “Except his eternal soul.” Sophia tried to shove him aside, but Elizabeth joined him, bodily keeping the nun from Erin.

  Elizabeth met Erin’s eyes. “Do it.”

  With a nod, Erin drew the blade across her palm. The archaeologist winced at the pain, but remained steady. The smell of fresh blood—pushed forth by a strongly beating heart full of life—filled the small chapel.

  Elizabeth felt the two Sanguinists stir, gasping at the scent. Their still-wounded bodies called for them to drink the life offered in that crimson pool in Erin’s palm. Elizabeth smelled it, too, drawing its sweetness inside, but she had not denied herself for as long as these others had. She could withstand it.

  And this blood is not meant for me.

  Erin leaned over Rhun’s naked form. She dipped her fingers into the darkness pooled in her palm and reached down to gently paint her hot blood over Rhun’s cold skin. Again Rhun’s flesh twitched with each touch, but it was not pain that shivered through him.

  It was pleasure.

  His lips parted, letting out the softest moan.

  Elizabeth remembered hearing that same note in her ear, long ago, remembering him atop her, clasping to her.

  Erin continued her labors, working meticulously, missing no wound. Finally, she stared down at the ragged stump of bone, muscle, and slowly weeping black blood. Erin turned toward Elizabeth, as if asking permission.

  She gave the archaeologist the smallest nod.

  Do it.

  Erin massaged her forearm with her good hand, milking more blood into her palm. Only after trickles of crimson spilled from her overfilled fingers did she grasp the end of Rhun’s arm, pouring her life over that savage wound.

  Rhun convulsed, his back arching high, while Erin kept her grip on his arm.

  A cry escaped him, a gasp of ecstasy so raw that Sophia turned away from it.

  Or maybe the nun shied away from the harder evidence of Rhun’s pleasure. The loincloth did little to hide his rising ardor, revealing the man inside the beast, the lust that the white collar of his station could never fully restrain.

  Elizabeth remembered that, too, falling instantly into the past, feeling him deep inside her, swelling there, the two of them becoming one.

  As Rhun crashed back down to the stone floor, Erin finally let go. Rhun lay there, his entire body quaking softly, spent but clearly stronger for it.

  The many small cuts had closed.

  Even the ruins of his arm had stopped bleeding, the flesh already hiding bone.

  Christian let out a long sigh. “I think he’ll make it . . . with more rest.”

  Even Sophia acknowledged this. “The wine should help him the rest of the way to healing.”

  Erin stayed kneeling. Jordan came to her and tended to her life-giving wound, bandaging it up. Erin leaned into his tender ministrations.

  “His arm,” Erin asked, her gaze still on Rhun. “Will it . . . will it . . . ?”

  Jordan finished for her, his voice firm. “Will it grow back?”

  “In time . . . many months, if not years,” Christian said. “For that miracle, he will still need much more rest.”

  “What does that mean for our quest?” Jordan said.

  No one had an answer, only more questions.

  “We don’t even know where to go,” Sophia said, defeat in her voice. “We learned nothing from all this bloodshed.”

  Erin shook her head. “That’s not true.”

  Eyes turned to her.

  She spoke with certainty. “I know what we’re looking for.”

  8:33 P.M.

  “What do you mean?” Christian asked.

  “Give me a moment.” Erin stood up, helped by Jordan, but she pushed free of his arms. She needed some distance from him, from everyone. She shuddered, remembering what she had felt when she had held Rhun’s arm. For a few breaths, she had felt his aching passion, the strain of his lust, the wracking pleasure of her blood suffusing through him, dissolving her into him, the two becoming one.

  She closed a fist over her bandaged palm, cutting off that memory.

  Jordan touched her shoulder. “Erin?”

  His blue eyes looked at her with concern. She paced away, needing to keep moving.

  I did what I had to . . . nothing more.

  Still, a pang of guilt shot through her. She and Rhun had shared another intimacy in this chur
ch in front of everyone.

  She crossed to her pack and opened it with trembling fingers. She reached inside and let her palm rest on the case holding the Blood Gospel. She took strength from its presence, then pulled out the sheaves of papers she had recovered from inside the bell. She stacked them on the pew.

  “I believe these are Dee’s old notes,” she said. “But I can’t say for sure as they look to be written in Enochian.”

  Elizabeth rose and joined her. “Let me see.” She gave them a cursory look, flipping through. “These are indeed Dee’s. I recognize the handwriting.”

  “Can you translate the Enochian?” Erin asked.

  “Of course.” Elizabeth settled into the pew. “But it will take time.”

  “For now, can you skim through for any reference to the green diamond?”

  “Yes, but why?”

  Christian echoed her question. “Erin, what do you know?”

  She faced him, letting the grief center her. “Very little. But before Leopold died, he broke free of the demon that possessed him.”

  “What demon?” Sophia asked.

  Erin took a deeper breath, remembering that only she had heard Leopold’s final words. “He called it Legion.”

  Christian glanced to Sophia. “There was such a demon mentioned in the Bible.”

  Sophia nodded. “Christ cast it out, but not before confronting it, demanding its name. ‘And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for we are many.’ ”

  “For we are many,” Erin repeated, considering those words. “Could that be this demon’s nature? To possess many.”

  “It certainly seemed capable of enslaving others to its will,” Elizabeth said, as she began to peruse the stack of old papers. “Even Sister Abigail.”

  “But not us,” Jordan said, waving to Erin. “I grappled with him, but he couldn’t possess me.”

  “It could be that he can only control those who are already tainted,” Sophia said with a worried expression. “A weed needs soil to grow in. Perhaps he needs that darkness to be already there before he can root into someone.”

  “If this demon is like a weed,” Christian asked, “could he have survived the death of Leopold?”