“I don’t know,” Erin admitted. “But Leopold said that Legion was seeking three stones.” She looked pointedly at Jordan. “He sent one of his enslaved down into that temple in Cumae. Maybe he wanted the remains of that green diamond.”
“Maybe,” Jordan agreed. “Or maybe he just wanted to kill me. Heck, he came pretty damned close.”
“No, I think he wanted the stone.”
“Why do you sound so sure?” Christian asked, then added with a soft smile. “Not that I’m doubting the Woman of Learning.”
“Leopold’s last words, just before he died. He mentioned something about a garden defiled . . . one sewn in blood, and bathed in water. It sounded like that was where Lucifer would rise.”
“But what garden?” Christian asked. “What does that mean?”
“Perhaps the Garden of Eden?” Sophia offered.
Erin looked off into space, mumbling, “It can’t be just a coincidence.”
Jordan touched her shoulder. “What?”
She faced the others. “Those three frescoes in Kelly’s alchemy room. Arbor, Sanguis, and Aqua. Representing garden, blood, and water.”
Christian rubbed his chin. “Symbols that mirrored Leopold’s last words.”
“And Legion is seeking three stones,” Erin added. “Perhaps they mirror the same. Arbor, Sanguis, and Aqua.”
Jordan pulled out the two halves of the emerald-hued diamond. “You think this might be arbor. It is green like a garden.”
She nodded. “And we know it’s not a simple diamond. There’s that strange symbol infused into it. Plus it was capable of holding the smoky spirits of over six hundred strigoi.”
“And eventually Legion himself,” Christian added.
Erin touched the diamond with a fingertip. “Maybe that’s why Leopold described the garden—this stone—as defiled. It was polluted with evil.”
“If you are correct,” Elizabeth said from the pew, “then there must be two more gems. Sanguis and Aqua.”
Erin heard a tick in the countess’s voice and turned toward her. “Do you know anything about them?”
“I do not,” Elizabeth said, but her expression remained thoughtful. “But perhaps we should ask the man who sent John Dee the green one.”
Erin turned to her. “Who was that?”
Elizabeth held up a yellowed sheet of old paper with a smile. “This is a letter to Dee from the man who sent him that stone.”
Erin crossed to see it, but she found the page was written in Enochian.
Elizabeth used a finger to underline a set of symbols.
“This is his name,” Elizabeth said. “Hugh de Payens.”
The name struck Erin as familiar, but she could not place it. Exhaustion made it harder to think.
Christian stepped closer, his face pinched. “That cannot be.”
“Why not?” Jordan asked.
“Hugh de Payens was a Sanguinist,” Christian explained. “From the time of the Crusades.”
Erin suddenly remembered the man’s name and his prominent place in history. “Hugh de Payens . . . wasn’t he the one who, along with Bernard of Clairvaux, formed the Knights Templar?”
“One and the same,” Christian said. “But he actually formed the Sanguinist Order of those Knights. Nine knights bound together by blood.”
Erin frowned, reminded yet again that the history she had been taught was nothing but a play of shadows and lights, and that the truth lay somewhere in between.
“But Hugh de Payens died during the Second Crusades,” Christian added.
“Who told you this?” Elizabeth asked. “Because the date of this letter from Dee is dated 1601, four centuries after the Second Crusade.”
“I heard this story from Hugh’s fellow founder of the Knights Templar, Bernard of Clairvaux, a man who witnessed that noble death.” Christian lifted an eyebrow toward Erin. “Or, as you better know him, Cardinal Bernard.”
Erin’s eyes widened. “Bernard is the Bernard of Clairvaux?”
It made a certain sense. She had known the cardinal had fought during the Crusades and had been in a high-ranking position in the Church ever since.
“It sounds like Bernard has not been entirely truthful,” Elizabeth said with a wry smile, tapping a finger on the letter. “Again.”
“That can wait for now.” Erin nodded to the paper. “What does the note say?”
Elizabeth’s eyes scanned down the page, translating the archaic letters. A smile grew on her face. “It seems Hugh wished me to have the stone if anything happened to John Dee. The alchemist must have shared the nature of my work with his secret benefactor.”
“So if Dee failed,” Jordan said, “that guy wanted you to finish his work?”
“It would seem so. The plan was for Edward Kelly to take possession of the stone upon Dee’s death, to protect it and bring it to me. This must be why Emperor Rudolf gave the stone and the bell to Kelly.” Elizabeth scowled. “But that greedy charlatan kept them both for himself. He probably secretly sold the diamond. It is worth a king’s ransom.”
“Still, after that,” Erin said, “the cursed gem somehow found its way through history back to you.”
“Fate is not to be thwarted,” Elizabeth said.
Erin had to force herself not to roll her eyes. “Does that letter say anything about the other two stones?”
“Not a word.”
“So, a dead end,” Jordan said.
“Unless Hugh de Payens still lives,” Erin said. “We know he didn’t die when Bernard said he did. So maybe he’s still knocking around.”
Jordan sighed loudly. “If so, how do we find him?”
Erin put her fists on her hips. “We ask his oldest friend. Bernard of Clairvaux.” She turned to Christian and Sophia. “Where is the cardinal?”
“He was sent to Castel Gandolfo,” Christian said. “Awaiting his sentence.”
“Let us pray,” Sophia added, “that they haven’t already put him to death for his sins.”
Erin agreed.
They couldn’t afford for anything else to go wrong.
March 18, 9:45 P.M. CET
Prague, Czech Republic
The wolf digs through smoke and fiery embers.
Its massive paws churn up mud and push aside broken beams. Rough rocks rip its pads to bloody shreds. Sparks fall and burn through its thick pelt.
A knot of blackness grips the thunder of its heart, drawing it ever deeper.
There are no words, no commands, only yearning.
The source of that black desire waits below, curled tightly around the tiniest flicker of flame, nestled within the cold carcass that holds it safe.
The wolf burrows toward it.
One craving draws it ever deeper into the fiery ruins.
Free me.
FOURTH
They have deeply corrupted themselves, as in the days of Gibeah: therefore he will remember their iniquity, he will visit their sins.
—Hosea 9:9
March 19, 6:19 A.M. CET
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
Erin thrashed wildly out of a nightmare of fire and demons.
She woke into a room shining with the light of a new day. It took her a few panicked breaths to recognize the simple room, to recall their midnight flight from Prague to this idyllic countryside south of Rome. She was in the papal residence at Castel Gandolfo. She drank in the familiarity: the plain white walls, the wood floor that shone in the morning sunlight like warm honey, the solid mahogany bed with a crucifix hanging above the headboard. She and Jordan had stayed in this very room the last time they had come here.
I’m safe . . .
Maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but it was the safest she had felt in a long time.
The windows were secured with thick wooden shutters, but a pair of them had their slats opened enough to let in the sunrise. She welcomed the golden light after the long night of terror. They had taken a private jet—a Citation X—that whisked them under papal orders from that me
dieval city to here. They had landed, exhausted and worn, bloodied and bruised.
Her first thought was of Rhun.
Upon landing, he had been rushed by stretcher to a Sanguines infirmary. Erin had wanted to follow, but she could barely stand. Jordan had half-carried her here in the middle of the night. They had both collapsed in bed, limbs wrapped around each other. For once, she had not worried about the heat from his naked skin, curling against it like a warm fire.
Still, a twinge of guilt at abandoning Rhun remained with her. She did her best to shake it off, shying away from the memory of touching Rhun, sharing that momentary blood bond with him.
Rhun is in the best hands, she reminded herself. He certainly had a nurse who would brook no ill treatment, who would watch over him. Elizabeth had refused to leave Rhun’s side. Though he had never woken, the woman had kept hold of his hand the entire flight and had shadowed Rhun’s stretcher down to the infirmary, despite the clear fatigue in her face and body.
Erin might not trust Elizabeth, but when it came to Rhun, there was no better guard dog while he recuperated.
The clunk of a shower shutting off drew her gaze to the bathroom door. It was the noise of that running water that had woken her. She reached to the rumple of bed sheets next to her, feeling the fading warmth of Jordan’s body. She rested a palm on the imprint of his head on the pillow.
Concern for him ached through her, but she had to admit she felt much better after a night’s sleep next to him. She stretched out and sighed.
Pretty good . . . considering.
But was it just from the rest? Though bruises peppered her back and a scalp wound had been closed with butterfly bandages, she felt immensely better—better than she should.
She shifted to the patch of residual warmth from Jordan’s body, luxuriating in the memory of his skin against hers, wondering if the night spent bathed in that heat had anything to do with how she felt now.
Or was it simply having this time alone with Jordan?
He had certainly seemed more like himself.
The bathroom door opened with a creak, and she turned.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Jordan stood in the doorway, outlined in steam, wearing only a white towel. She smiled at him, still nestled in the sheets, which suddenly seemed much warmer.
He cocked one eyebrow and let the towel drop, wiping a rivulet of water from one temple with his hand. Her gaze took him in, appreciating every ripple, every damp trail.
Everyone in their party was covered in bruises and cuts. But not Jordan. His smooth skin was unmarked, and he practically glowed with health. Soft light reflected off the blond hairs on his arms and muscular legs. He looked like a Greek statue—too perfect to be real.
He crossed the room to stand in front of her. His bare skin was only inches away from hers. She wanted to touch him.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Ready for anything,” she said, her grin widening. “Starting with you.”
She stared up into his bright blue eyes. They had stood like this many times before, but it always felt new, always gave her a flutter in her chest. She touched the twining tattoo that covered his shoulder and upper chest. His heart beat against the soft skin of her palm. She traced those curling blue lines, her fingertips sliding down the smooth skin of his stomach.
She knew the tattoo’s shape and size. It was now unmistakably larger than it had been a few days before, extending in dark crimson coils and vines—a visible sign of how he was changing. She was especially concerned about the lines that now encircled his neck, as if those new vines were choking him as surely as those demon’s black fingers had. But she knew those same crimson lines had likely healed him, fading his bruises, and repairing a crush of cervical vertebrae.
She should appreciate those lines, but instead they terrified her.
“Don’t look so worried.” Jordan took her hand from his chest and kissed her palm. His soft lips burned against her skin. “We’re here, together, and alive. It doesn’t get any better than that.”
Erin couldn’t argue with that.
His tongue traced up her hand to the inside of her wrist. Her breath caught in her throat. He dropped to a knee, kissing along her arm, his mouth light as a butterfly against her bruised skin. Tingling traveled up her arm to her breasts and body.
She wrapped her arm around him and pulled him closer. She wanted to feel his skin against hers again, to forget everything that had happened, and believe, even for a moment, that everything was all right.
Jordan slid into bed next to her, his warm hands caressing her, exploring her, moving ever lower. She wanted to lose herself in him completely, but his feverish heat reminded her how he had retreated from her, how those eyes had looked at her without seeing her.
She shuddered.
“Shh,” he whispered, mistaking her reaction. “You’re safe now.”
He rolled on top of her. His smoldering blue eyes told her that he wanted nothing else but her, and that he still loved her. As his eyes drifted closed, she reached toward him for a kiss.
His lips whispered gently against hers, soft as the wind. “I missed you.”
“Me, too,” she answered.
Her mouth opened to his, hungry for the taste of him. His arms tightened around her, holding her so close that she could barely breathe. It wasn’t close enough.
When he pulled his head back, she moaned. She didn’t want the kiss to end. Ever. She couldn’t bear to lose him, to lose this closeness. She traced the curve of his jaw, his cheekbones. Her fingertip lingered on the tiny indent in his upper lip that was shaped like a bow. Those lips smiled at her and kissed her again.
For a long time, nothing existed but the two of them, lost in the heat of each other’s bodies. Time became meaningless. It was just the taste of him, the stubble of his cheek on her thigh, the press of their bodies, of him inside her, making her feel whole, not that she needed him to be complete, just that it felt so very right.
Then for a moment, lost in the passion, her body responding to his every touch and movement, she closed her eyes—and flashed to that time with Rhun in the chapel, recalling the fiery ardor of her blood flowing through him, until his body became hers.
She gasped, arching under Jordan, pulling him tighter to her with her legs. She rode that moment like a wave, lost in a blur of ecstasy, unsure where her body began and ended.
Finally, she collapsed, gasping, trembling.
Jordan kissed her, calming her, smiling down at her.
She stared up at him, loving him more than ever. Still, guilt flickered inside her, knowing not all of her response rose from Jordan’s touch.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, running a finger along her cheek.
“No . . . it was perfect.”
Too perfect—and it scared her.
They cuddled together as sunlight crept across the room. At some point, Erin dozed off into a dreamless slumber. When she woke, she listened for the shower, for some sign that Jordan was still here, but she knew he was gone.
A flicker of panic rose inside her.
He’s probably off getting breakfast.
She pushed back her fears and climbed from the bed, needing to move. She took a quick shower. The steaming hot water massaged the remaining aches from her body, waking her more fully. Afterward, she buffed her skin dry and climbed into a fresh set of clothes supplied to them last night, pulling on a pair of jeans and a white cotton shirt.
Lastly, she donned a leather jacket. The coat had been fashioned from the hide of a grimwolf. From past experience, she knew it was as strong as armor. She let some of that strength sink into her, centering her for the day ahead.
A knock sounded from the door. She turned as it opened. Her body tensing, until she saw Jordan.
“I come with breakfast,” he said, holding up a tray of coffee, fruit, and croissants. “Along with marching orders.”
“Marching orders?”
“Ran into Christian. He
says we’ve been granted permission to speak to the prisoner.”
Cardinal Bernard.
“It’s about time,” she said.
Jordan gave her a mock scowl. “It wasn’t like any of us were up to an interrogation last night.”
True.
“When can we talk to him?”
“At eight o’clock . . . in about an hour.” He crossed to the bed with the tray, sat down, and patted the mattress. “So how about I serve you breakfast in bed?”
She dropped next to him. “I think it only counts if we’re naked.”
He placed the tray on the nightstand. “I like that rule . . . and you know how I’m a stickler for rules.”
He began to undo the buttons of his shirt.
7:20 A.M.
Elizabeth carefully changed the wine-soaked bandage on the stump of Rhun’s left arm. She removed the old wrap and examined the wound. Already the skin knit over most of the raw muscle, but much still needed healing. She covered the damage with a compress soaked in holy wine, earning a small gasp of pain from Rhun, but still his eyes did not open.
Come back to me, Rhun.
She secured the compress with a fresh wrap, then leaned back. She sensed that the sun had risen an hour or so ago. She had spent the entire night with him in this windowless cell. It reeked of incense and wine, with a hint of hay and brick dust and reminded her of the time she had spent imprisoned here. Still, she stayed, wanting to be here when Rhun awoke.
She scowled at the room, finding it unfit.
The cell contained a simple wooden bed covered with a pallet of straw, a stand holding a lit beeswax candle, a flask of wine, clean white gauze, and jars of ointment that smelled of wine and resin. The room was a match to her own that neighbored this one, not that she had used it this long night.
The scuff of leather on stone drew her gaze to the small door. A short chubby monk with a gray friar’s tonsure entered, carrying fresh wine and more bandages.
“Thank you, Friar Patrick.”
“Anything for Rhun.”
The friar had assisted her in her ministration of Rhun, coming and going throughout the night. Genuine sorrow crossed his face at the sight of Rhun’s still form on the bed. He cared for Rhun, more than simply as a fellow Sanguinist. Perhaps the two were friends.
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