Blood Infernal

by James Rollins

  “The patron saint of nature and animals,” Erin said.

  She knew of the legends associated with the Italian saint, how even the birds would flock to listen to his preaching, landing on his shoulders. It was said Francis even tamed a wild wolf that was terrorizing a village. It made sense that Hugh would admire such a figure.

  Bernard looked down, a wistful smile on his face, revealing how much he truly loved this man. “It was said in jest that Hugh could talk to animals. During the Crusades, the warhorses would follow him around like dogs. They would do anything for Hugh—charge into the thickest fighting or even into fire if he commanded it. I think . . . I think their blood stained his hands more heavily than the blood of the men who died alongside him. To Hugh’s mind, they were innocents, slaughtered for their loyalty to him. Eventually, it became too much.”

  Erin could understand that all too well, flashing back to the deaths of her former students in Egypt.

  “Eventually Hugh could not bring himself to kill even the blasphemare.”

  “I thought you had to kill all cursed creatures,” Jordan said. “That you had shoot-on-sight orders.”

  “We do,” Rhun said. “They are beasts corrupted by evil. And, unlike strigoi, they cannot be turned to good. To end their suffering, they must be destroyed.”

  “But do you know that for sure?” Erin asked, recognizing now more than ever how many of these set-in-stone edicts were wrong. “Why can’t there be different paths to salvation for those poor animals? Maybe even for the strigoi themselves?”

  “Hugh would have agreed with you,” Bernard said. “I suspect it is that sentiment that perhaps explains why blasphemare are drawn to his hermitage. They come from far and wide, lone creatures severed from their blood-bonded creators, who seek the comfort and protection he offers.”

  “What?” Rhun sat straighter, looking horrified.

  “And not just such tainted creatures,” Bernard said, “but strigoi, too.”

  Rhun stood up. “And you kept this secret from us all?”

  “Let me guess,” Jordan exclaimed, “when you said his place was guarded, that’s what you meant. He has an army of strigoi and blasphemare loyal to him, guarding him.”

  Bernard bowed his head, acknowledging this truth.

  “Great,” Jordan mumbled.

  Bernard stared at them. “But I tell you this because it also offers you a way to reach him.” He turned to Rhun. “You yourself have brought the key that will unlock Hugh’s heart.”

  March 19, 8:55 A.M. CET

  Castel Gandolfo, Italy

  Jordan watched the cardinal lower the phone atop his desk.

  “It is done,” Bernard said, then crossed back to his chair on legs that were still shaky. “The key will be brought here.”

  Jordan glanced at Rhun, waiting for some explanation. Erin knelt next to Rhun’s seat, checking the bandages on his stump. The gauze was stained with fresh blood from the recent fight. Rhun had once told Jordan that all sensations were heightened in a Sanguinist, including pain. If that was true, Jordan could only imagine the agony Rhun must be suffering now.

  “Okay, Cardinal,” Jordan said, “how about you tell us more about how Hugh’s place is guarded, what we might be facing?”

  Bernard rubbed his chin. “To understand that, you have to understand Hugh’s philosophy. I had many long talks with Hugh on this very subject before he abandoned the order. When it came to blasphemare—or strigoi, for that matter—he came to believe that they were all God’s creatures, whose only sin was that their innocence had been stolen from them.”

  “He might have a point,” Erin said. “It’s not like either really had a say regarding their corruption. It was usually forced upon them against their will.”

  “It does not matter,” Bernard argued. “We are all born with Original Sin, a sin that stains our innocent souls because of the defiance committed by Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It is only through the holy rite of baptism that this sin is cleansed from us.”

  Erin didn’t look swayed by this argument.

  “At the time,” Bernard continued, “I thought Hugh’s arguments were only theoretical in nature. Then when he left, wandering the world, I heard not a single word from him. I assumed that he had perished, as so many do without the protection of the Church.”

  “But he survived,” Jordan said.

  “One day, I received a letter from him. He told me that he had settled in the mountains of France, that he had found his peace in caring for the lost and broken creatures of the world.”

  “That includes both blasphemare and strigoi?” Erin asked.

  Bernard nodded. “I told no one. Hugh only wished to be left alone—to live on his mountain like St. Francis of Assisi. I only tolerated it because he forbade killing on its slopes. Not even those under his protection are allowed to kill unless provoked to defend their hermitage.”

  Jordan didn’t like the sound of that. “Even with this supposed key in hand, how do you propose we get through that gauntlet?”

  “You must go to his mountain, not to lay siege, but as supplicants.” Bernard stared hard at Jordan, then Rhun. “Which means you must take care not to harm anything that confronts you on that mountain, no matter how sorely you are pressed. If you fail doing that, not only will Hugh refuse to see you, but you’ll likely be struck down before ever leaving those forested slopes.”

  “So we’re supposed to climb a mountain full of monsters,” Jordan said, “and turn the other cheek when they try to attack us.”

  Bernard held up a finger. “And you must come bearing a gift, one that Hugh will never be able to refuse.”

  What could that be?

  “Once you have his attention,” the cardinal stressed, “it will be up to you to convince him to help you, to prove your mission is a worthy one, one that serves the interests of all—not just the Sanguinists, but all God’s creatures.”

  “So a walk in the park,” Jordan said. “And we only have a day or so to convince him to help us save the world.”

  Bernard frowned, looking confused.

  Erin explained. “From a painting we saw in Edward Kelly’s lab, we think we have until noon or so on the vernal equinox to stop Lucifer from breaking free of his chains.”

  Jordan checked his watch as she explained more details about this deadline. “That leaves us roughly twenty-seven hours.”

  “But it might not be this year’s vernal equinox,” Erin offered. “That mural was painted centuries ago. Who knows for sure what inspired it?”

  Bernard wasn’t buying it—neither was Jordan, for that matter.

  “Matters grow worse around the world with every passing hour,” the cardinal said. “The balance between good and evil is tilting toward ruin. Even the stars are aligning against us, suggesting tomorrow’s equinox is important.”

  “What omen?” Erin asked.

  “Have you not heard?” he asked.

  “We’ve been busy,” Jordan said.

  “There is to be a solar eclipse . . . only a partial one.”

  Erin frowned. “The sun painted in that mural was bloodred. Maybe the artist was trying to signify an eclipse.”

  Before it could be discussed further, a knock sounded from the front of the apartment. They all turned as the entry door swung open down the hall.

  One of the guards stepped halfway through and called to them, his voice oddly nervous. “Father Korza, this visitor says he was summoned by you. That you wanted to see both of them.”

  The guard stepped aside, revealing the first visitor: the pudgy shape of Friar Patrick entered. Rhun stood up, raising his arm in welcome.

  So who else had the friar—

  A snowy shape bounded past the friar’s legs, almost bowling the man over.

  Jordan blinked in surprise at the sight. The creature was a half-grown lion, the size of a German shepherd, with snowy fur, silvery claws, and golden-brown eyes.

  As the lion charged toward them down the short hall, J
ordan shifted to protect Erin. But the cat immediately pounced on Rhun, knocking him to the floor, licking the priest’s face.

  Jordan heard a most peculiar sound.

  Rhun was laughing.

  Then the cub looked up at Jordan and bounded in one leap, sniffing around his ankles, up his legs. Jordan had to push the inquisitive lion’s nose from his crotch.

  “Yeah, hello to you, too.” Jordan swung to Bernard, remembering his story about Hugh de Payens’s love of animals. “Let me guess. Here is your key to your friend’s heart.”

  Bernard gazed upon the animal with clear longing. “This beast is so much more than that.”

  Jordan dropped down to one knee and rubbed his fingers into the scruff of its immature mane. He would be a stunning adult. The cat responded, bumping his head against Jordan’s forehead.

  When their heads touched, a jolt shot through Jordan’s body. The scarring across his shoulder and chest flared with fire.

  What the hell?

  The golden eyes locked on to his, and Jordan couldn’t look away, sensing a kindred spirit, one similarly touched by the angels.

  Bernard was right.

  You certainly are much more than you seem, little guy.

  Then the lion growled at him, baring fangs.

  9:04 A.M.

  Rhun reached for the young lion, surprised by his sudden aggression toward Jordan. But before his fingers could grab the animal, the cat twisted and bounded away. Trailing a growl, the animal stalked back out into the hall. The hackles along his snowy back stood on end.

  Friar Patrick watched his behavior and held up a hand. “Leave him be! He’s caught some scent!”

  The lion turned off the hall into one of the dark bedrooms.

  “I was just in there to get a blanket,” Jordan said. “Room’s empty.”

  In case his friend was wrong, Rhun retrieved his karambit from the floor and followed the hunting cat. The others hovered behind him.

  “Patrick,” Rhun called to the friar, “fetch the guards.”

  The lion padded low to the ground, tail swishing angrily. He led the way to a standing antique wardrobe on one side of the bed. The growl died as its gaze remained fixed on the doors.

  Something’s in there.

  Rhun waited until he heard the guards join them, then edged past the cat.

  Jordan came up on the cub’s other side, his sword in one hand. He reached his free hand to the wardrobe’s handle. He glanced to Rhun, his eyes questioning.

  Rhun nodded.

  Jordan tugged the door open—and a small, dark figure burst out at them. It shouldered hard into Jordan, knocking him back against the bed’s frame. Rhun lashed out with his curved blade, slicing flesh, but only dealt it a glancing blow.

  The attacker moved with the preternatural speed of a strigoi. But Rhun caught a flash of a white collar. A Sanguinist.

  Bernard shoved Erin to the side, then spun—grabbing one of the guard’s swords and swinging full around, catching the lurker in the neck. The head went flying into the hall, while the body toppled to the floor. Rhun glanced around the room to make sure there were no other threats.

  “Lights!” Bernard shouted and pointed his sword. “Open those hall drapes!”

  The two guards stripped the heavy silk from the windows. Fresh sunlight flowed into the hall.

  Bernard crossed and turned over the head to view the face of their attacker. The cardinal fell back a step in shock. “It’s Father . . . Father Gregory.”

  Rhun drew Bernard away, pulling him toward the office, away from the head of his former assistant. Rhun called to the guards. “Search the rest of the apartment. And the body. Look for any black marks upon his skin.”

  The others followed Rhun back into the office, even the cat.

  Erin stood, hugging her arms around her chest, her eyes shining with the knowledge that nowhere was safe any longer. Rhun wished that he could comfort her, but she was right.

  Bernard spoke, his voice slightly trembling. “Could . . . could it be the drops of Lucifer’s blood? Maybe he was afflicted like I was. Gregory did bring them to me.”

  “No,” Erin said with certainty. “Your assistant would’ve been freed when I destroyed the stones. Like you were. I think it more likely that he brought you those stones on purpose last night knowing the evil would claim you. Some other darkness held him in thrall.”

  Confirmation came when one of the guards returned to the door. “The other rooms are clear. But we found a black handprint on the base of Father Gregory’s spine.”

  “Legion,” Erin said.

  “So his evil still lives.” Rhun had feared as much.

  “Apparently so.” Erin stared down the hall. “And if he was spying on our conversation, we have to assume he now knows as much as we do.”

  Jordan crossed to her side. “Then we need to get to Hugh before Legion reaches him.”

  Bernard nodded. “You have one advantage.”

  “What’s that?” Jordan asked.

  The cardinal stared down at the lion. “He is a blessed creature.”

  Surprised, Rhun glanced to Patrick.

  “I did not divulge our secret,” the friar said.

  “That is the truth, Rhun,” Bernard said, as if Rhun would trust the cardinal. “But nothing is far from the eyes and ears of those loyal to me, both here and at the Vatican. Besides, a lion on the papal premises is not something to pass unnoticed. Especially this one.”

  Bernard placed a hand on the cub’s head, but the animal shook it off.

  A clear sign of good judgment.

  “He is a creature utterly new,” Bernard said, “and that is why he will fascinate Hugh de Payens.”

  The lion rubbed against Rhun’s thighs, a loud purr rising from his chest. Rhun touched his silky head. Smiling, Erin held out a hand. The cub sniffed, then bumped his nose playfully into her palm.

  “Where did you find him?” she asked.

  Rhun told a quick version of the story, ending with, “I believe it was that angelic fire that spared the cub in the womb and blessed his current form.”

  “If you’re right,” Jordan said, his gaze thoughtful upon the beast, “then that would mean it was that same fire that healed me, a gift from Tommy.” He looked down at the cub. “Sort of makes us blood brothers, little fella.”

  Rhun stared between Jordan and the lion. Both were indeed blessed from the same font. Perhaps there was a reason they were brought together in the same room. He took hope from that small bit of providence.

  But at the same time, he felt a trickle of fear, knowing their adversary was still out there, the dark mirror to the brightness found here. The enemy had managed to infiltrate the very heart of their order, to poison it.

  So whom could they trust?

  Rhun stared at Erin and Jordan, knowing one certainty.

  I can place my trust in them, in their hearts.

  March 19, 10:01 A.M. CET

  Prague, Czech Republic

  Legion felt the severing of that black tendril, cut by silver. As it withered and retracted, it returned his awareness to the darkness of an icy cellar beneath an old building in Prague. Those that lived in the floors above were already dead, their heartbeats forever silenced.

  He opened his lips and let more blood run over his parched tongue, down his burnt throat. His servants were few now, only those whom Legion could still hold firm to when his vessel was so damaged. The gaping wound through his chest had already closed. His broken bones callused and healed. His fire-blackened skin peeled in great sheets, shedding their past like a snake.

  But he held on to that past, letting it burn through him as surely as the fire had seared this frail body.

  He remembered claws and teeth dragging him from the smoking rubble of that malevolent house. He was pulled down steps into darkness. He knew his benefactor. It slumbered next to him, heaving great breaths, but still alert, still protecting him.

  The grimwolf.

  Once here, Legion had uncoi
led his shadows from around the faded flame of Leopold, where he had been forced to protect that ember of life, stoking it back to a small flame. If Leopold had died, Legion’s foothold in this world would have evaporated, casting him back into formless darkness. So he nurtured that flame, preserving this vessel. It had taken all of his efforts and concentration, costing him many of his branches, freeing those he had previously enslaved.

  But not all of them.

  While the tree had starved, withering away its branches, the root had survived.

  And I will grow anew, all the stronger for it.

  After the wolf had dragged him here, Legion had reached to those who still bore his yoke and drew them to this place, slaughtering everything above, bringing fresh blood to revive and strengthen his vessel. He searched out other eyes, finding how many remained across other lands, reaching those who had not broken free when he fell. He set them in motion, toward a single direction.

  All except one.

  Legion had pulled his awareness into a priest within the Sanguinist order. He had marked the man before he left Rome. He had learned of him from the Sanguinist whom he had branded in the shadow of the Vatican’s walls. It had been so simple to lure that other out into the open, exploiting the simple trust of the victim in the fellow Sanguinist who led him to Legion.

  How that priest had screamed when he first saw Legion—but it had ended when the man was held down, stripped of his robes, and Legion placed his palm on the priest’s lower back, hiding his mark there.

  Through those same eyes and ears he had spied upon his enemy, learning what they knew.

  What I know now . . .

  His attempt to corrupt them with the black blood of the dark angel might have failed in Prague, but he knew where they were headed next.

  Where I will go . . .

  To find the stones.

  He needed all three, to multiply their power in order to forge the key to Lucifer’s chains. Then he would bring the reign of mankind to a fiery end.

  His hand found the wolf next to him, reading the wildness behind the corruption, making a promise to it.