Blood Infernal

by James Rollins

  I will return paradise to you—and to myself.

  Your new dark king.

  FIFTH

  The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.

  And the cow and the bear shall feed; their young ones shall lie down together: and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.

  And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand in the cockatrice’s den.

  They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.

  —Isaiah 11:6–9

  March 19, 2:14 P.M. CET

  Pyrenees Mountains, France

  Jordan stood in the open meadow, as the helicopter’s engines whined down behind him. He took in a deep draw of the pine-scented breeze flowing down the tall mountain before him. Winter snow still frosted its granite pinnacle, while below verdant spring forest fringed its slopes, glowing in every shade of emerald under the afternoon sun.

  “Got to say,” Jordan concluded, “crazy or not, this guy picked a beautiful patch of God’s green earth to make his home.”

  Erin joined him, moving stiffly through the clover and grass. The fall through the roof in Prague had clearly taken its toll. She needed more time to heal—time they didn’t have. He looked at the sun, knowing they hoped to be out of these mountains before the sun set.

  He glanced behind to his fellow teammates. The Sanguinists looked little better than Erin: Rhun moved awkwardly with his missing arm, Sophia had a slash across her face, and Christian’s long sleeves hid bandages.

  The last member of their group appeared to be the strongest of the Sanguinists. Elizabeth had shed her religious garb for hiking boots, pants, and a knee-length black leather coat. She could easily be mistaken for some day hiker, eager to tackle this mountain. They had brought the countess along because of her past history with Hugh de Payens. They needed every advantage.

  Including bringing along the team’s mascot.

  Rhun had freed the lion from a crate in the back of the helicopter, and it gamboled across the field, chasing a blue butterfly. Jordan noted Rhun’s soft smile as he took in the carefree nature of the young lion, how it erased the lines of tension and pain that had marked the priest’s face during the flight. Jordan had never seen anything that made Rhun as relaxed as that big cat.

  Christian finished securing the aircraft and headed over to them. “This is as close as we can get. According to Bernard, Hugh de Payens allows no modern vehicles past this point.”

  It was a sobering reminder that they were in the middle of enemy territory.

  The plan was for Christian to remain behind with the aircraft, both to guard against anyone tampering with the helicopter and to be close by if a quick evacuation off the mountain became necessary.

  Erin stared up at the mountain, shadowing her eyes from the glare off the snowy peak. “Where do we go from here?”

  Rhun pulled out a map, and they clustered around it. He tapped a point on the topographic map, a fair distance up the mountain, where a river coursed down its face, tumbling from the snowline into a series of pools and waterfalls.

  “The exact location of Hugh’s hermitage is unknown, but Bernard believes it lies somewhere in this area. We’ll head there and hope for the best.”

  “I wager this Monsieur de Payens already knows we’re here,” Elizabeth said. “Our arrival in the helicopter was not a quiet one.”

  “That’s why we’re adhering to the Boy’s Scout motto,” Jordan said. “Be prepared.”

  For anything.

  Jordan hiked the shoulder strap of his Heckler & Koch MP7 machine pistol higher on his shoulder. He also had a holstered Colt 1911 sidearm, loaded with silver ammunition, and a silver-plated dagger strapped to his ankle.

  While Jordan took to heart the warning from Bernard—no killing—he didn’t want turning the other cheek to be his only option in a fight.

  The others were equally armed. Erin had her own Colt 1911, and the Sanguinists had all manner of knives and blades sheathed on their bodies.

  “Let’s move out,” Jordan said. “Before we burn any more sunlight.”

  As a group, they marched across the meadow toward the tree line, led by their enthusiastic mascot. The chirping of birds greeted them when they entered the shadowy woods. Within yards, the beeches grew so thick that at times they had to turn sideways to pass between their gray trunks.

  Here was definitely an old-growth forest, untouched for centuries.

  Hugh had clearly protected his lands against any molestation.

  As the canopy grew higher and the shadows thicker, there was no escaping the primeval feeling of the forest. It was as if they were traipsing through some natural cathedral.

  It would also be easy to get lost.

  The lion rubbed his chin against various tree trunks, as if leaving scent markings to help find their way back. Otherwise, the cub acted more like a kitten: kicking up leaf litter and bouncing through bushes. Still, when an owl hooted overhead, the lion jumped a foot in the air and landed in a rustle of leaves and cracking twigs.

  The cat was plainly tense, too.

  Or maybe he’s just picking up on our anxiety.

  They marched for a little over a mile, climbing over logs, and weaving through beeches and the occasional silver pines, never moving in a straight line for long. If they kept up this pace, they should reach the site on the map within the hour.

  After another ten minutes, Jordan discovered an old deer trail.

  Should be able to make even better time on it.

  “Over here,” he whispered, afraid to raise his voice—less because of any fear of alerting the enemy, and more out of a strange reverence for this forest.

  They headed along it, moving more quickly now.

  Then a twig snapped ahead and to the left of the trail, sounding as loud as a gunshot.

  He pushed Erin behind him and turned toward the sound. The Sanguinists flanked him, while the lion stuck to Rhun’s legs, giving off a growling hiss.

  Ten yards ahead, a giant shaggy dog bounded onto the trail and faced their group. Its black fur was more shadow than substance, the perfect camouflage for this forest.

  Except for the unnatural crimson glow of its eyes.

  A blasphemare.

  The beast’s shoulders rose higher than Jordan’s hip. As it lowered its head and pulled back its ears, it revealed a long powerful neck and muscular body. It looked more bear than dog.

  A well-fed bear.

  Even its dark coat looked polished.

  This was no stray animal.

  Though it was freakishly large with a black coat, Jordan recognized the breed as a Great Pyrenees. Originally bred to herd sheep, they were usually gentle creatures, but they were fiercely protective of their masters and their territories.

  Other shadows moved to either side of the trail, clearly letting themselves be seen.

  He counted four more out there.

  So a pack.

  The first order of business was getting Erin somewhere safe.

  Jordan shifted slowly, interlacing his fingers. He turned to offer Erin a hike up. “Get into that tree,” he warned.

  Erin didn’t bother with any false bravado and gave a quick nod. She planted her boot in his hand and pushed off him as he shoved her higher still. Reaching up, she snagged an overhanging limb of a stout beech tree, pulled herself up, then clambered higher.

  Jordan never let his gaze leave the dogs.

  The pack stirred, but didn’t approach.

  Jordan swung his machine pistol to his shoulder, while knives and blades bristled from the Sanguinists, silver shining in the dappled shade.

  After a long tense stretch, the pack began to move in unison, as if obeying some silent whistle. The first dog stalked down the trail, aiming for Jordan. The other
s split off, flanking toward the Sanguinists.

  “Remember that we are not to harm them,” Rhun warned.

  “Okay, I promise not to bite him first.” Jordan kept his machine pistol up, pointed straight at the snarling dog’s face.

  Unimpressed by the threat, the pack leader stepped closer, panting out foul breath, its muzzle rippling up into a snarl.

  Jordan’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  He had a choice to make.

  Kill it, wound it, or make peace with it.

  Jordan remembered his training as a soldier.

  He lowered his weapon.

  Obey your orders.

  His heart pounded as he held out the back of his hand to the animal. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered softly. “I promise.”

  With a shift of muscles, the dog jumped at him, snapping at his hand, catching his fingers.

  Jordan managed to yank his arm back. Blood dripped heavily from his fingertips.

  But, at least, I still have fingers.

  He watched his adversary closely. Maybe his blood was poisonous to the dog, as it had been to the strigoi back in the tunnels under Prague. The dog simply curled a corner of its lips and licked its chops.

  No such luck.

  The dog lunged at him, leaping for his throat.

  Jordan dropped onto his back, brought his feet up, and caught the dog in the stomach. He kicked it up and over his head. By the time the dog landed and turned back around, Jordan was standing up and facing it again.

  Saliva dripped from the beast’s fangs as it padded in a slow circle around him, its steps noiseless on the thick mat of dead leaves.

  Jordan touched his palm against the butt of his machine pistol—then let his arm drop again.

  Can’t shoot it.

  “Good boy,” Jordan called out, stepping toward the dog again, his hands open, showing no threat.

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw the Sanguinists fending off attacks from the other dogs with various nonlethal means of defense, which mostly involved running and leaping.

  But how long could that last?

  As if knowing its target was distracted, the dog launched himself straight for Jordan’s chest and knocked him to the ground. He managed to raise an arm to protect his throat, but teeth sank deep into the meat in Jordan’s forearm. Contorting to the side, he grabbed the dagger from his ankle sheath.

  He had taken enough punishment in the name of peace.

  The dog growled, grinding harder to the bone. Red eyes stared down into Jordan’s. He didn’t see anger or malice there, only a savage determination.

  Bernard’s words echoed in his ears: harm nothing that you find on his mountain.

  Their mission was to get Hugh’s help. Whatever happened to Jordan was insignificant compared to that. He let the dagger drop from his fingers.

  Beyond the dog’s ears, he spotted Erin sprawled flat on a tree branch. Her brown eyes were wide with horror. She aimed her pistol at the dog.

  “Don’t shoot!” Jordan croaked out past the pain.

  To ensure she obeyed, he heaved to the side, rolling the dog under him, shielding it with his body. He had to protect the dog. If the dog died, the mission would fail.

  But no one told the dog this plan.

  The snarling muzzle unlatched from his arm and snapped at his face. Jordan yanked his head back.

  Bad move.

  Yellow teeth fastened on to Jordan’s exposed throat.

  3:18 P.M.

  Erin screamed as the dog shook its head, its teeth ripping deeper. Blood gushed from Jordan’s throat and poured down the muzzle of the dog under him.

  She kept her pistol trained but was still afraid to shoot, of hitting Jordan by mistake.

  A frantic search told her that the three Sanguinists had their own troubles. Each one battled a dog of his or her own, and none of them could get free to help Jordan.

  Below her branch, the beast growled and rolled, throwing Jordan under him like a rag doll. Jordan no longer moved, his head lolling from the monster’s jaws. She steadied her aim, having a clear target now. She remembered Jordan’s earlier warning.

  Don’t shoot!

  To hell with Hugh de Payens and his rules.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  Then a flash of white speared through the shadows under the trees and struck the much larger dog in the flank, slamming the beast off Jordan.

  Rhun’s lion.

  Shadow and light battled in a tangle of limbs, then the dog rolled free, back to its feet, facing the cat with a growl. The cub looked so small. Still, the cat hissed and raised a paw, exposing silver claws.

  Apparently unimpressed, the dog advanced one stiff-legged step—then the cub lashed out, striking as fast a cobra, raking claws across the dog’s black nose. The pack leader yelped and backed away. Dark blood welled up from four ragged lines across its nose.

  The cub shifted to stand before Jordan’s body. His snowy fur stood on end, and a deep growl rumbled from his chest. He lifted a threatening paw again, clearly ready to fight some more.

  With a whimper, the dog turned and fled away, melting back into the shadows of the forest. The rest of the pack followed its example, breaking off from their various battles and vanishing away.

  Erin clambered quickly out of the tree, falling next to Jordan, collapsing to her knees beside him. The cub stalked on the far side, looking equally scared. The cat leaned his small muzzle down and nudged Jordan’s face. A small flash flared between them, like a static-electric shock in a dark room, only this was distinctly golden, reminding her of the pair’s angelic nature.

  C’mon, Jordan, you can heal from this.

  She wiped at his neck with the cuff of her sleeve. The cub licked Jordan’s cheeks and forehead. Already the blood had stopped flowing. As she watched, the torn flesh began to knit together. The crimson tendrils that had spread outward from his tattoo and had encircled his neck grew thicker yet again, weaving through the damage, healing his flesh.

  She touched his cheek with her fingertips. His skin felt impossibly hot. No one could survive long with a fever like that.

  “Jordan.”

  He opened his eyes, their hue as blue as a sky peeking between dark clouds.

  She knew everything about those eyes—how the ring around the outside of his iris was a darker blue, like denim, but the rest of his iris was much lighter, with pale lines running through it like tiny rivers. Those eyes had laughed with her, cried with her, and promised her a future together. But now they looked at her as if she were a total stranger.

  “Jordan?”

  He groaned and pushed to a sitting position, one hand patting the cat absently. His other hand rose to touch his neck. Under the residual blood, the tattoo looked like a vine strangling a tree. Through the ripped sleeve of that same arm, she saw the damage there had healed, too. As she stared, a crimson tendril bloomed into a curlicue on the back of his hand.

  Erin reached for that hand, but he pulled away from her and stood.

  Rhun rushed up to them. “Is Jordan all right?”

  Erin didn’t know how to answer that.

  Elizabeth and Sophia joined Rhun. The Sanguinists looked roughed up, but not nearly as wounded as Jordan. Perhaps their dogs had been playing with them versus trying to rip out their throats.

  Elizabeth frowned at the forest, straightening the shreds of her jacket sleeve. “Why did the dogs abandon their fight?”

  Erin kept her gaze fixed to Jordan. “The cat . . . I think he scared them off.”

  Rhun stroked the lion’s head, mumbling his thanks.

  Erin shifted in front of Jordan, forcing him to look at her, gripping his strong shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  He finally glanced down at her, blinked a few times, then nodded. His eyes focused on her, seeing her. He touched his neck, looking vaguely bewildered.

  “I’m fine.”

  She hugged him, squeezing him hard to her chest.

  He was
a moment slow in responding, but his arms finally wrapped around her, too. “I’m even better now,” he whispered to the top of her head.

  She smiled into his chest, while also holding back a sob.

  Elizabeth brushed leaves from her skirt, looking impatient.

  Erin broke away, but she kept one hand in Jordan’s grip, doing her best to ignore the burn of his palm and fingers, fearful that he might not come back the next time.

  She took a moment to rub the lion’s velvety ears, knowing who had truly saved Jordan’s life. “Thanks, little guy.”

  In the distance, a dog howled out of the deeper forest, reminding them that they weren’t out of danger. Not even close.

  “Time to go,” Jordan said. “If those dogs are retreating back home, we might be able to follow their tracks.”

  “He’s right,” Rhun said. “If these beasts are the emissaries of Hugh de Payens, then perhaps they were sent to bring us to him.”

  “Or they’re simply wild blasphemare who came to kill us,” Erin added bitterly.

  But with no better plan, they set off with Rhun in the lead. His eyes watched the ground, likely picking out prints in the damp loam or noting snapped twigs. He would occasionally lift his nose, drawing in the scent of the cursed pack.

  “At least we got our own personal bloodhound,” Jordan whispered beside her.

  But where is Rhun taking us, what new horrors were on this mountain?

  March 19, 3:44 P.M. CET

  Pyrenees Mountains, France

  Rhun tracked through the forest, doing his best to ignore the throbbing ache of his stump. He took measure of those around him after the battle, knowing he would need to lean on them.

  Now more than ever.

  Elizabeth walked easily behind him, having sustained only a small wound on her hand. He had seen how swiftly she had fought against the blasphemare, a reminder of how fierce a warrior she was. Still, he sensed a reluctance from her to be here, an edgy impatience that was new. Like Jordan, she had grown withdrawn, her mind elsewhere. He had tried to question her about it on the flight, but she dismissed him.

  Still, he sensed something had happened back at Castel Gandolfo, something that both angered her and worried her at the same time.