Blood Infernal

9

As the helicopter swept over the Adriatic Sea, Jordan checked his watch. They’d made good time getting here from Rome. Ahead, the city of Venice glowed against the black backdrop of its lagoon, like some jeweled crown abandoned in the Italian waters.

Aboard the aircraft, he and Erin were accompanied by a trio of Sanguinists. Up front, Christian crouched over the controls, while Sophia and Bernard shared the back cabin with them. The addition of the cardinal on the trip had surprised Jordan.

Guess Bernard got tired of sitting around Rome.

Still, the cardinal and the others were skilled warriors. Jordan certainly didn’t mind the extra muscle, especially after the attack in that underground temple. Even now his belly burned, a fire stoked by some miraculous healing ability. The same heat coursed through the old scar tissue that twined across his shoulder and upper torso from the lightning bolt that had struck him as a teenager.

Erin leaned against that shoulder now. He held her fingers. Every so often during the flight, she had cast him a worried glance. He couldn’t blame her, even Sophia and Baako were spooked by his near death.

The helicopter gave a strong jolt, drawing Jordan’s attention out the window as the city of Venice came into view. Christian swung the aircraft into a turn, tilting for a better view.

“Right below us,” Christian radioed back through the set of headphones they all shared, “is St. Mark’s Square. That red-and-white tower is the Campanile and that building that looks like a gothic wedding cake is the Doge’s Palace. Next to it is St. Mark’s Basilica. The order has its own domain below those sacred grounds, much like at St. Peters. That’s where we’ll spend the night after we question Elizabeth Bathory about that symbol.”

Erin squeezed Jordan’s hand, leaning over him, taking it all in. “Venice has stood like this for close to a thousand years,” she said. “Imagine that…”

He smiled at her enthusiasm, but he had to force it a bit. He still felt strangely disconnected. And it wasn’t just his dampened reaction to the woman he loved. Today he had missed both lunch and dinner, and he still wasn’t hungry. And even when he did force himself to eat, the food tasted bland. He ate more out of duty than any true desire.

He rubbed his thumb along the new scar on his belly.

Something has definitely changed.

And while he should be bothered by it, even scared, instead he felt a deep calm, as if whatever was happening was meant to be. He couldn’t put it into words, so mostly avoided talking about it, even with Erin, but it somehow felt right.

Like he was becoming better and stronger.

As Jordan pondered this mystery, Christian flew them away from St. Mark’s Square and landed the aircraft on top of a nearby luxury hotel. As the chopper powered down, Jordan did a quick weapons check: sidearm, machine pistol, and dagger. He glanced around at the others, waiting for Christian to give them the all clear so they could climb out.

Erin looked excited, but he also noted the shadows under her eyes. For an ordinary civilian, she had been through too much in too short a time. She had never really had time to recover, to internalize all that had transpired over the past year.

From the pilot’s seat, Christian waved them permission to exit, but Sophia held them back, plainly wanting to leave first. During the flight here, the small-framed Indian woman had sat with her eyes half-closed, radiating a sense of peace. Whether that stillness came from her faith or an unnatural ability to remain unmoving, Jordan wasn’t sure. Now she opened the door and flowed out to the helipad with a surprising grace.

Bernard followed her, showing no less poise. As the cardinal stepped free, a gust of wind billowed open his dark coat, revealing the crimson garb of his station beneath. His gaze swept the rooftop for any threats. Though Bernard had spent the trip here in prayer, with his gloved fingers folded piously on his lap, he didn’t look any more settled now.

Then again, the target of this cross-country trip, Elizabeth Bathory, would likely prove a challenge to them all. Especially for the cardinal, who had a long and bloody history with the woman. The two of them had an enmity that spanned centuries.

Christian came around, ducking under the chopper’s slowing blades, to offer a hand to Erin as she exited. The fading rotor wash blew Erin’s blond hair into a gauzy halo as she glanced back to Jordan. Her amber eyes glowed under the stars, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were slightly parted as if waiting to be kissed.

For a moment, her beauty cut through that burning fog that filled him.

I do love you, Erin.

That will never change, he silently swore — but deep inside, he wondered if he could keep that promise.

In her room at the convent, Elizabeth lay fully clothed atop her hard bed and watched the play of city lights that reflected off the canal and dappled her ceiling. Her thoughts were half a world away, with Tommy.

She touched the phone hidden in the pocket of her skirt. As soon as she was free, she would figure out how to help him. Her own children had been stolen from her. She would not let that happen to Tommy. No one took what was hers.

She turned her head toward the window, to where she had hidden the stolen key to Berndt’s boat in a small hole in the stucco. For the moment, she must simply wait, try to keep her breathing even, her heartbeat slow. She could not let the handful of Sanguinist nuns who mingled with their mortal sisters here at the convent sense her anxiety, to suspect her plot to escape these walls this very night.

The convent imposed a midnight curfew on its guests, and as usual, Abigail would keep a post at the front desk until the convent’s gates were barred shut. After that, the old nun would retire to her room at the back of the house. But Elizabeth could not count on her sleeping. Elizabeth remembered how the night always poured energy into her strigoi body, demanded that she go outside and feel moonlight and starlight on her skin. The Sanguinists must have a similar experience, no matter how much they tried to control their pleasures with prayer.

A door slammed closed down the corridor.

Another tourist returning to bed.

As it was spring, the convent’s guest quarters were full, which was a good thing. With so many beating hearts in this wing, Abigail would find it difficult to pick out the rhythm of Elizabeth’s among so many. Those extra heartbeats might be enough to allow her to escape.

And I must escape.

She reviewed her plan in her head: remove the boat key from the window, creep down the carpeted corridor carrying her shoes, unbar the iron gate at the side of the convent, and circle the house to Berndt’s boat. From there, she would cast off the lines, let the current drift her some distance before starting the craft’s engine, and be on her way to freedom.

Her plans after that were troublesomely vague.

Before she fell among the Sanguinists last winter, she had buried a great stash of money and gold outside of Rome, a treasure she had gathered from the bodies and homes of those she had preyed upon after waking up in this era after centuries of sleep in a sarcophagus full of holy wine.

Rhun had trapped her in that stone coffin as surely as he had her imprisoned here.

One hand rose to touch her room’s wall, determined to let nothing stop her from reaching Tommy before it was too late for the boy. Once free, she would find a strigoi and persuade it to turn her — then she would bring that same gift to Tommy’s bedside.

Then you will live… and be forever at my side.

Her ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. A large party approached, too many to be a family of tourists.

Had the nuns somehow grown wise to her plans?

She sat up in bed as hard knuckles rapped firmly on her door.

“Countess,” a male voice called out with an Italian accent.

She immediately recognized the barely veiled authority in that voice. It set her jaw to aching. Cardinal Bernard.

“Are you awake?” he asked through the stout door.

She toyed with the idea of pretending to be asleep, but she didn’t see the point — and she was curious about this unexpected visit.

“I am,” she whispered, knowing he would hear it with his acute senses.

She rose to receive them. Her skirts rustled against the cold tile floor as she unlatched the door. As usual, the cardinal was bedecked in scarlet, a vanity that amused her. Bernard must always let everyone know of his elevated status.

Behind his shoulder, Abigail scowled at her. She ignored the nun and nodded to Bernard’s other companions, most she knew well: Erin Granger, Jordan Stone, and a young Sanguinist named Christian. She noted someone conspicuously absent from this entourage.

Rhun was not part of their ranks.

Was he too ashamed to show himself?

Anger flared through her, but she merely pressed her lips more tightly together. She dared not show agitation. “It is late for a visit.”

“My apologies for disturbing you at such an unseemly hour, Countess.” The cardinal spoke with an oily diplomatic smoothness. “We have a matter that we wish to discuss with you.”

She kept her face passive, knowing that whatever had brought this group to her door must be something urgent. She also sensed her chances of escaping this night were vanishing.

“I would be happy to talk to you in the morning,” she said. “I was preparing myself to retire.”

Sister Abigail reached across and hauled Elizabeth bodily into the corridor, not bothering to hide her unnatural strength. “They mean now.”

Jordan placed a restraining hand on the nun’s arm. “I think we can do this without any roughness.”

“And this is a matter of some discretion,” Bernard said, waving Abigail off.

A muscle twitched under the nun’s eye. “As you wish. I have other matters to attend to, so I will leave Lady Elizabeth in your charge.”

Abigail released Elizabeth, turned on her heel, and stalked off.

Elizabeth enjoyed watching her leave.

“Would you like to talk in my bedchamber?” She gestured back at her cell, allowing a vein of irritation to show. “Though it is quite cramped.”

Bernard stepped closer, while glancing down the corridor. “We’ll be taking you to our chapels below St. Mark’s Basilica, where we might speak in private.”

“I see,” she said.

The cardinal reached to her arm, as if to escort her by the hand, but instead, he dropped a cold metal shackle around her wrist and fastened the other end to his own.

“Shackles?” she asked. “One of your strength cannot control a small, helpless mortal woman such as me?”

Jordan grinned. “Mortal or not, I’m guessing there’s nothing helpless about you.”

“Perhaps you are right.” She tilted her head and smiled at him.

He was a handsome man — a strong jaw, a square face, and a hint of wheat-colored stubble across his chin and cheeks. A heat emanated from him, an internal fire that she might enjoy warming herself beside.

Erin took his hand, asserting ownership of her man. Some things did not change with the passage of centuries.

“Lead me to my fate, Sergeant Stone,” Elizabeth said.

As a group, they paraded through the convent and out the main gates. She caught sight of Berndt’s boat and felt a twinge of irritation, but she allowed it to fade away.

While she wouldn’t be taking her boat ride to freedom this night, perhaps a more interesting opportunity had arisen.

Erin trailed behind the Sanguinists as they wended through the alleys and over the small arched bridges of Venice. She held Jordan’s hand, his palm hot in her own. She tried to push back her fears about him. No matter how feverish he felt, he looked healthy, ready to take on an army.

Once they were alone, she would pry out more details about what had happened in that cavern, and why he seemed to be pulling away from her lately. She suspected the source of these changes came from the angelic essence that Tommy had imbued into him when he had saved Jordan’s life. Still, while her mind pondered this possibility, her heart went immediately to more mundane places.

What if he simply doesn’t love me anymore?

As if he guessed her thoughts, Jordan squeezed her hand. “Ever been to Venice?” he asked softly.

“I’ve only read about it. But it’s like I always pictured it.”

Glad for the distraction, she glanced around. The alleys of this island city were so narrow that only two could walk abreast in some places. Small storefronts displayed antique books, pens fashioned from glass, leather masks, silk and velvet scarves. Venice had always been a trading center. Hundreds of years ago, these same shop windows had dazzled other pedestrians with their wares. Hopefully, they would do the same a hundred years from now.

She inhaled deeply, smelling the sea off the canals, the scent of garlic and tomatoes from some nearby restaurant. Closer at hand, the houses were façades painted in shades of ocher and yellow and faded blues, their window glass rippled by the passing centuries.

It was easy to imagine that she’d stepped into a time machine and arrived a hundred years earlier or even a thousand. She’d been raised on a rural compound by parents whose everyday life was more primitive than the people who lived in this city centuries ago. Her father’s faith had caused him to repudiate the modern world, and she sometimes worried that her profession, her curiosity about history, kept her out of sync with time as well.

Am I my father’s child after all?

The group finally crossed along a dark tunnel that passed through an ancient wall. At its end, St. Mark’s Square opened before them, and she faced the city’s famous basilica.

Golden light illuminated the front of the Byzantine building, a fanciful façade of arched portals, marble columns, and elaborate mosaics. Erin craned her neck to take in its breadth. In the center, at the top, stood a statue of St. Mark himself, above a golden winged lion, his symbol. Flanking the Warrior Saint were six angels.

The entire structure was the epitome of opulence and grandeur.

Jordan had his opinion. “Looks a bit gaudy.”

A laugh escaped Erin. She couldn’t stop it. It sounded like the Jordan she had first met in Israel.

“Wait until you see the inside,” she said. “It’s called the Church of Gold for a very good reason.”

Jordan shrugged. “If it’s worth doing, I guess it’s worth overdoing.”

She smiled at him as they headed across St. Mark’s Square. During the day, the place would be full of pigeons and tourists, but at this late hour, the square was practically deserted.

Ahead, the countess walked regally next to Cardinal Bernard, her head held high and her eyes fixed on some distant point in front of her. Even in a fairly modern dress, she looked like a storybook princess, stepped from the pages of an ancient book. In the countess’s case, it would be a grim book of fairy tales.

As they neared the basilica, Erin pointed to the mosaics at the entrance. “These were installed in the thirteenth century. They depict scenes from Genesis.”

She recalled the story on the tablet in the Sanguinist library — and how that story had been altered. She searched the mosaics above for the serpent in the garden, recalling how that ancient account detailed a pact Eve made with that serpent: to share the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.

Before she could get a good look, an elderly priest stepped out from under a shadowy archway. His white hair was disheveled, and his cassock was buttoned crooked. A ring of keys hung on his belt.

The priest met Bernard at the basilica’s threshold. “This is very irregular. Never in all my years—”

Bernard cut him off, lifting a hand. “Yes, it is an unusual request. I am grateful that you are able to accommodate it with so little notice. If it were not urgent, we would never think to bother you.”

“I am always happy to be of service.” The old priest sounded slightly mollified.

“As are we all,” said the cardinal.

The Italian priest turned, led them to the main door, and unlocked it.

As he stood aside, he warned Bernard. “I’ve deactivated the alarms. So you must notify me when you are finished.”

The cardinal thanked him and hurried inside, drawing their group in his wake.

Erin followed, gaping at the golden mosaics that appeared, covering every surface: walls, archways, and domed ceilings.

Jordan let out a small whistle of appreciation at the sight. “Are my eyes playing tricks, or does it look like everything is glowing?”

“The tiles were designed that way,” Erin explained, grinning at his reaction. “Created by fusing gold leaf between glass tiles. It makes them more reflective than solid gold.”

Elizabeth turned her silver eyes on Jordan, drawn perhaps by his enthusiasm. “They are lovely, are they not, Sergeant Stone? Some of those mosaics were commissioned by my Bohemian ancestors.”

“Really?” Jordan said. “They did an impressive job.”

Erin didn’t like how Elizabeth’s smile widened at his attention.

Perhaps sensing Erin’s irritation, the countess swung to face Cardinal Bernard. “I suspect you did not bring me here to admire my ancestors’ handiwork. What is so urgent that it requires such a nightly sojourn?”

“Knowledge,” he answered her.

By now, they had reached the center of the church. Bernard clearly didn’t want anyone eavesdropping. Christian and Sophia kept to their flanks, slowly circling the group, likely both to guard them and to keep any stray priest who might be nearby from getting too close.

“What do you wish to know?” Elizabeth asked.

“It concerns a symbol, one found in your journals.”

He reached inside his coat and pulled out the worn leather book.

Elizabeth held up her free hand. “May I see it?”

Erin stepped forward and took it herself. She flipped to the last page and pointed to the symbol that looked like a cup. “What can you tell us about this?”

The countess’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “If you’re inquiring about it now, then I trust you have found the same symbol elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” Erin said. “Why?”

The countess reached for the book, but Erin moved it out of her reach. A flash of irritation crossed the woman’s smooth features.

“Let me guess then,” Elizabeth said. “You found the symbol on a stone.”

“What are you talking about?” the cardinal asked.

“You are a gifted liar, Your Eminence. But the answer to my question is written across this young woman’s face.”

Erin blushed. She hated being so transparent, especially when she had no idea what the countess was thinking.

Elizabeth explained. “I’m referring to a green diamond, about the size of my fist, with this same marking upon it.”

“What do you know about it?” Jordan asked.

The countess threw back her head and laughed. The sound echoed across the cavernous space. “I shall not give you the information you seek.”

The cardinal loomed over her. “You can be made to tell us.”

“Calm yourself, Bernard.” Her use of his common name only seemed to irritate the cardinal even more. She was clearly enjoying pushing his buttons. “I said that I would not give you this knowledge, but that does not mean that I shall not part with it.”

Erin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Simple,” she said. “I shall sell my knowledge to you.”

“You are in no position to bargain,” the cardinal blustered.

“I believe I am in a very good position,” she countered, facing the storm growing in the cardinal’s stance with a steady calm. “You are frightened of this symbol, of this stone, of the events even now transpiring against you and your precious order. You will pay me what I want.”

“You are a prisoner,” the cardinal began. “You—”

“Bernard, my price is a slight one. I’m sure you’ll be able pay it.”

Erin gripped the journal more tightly, her eyes drawn to the countess’s triumphant face, dreading what was coming next.

The cardinal kept his tone guarded. “What do you want?”

“Something of very little worth,” she said. “Only your eternal soul.”

Jordan had stiffened next to her, as if expecting an attack. “What exactly does that mean?”

The countess leaned closer to the cardinal, her black hair brushing his scarlet cassock. He took a step back, but she matched it.

“Restore me to my former glory,” she whispered, her voice more seductive than demanding.

Bernard shook his head. “If you’re referring to your former castle and lands, that is not within my power.”

“Not my lands.” She laughed brightly. “I can get those back myself, should I have need of them. What I require from you is much simpler.”

The cardinal stared down at her, revulsion written on his face. He knew what she was going to ask for.

Even Erin did.

Elizabeth reached toward the cardinal’s lips, toward his hidden fangs.

“Make me a strigoi again.”

10

Elizabeth shivered in delight as shock washed away Cardinal Bernard’s usual calm composure. For a fraction of a moment, he bared his teeth at her, dropping his mask, showing his true nature. After centuries of sparring, she had finally managed to crack his façade of diplomacy and order, exposing the animal beneath.

I need that animal.

She would risk even death to unshackle it.

To the side, the archaeologist and the soldier looked equally surprised, but the best reactions came from the Sanguinists. The young Christian went stiff; the slim Sanguinist woman with burnished Eastern features curled her lip in revulsion. In their holy minds, such a request was unimaginable.

Then again, a failure of imagination had always been the Sanguinists’ chief sin.

“Never.” The cardinal’s first word was a low rumble — then his voice rose, bursting from his chest, booming through the church. “You… you are an abomination!”

She faced his fury, stoking it even more with her calmness. “Your priestly prudery holds no interest for me. And do not fool yourself, I am no more an abomination than you.”

Bernard fought to bottle back his rage, to tamp it down inside him, but the cracks continued to show. His fists were iron at his side. “We will not discuss such mortal sins in this holy place of worship.”

He yanked on her cuffed wrist, hard enough for the edge of the shackles to cut her skin. He stalked toward the back of the church, pulling the rest with him as if they were equally bound to the cardinal.

And maybe they were, in their own ways.

Elizabeth had to run to keep up with him, but she could not keep that pace. Her feet tangled in her long skirt, and she sprawled across the cold marble. Her handcuff bit deeper into the flesh of her wrist.

She kept silent, savoring the pain.

If he was hurting her, he had lost control.

And I’ve gained it.

She struggled to get her feet beneath her, losing a shoe in the battle. In her efforts to rise, she tore the shoulder of her dress. Aghast, she clutched it with her free hand to keep it from falling.

Christian blocked Bernard, touching the cardinal’s arm. “She cannot keep up with you, Your Eminence. Remember, she is mortal now, as much as she might not wish to be.”

Jordan helped her to her feet, his strong hands warm against her body.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the sergeant.

Even Erin came to her aid, reaching over and adjusting Elizabeth’s dress so that it did not hang down so. Despite the woman’s low background, she did indeed have a well of kindness, one deep enough to help an enemy in distress. Perhaps that was part of Rhun’s attraction to her — her simple kindness.

Elizabeth stepped away from the woman without offering her thanks. She kicked off her other shoe, so as not to walk with a limp. Cold stone pressed against the soles of her bare feet.

Bernard apologized through gritted teeth. “I beg your pardon, Countess Bathory.”

He turned and continued onward, but now at a more moderate pace. Still, anger was evident in each exaggerated step. He plainly could not appreciate what she wanted, what she demanded of him. He had been immortal so long that he had forgotten mortal desires, mortal weaknesses. But in doing so, he had also created a powerful weakness inside him.

And I will exploit it to the fullest.

The cardinal reached the far side of the basilica and led them down a set of stairs, likely heading to the buried Sanguinist chapel.

A dark space for dark secrets.

At the bottom of the stairs lay a candlelit crypt. The floor was smooth and clean, an easy walk, even in bare feet. On the far side, Bernard stopped in front of a stone wall decorated with a carved figure of Lazarus.

She guessed it was one of the order’s hidden gates.

How they loved their secrets.

Standing before the statue, the cardinal peeled off his left glove and took a knife from his belt. He pierced his bare palm with a small knife and dripped blood into a cup that Lazarus was holding. He spoke softly in Latin, too quickly for her to follow.

A moment later, the small door swung open to the side with a grating sound.

The cardinal faced the others. “I will speak to the countess alone.”

Murmurs spread among the others, uncertainty on their faces.

Christian was the boldest, maybe because he was newer to the order, willing to confront his superior directly. “Your Eminence, that goes against our rules.”

“We’re well beyond rules,” Bernard countered. “I can come to a more satisfactory arrangement without the presence of others.”

Erin stepped up. “What are you planning on doing to her? Torture the information out of her?”

Jordan supported the archaeologist. “I was against enhanced interrogation techniques in Afghanistan, and I’m not going to tolerate it now.”

Ignoring them, the cardinal backed through the door, pulling Elizabeth with him. From the threshold, he called out a command that echoed through the crypt.

“Pro me. For me alone.”

Before anyone could react, the door slammed closed between them.

Darkness enfolded Elizabeth.

Bernard whispered in her ear. “Now you are mine.”

Erin pounded the flat of her hand against the sealed door.

She should have suspected such an underhanded maneuver from Bernard. If there were secrets to be learned, he had shown in the past that he would go to extreme measures to control the flow of information. Erin would not put it past the cardinal to withhold whatever knowledge he gained from Elizabeth, maybe even killing the countess to silence her.

She turned to Christian and pointed to the cup in the statue’s hands. “Get this door open.”

Before he could obey, Sophia touched the young Sanguinist on the shoulder, but her words were for them all. “The cardinal will question the countess himself. He has experience in such matters.”

“I am the Woman of Learning,” Erin argued. “Whatever Elizabeth knows concerns our quest.”

Jordan nodded. “And this Warrior of Man agrees, too.”

Sophia refused to back down. “You don’t know with certainty that her information has any direct bearing on your quest.”

Erin fumed, hating being cut out of the loop so abruptly. But she also had a bigger concern. She didn’t trust the countess, not even with the cardinal. Erin feared Bernard might be outmatched by Elizabeth. It was evident the woman knew how to push Bernard’s buttons, but was it just a sadistic game or was Elizabeth manipulating Bernard to her own ends?

Erin took a different tack. “If things go sour in there, how fast can you get us inside?”

“Define sour,” Christian said.

“Bernard is locked alone in there with the Blood Countess. She’s a brilliant woman who knows more about strigoi and their nature than anyone.”

Sophia raised an eyebrow. She looked a little surprised.

Erin pressed on. “The countess has conducted experiments on strigoi, trying to determine their nature. It’s all in her journal.”

Jordan stared toward the sealed gate. “Which means the countess likely knows Bernard’s weaknesses, probably better than he does himself.”

Erin looked into Christian’s eyes. He wanted to help her, but he clearly still felt a duty to follow Bernard’s orders.

“Either way, it doesn’t matter,” Sophia said. “The cardinal closed the door with the command pro me, which means that it will open only to him.”

What?

Erin turned worriedly to the door.

“So he’s trapped in there with her,” Jordan muttered.

Christian clarified. “We can get inside, but not with the blood of only two of us.” He motioned to Sophia. “To override the cardinal’s command, it would take a full trio of Sanguinists. The power of three can open the door at any time.”

Sophia’s eyebrows drew down in worry. “Perhaps it is best if I fetch a third. Just in case.”

“Do that,” Erin said.

And hurry.

Sophia rushed across the crypt and melted into the darkness of the stairwell.

Erin met Jordan’s eyes and saw her own worries reflected there.

This is going to end badly.

Elizabeth fought against panic. With the door sealed, the darkness was so thick that it felt as if it had substance, as if it could crawl down her throat and smother her. But she forced herself to stay calm, knowing Bernard must hear the pounding of her heartbeat. She stiffened her back, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

She focused on the fiery pain of the shackle on her wrist. Warm blood dribbled from her torn skin and trickled into her palm. The cardinal must sense that, too.

Good.

She rubbed her hands together, smearing them both.

“Come,” Bernard said hoarsely.

He tugged on her cuffs and pulled her deeper into this cold lair of the Sanguinists. She shivered against that chill. He half-dragged her through the darkness for what seemed like forever, but was likely only minutes.

Then they stopped again, and a match flared, bringing with it the smell of sulfur. Light illuminated Bernard’s pale, set face. He touched the match to a golden beeswax candle set in a wall sconce. He moved along to another, lighting that taper, too.

Soon, a warm, flickering light illuminated the room.

She looked up to a domed ceiling shining with a silver mosaic. Just as the glass tiles in the basilica above had been fashioned of gold leaf, these were made with silver. They covered every surface.

The room glowed with their splendor.

The mosaic depicted a familiar Sanguinist motif: the raising of Lazarus. He sat upright in a brown coffin, white as death, a streak of crimson dripping from one corner of his mouth. Facing him stood a gilded Christ, the only golden figure in the mosaic. Finely detailed tiles showed Christ’s luminous brown eyes, curly black hair, and a sad smile. Majesty radiated from his simple form, awing those who had gathered to witness this miracle. And it wasn’t just humans. Light angels watched the scene from above, while dark angels waited below, and Lazarus sat forever caught between them.

The Sanguinists’ Risen One.

How much simpler her life would be if Lazarus had never accepted Christ’s challenge.

She turned her face from the ceiling, her eyes falling on the room’s only other adornment. In the middle of the chamber rose a white-clad altar. Atop it rested a silver chalice. The touch of silver burned strigoi and Sanguinists alike. To drink from a silver chalice was to intensify a Sanguinist’s pain, to increase their penance when they consumed their holy wine.

A sneer rose to her lips.

How could these fools follow a God who demanded such endless suffering?

Bernard confronted her. “You will tell me what I need to know. Here. In this room.”

She kept her tone cold, her words simple. “First pay my price.”

“You know that I cannot do so. It would be a grievous sin.”

“But it’s been done before.” She touched her throat, remembering teeth ripping into that tender flesh. “By your Chosen One, by Rhun Korza.”

Bernard glanced away, his voice dropping. “He was young, new to the fold. He fell in a moment of lust and pride. I am not so foolish. The rules are clear. We must never—”

She stopped him. “Never? Since when has that word ever been a part of your vocabulary, Cardinal? You have broken many of your order’s rules. Going back centuries. Do you think I do not know this?”

“It is not for you to judge,” he said, heat entering his words. “Only God can do that.”

“Then surely He shall judge me as well.” By now, her bare feet ached from the cold, but she stood her ground. “Surely it must be His will that I am here at this time, the only one who holds this knowledge. A truth that you can receive if you only pay this price.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Bernard’s face.

She took advantage of it and pressed him harder. “If your God is all-knowing and all-powerful, why has He placed me in front of you as the sole repository of the knowledge you seek? Perhaps what I ask of you is His will?”

She instantly knew she had taken a step too far — she read it in the hardening of his features.

“You, a fallen woman, dare to interpret His will?” He scowled at her, his words consigning her to the level of a woman who sold her body for money.

How dare you!

She slapped his supercilious face, leaving a smear of her own blood on his skin. “I am not a fallen woman. I am Countess Bathory de Ecsed, of royal blood that dates back centuries. And I will not be insulted by such slander. Especially by you.”

His response was lightning fast. His fist struck her a hard blow in turn. She fell back a step, her face throbbing. She quickly collected herself, drawing her back stiffly. She tasted blood in her mouth.

Excellent.

“I can do anything to you in here,” he said in a dark tone.

She licked her lips, wetting them with her own blood. She knew he must already smell the fresh blood drying on his cheek. She noted how his nose lifted slightly, revealing the animal within him, the monster lurking behind that mask.

She had to break that beast free of its shackles.

“What can you do to me?” she challenged him. “You are too weak to ever persuade me to help you.”

“Do not mistake my composure for weakness,” he warned. “I remember the Inquisition, when pain in service to the church was raised to an art form. I can inflict agony on you such as you have never experienced.”

She smiled at his anger. “You can teach me nothing of pain, priest. For one hundred years it was forbidden to speak my name in my own country because of the acts I committed. I have given and received more pain than you could ever imagine… and received more pleasure. These things are entwined in ways that you will never understand.”

She stepped closer, forcing him to withdraw, but the handcuffs kept him from moving too far.

“Pain does not frighten me,” she continued, exhaling the hot scent of her blood toward him.

“It… it should frighten you.”

She wanted him to continue talking, knowing to speak required breath. And with each breath, he drew her scent more deeply into him.

“Hurt me,” she warned, “and see which of us enjoys it more.”

He retreated from her until his back was pressed hard against the silver mosaics that covered the walls. But the handcuffs drew her along with him, ever at his side.

She bit deeper into her bruised cheek, while tilting her head low. She parted her mouth, letting fresh blood run past her lips. She then drew her head back, exposing her neck in a languorous stretch, allowing the candlelight to glisten against that red ribbon as it ran down and pooled into the hollow of her throat.

She felt his eyes follow that warm trail, to the promise it held. Its rich warmth called to the beast buried in every drop of his own damned blood.

She knew how the scent bloomed within the room in ways that she could no longer sense. How the smell could fill one’s nostrils, even one’s mouth. Long ago, she had felt what he felt now. She knew its immense power. She had learned to embrace it, and in doing so it made her strong.

He denied it — and that kept him weak.

“How would you torture me now, Bernard?” She slurred the words through a mouthful of blood, using the intimacy of his name.

He fumbled his free hand to his pectoral cross, but she blocked him, covering the silver with her own palm, keeping him from touching it, denying him the comfort of holy pain. His fingers closed on her hand, squeezing, as if he thought that her hand was his cross, his salvation.

“I will tell you what you need to know,” she whispered, speaking aloud his innermost desire. “I will help you save your church.”

His fingers tightened, coming close to breaking the small bones of her hand.

“It will be simple for you,” she urged. “You have committed blood sins before, and I know that your sins are much darker than anyone suspects. You have committed many sins in His name, have you not?”

His face told her that he had.

“Then do this now,” she said. “And your act will give you the power to protect your church, your order. Would you have your world fall, to lose all because you were too frightened to act? Because you placed your own fear of the rules above your holy mission?”

She drew the tip of her tongue along her lips again, freshly coating them, knowing how bright her blood must look against her pale skin, how the sight and smell of it must sing to him.

Without knowing that he did so, he licked his own lips.

“How can saving His world with the tools that He has given you be a sin?” she questioned him. “You are stronger than the rules, Bernard. I know this… and down deep, you know this, too.”

She drew in a slow breath, never taking her eyes from his. Her words had sunk in, playing on his doubt, stoking his hubris.

He trembled before her — wanting her answers, wanting her blood, wanting her.

He might be a Sanguinist now, but he had been a strigoi before, and a man before that. He had devoured flesh, tasted pleasure. Those urges were ingrained in every fiber of his being, always.

Her heart raced, and her cheek throbbed with heat from his blow. She had always loved pain, needed it like she would later need blood. She closed her eyes and let the pain beat through her — from her cheek, from her torn wrist.

It was bliss.

When she opened her eyes, he still held her hand pressed against the cross by his heart. His eyes traveled from her blood-bright lips to the pulse in her throat, to the tops of her shoulders, so white against the silken slip. She shifted to the side to let her torn dress fall from her shoulders. Now the candlelight fell on her breasts, so easily visible through her silk underdress.

He stared at her for several long heartbeats.

She leaned forward with infinite slowness — then rose up on her tiptoes and lightly, barely skimming the surface, she brushed her lips against his. For one long breath she stood so, letting him feel her warmth, draw in the scent of her ripe blood.

“If it is not His will, then why am I here?” she whispered. “Only you can be strong enough to get the answer from me. Only you have the power to save your world.”

Then she parted his cold lips with hers and slipped her tongue between, bringing with it the taste of blood.

He moaned, opening his mouth to her.

She felt fangs there now, growing as she deepened their kiss.

With their lips still sealed together, he turned and slammed her against the wall, crushing his body against hers. Old tiles broke loose beneath her, the glass edges cutting through her thin silk slip and slicing into her skin. Blood ran warm down her back and pattered to the stone floor.

She pulled her mouth away from his, offering her neck instead.

Without hesitation, he bit her.

She gasped at the pain.

He immediately drew in a great draught of her blood, taking with it her warmth. She shivered as her limbs grew colder. Icy pain shot through her heart. This was not the rapturous joining that she had experienced with Rhun.

This was animal need.

A painful hunger that left no room for love or tenderness.

He might kill her and leave her with nothing, but she had to take that chance, trusting that knowledge was as important as blood to the man that clutched to her.

He will not let me die with the secrets I hold.

But having freed the beast inside of the man, would that hold true?

Her body slumped toward the floor. As her heart weakened, doubt filled those empty spaces — and fear.

Then an eternal darkness took away the world.

11

Rhun strode briskly across the polished floor of St. Mark’s Basilica. He had landed in Venice a quarter of an hour ago. From a message left for him, he had learned that Bernard and the others had taken Elisabeta here. Only when he arrived, he found the door to the church unlocked, and no one seemed to be here.

Had they already proceeded to the Sanguinist chapel below?

He stared across the nave toward the north transept of the basilica. As he recalled, a stairwell on that side led down to a subterranean crypt and the secret gateway to the Sanguinists’ spaces. He headed toward it, but then movement drew his attention to the south transept. Out of the darkness, the flow of shadows rushed toward him, moving with preternatural speed.

Rhun tensed, crouching, unsure who this party was, wary after the recent attacks.

Surely no strigoi would dare attack on such holy ground.

A voice called to him as the shadows moved farther into the light, revealing themselves to be a clutch of Sanguinists: two men and a woman.

“Rhun!” He recognized Sophia’s burnished features.

The small woman hurried to his side, drawing the others with her. “You’ve come just in time.”

He read the anxiety in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Come with us,” she said and headed toward the north transept. “There’s trouble at the Sanguinist gate.”

“Tell me,” he said, checking the karambit sheathed at his wrist as he accompanied her, matching her swift speed.

She told him about what had transpired below, how Bernard had taken Elisabeta through the gate and locked it behind him.

“Christian is already down there, but it will take three of us to open the door again.” She motioned to the two priests behind her. “I came up to fetch more help, but it has taken me too long to find them. And Erin fears the worst.”

Upon reaching the stairwell, Rhun took the lead. He trusted Erin’s judgment. If she was worried, there must be good reason. Halfway down the stairs, he heard two heartbeats echoing up from the lower crypt.

Erin and Jordan.

He could easily discern between them, as readily as their voices. Erin’s quick heartbeat told him of her fear. He reached the crypt and saw Christian pounding on the far wall, calling Bernard’s name.

He knew what had so excited the young Sanguinist.

Past the gate, he detected another heartbeat, one muffled by the stone, but still audible to his sharp senses, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the long crypt.

Elisabeta.

Her heart faltered, growing weaker with each beat.

She was dying.

Christian turned, hearing them approach. “Hurry!”

Rhun needed no such urging. He flew across the crypt. Erin stepped forth to meet him, but he slid past her without a word. There was no time.

He pulled his blade from its sleeve and pricked his palm, dripping blood onto the stone chalice held by the statue of Lazarus. Sophia and Christian flanked him, quickly adding their blood to his.

Together they chanted, “For this is the Chalice of our blood. Of the new and everlasting Testament.”

The outline of the door appeared in the stone.

“Mysterium fidei,” they intoned in chorus.

Slowly — too slowly — the door cracked open. The ripe smell of blood billowed out immediately, thick and heady, redolent with danger.

As soon as the way was open enough, Rhun slipped in sideways and ran, following that scent of blood toward its source.

He reached the threshold to the main chapel — in time to hear Elisabeta’s heart stop. He took in the impossible sight. In the sacred room, under the glow of the silver mosaics, Elisabeta lay on her back, her limbs limp and lifeless.

But she was not alone.

Bernard knelt beside her, chained by the wrist to her, his mouth bloody. He turned toward Rhun with anguish etched in his face. Tears ran down the cardinal’s cheeks, parting through the crimson stain of his sin.

Rhun ignored that pain and ran to Elisabeta’s side, skidding to his knees, lifting her in his arms, cradling her. He pulled her body as far from Bernard as he could with the two of them shackled together.

He wanted to rage against this sin, to let fury burn away the grief that overwhelmed him. Someday he would make Bernard pay, but not this day.

This day was only for her.

Christian was the first to reach his side. He touched Rhun on the shoulder in sympathy then dropped to a knee and fiddled with the shackles. The metal bands dropped from her slim wrist and clattered to the floor.

Now that she was freed from her murderer, Rhun gathered up her cold body and stood, needing to put distance between her and Bernard.

Sophia marched her two Sanguinist companions to the cardinal’s distraught form. They drew him roughly to his feet. From their low murmurs, they could not believe that the cardinal could have done such a thing.

But he had — he had killed her.

“Rhun…” Erin stood with Jordan, leaning on his arm, holding on to him, to that life inside him that burned so brightly.

He could not face that and turned away, taking Elisabeta toward the altar, wanting her to be surrounded by holiness. He made a promise that she would always remain in such grace from here. He swore to find where her children were buried and rest her near them.

She had earned it.

Long ago, he had stolen her from her rightful place, but now he would do his best to restore what he could. It was all that he could do for her.

Rich silvery light bathed her pale skin, her long lashes, and her black curls. Even in death she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He kept his gaze away from the savage wound on her throat, the blood that ran down her shoulders and soaked into her fine silk nightdress.

Upon reaching the altar, he could not put her down on that cold bed. When he released her, she would truly be gone from him. Instead, he crumpled to the floor next to the altar, pulling down the white altar cloth to wrap her naked limbs.

With the edge of the blessed cloth, he wiped blood from her chin, her full lips, her cheeks. A bruise covered the side of her face. Bernard must have struck her.

You will pay for that, too.

He leaned closer to her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had spoken those words many times to her — too many times.

How often I have wronged you…

His tears fell on her cold, white face.

He stroked her cheek, gently over the bruise as if she could still feel it. He touched her soft eyelids, wishing that she could simply step back from death, that she could open them again.

And then she did.

She stirred in his arms, awakening like a flower, petals softly opening to a new day. Initially, she began to pull away, then she recognized him and went quiet.

“Rhun…” she said faintly.

He stared at her, speechless, hearing no heartbeat from her, knowing the truth.

God, no…

He glanced over a shoulder, rage building, replacing his grief. Bernard had not only fed on her — he had forced his own blood into her. He had damned her as readily as Rhun had centuries ago, defiling her. She was a soulless abomination again.

Only months ago, Rhun had sacrificed the return of his own soul to save hers — and Bernard had cast such a gift to ruin and ash.

The cardinal stood, surrounded by Christian and the other three Sanguinists. Bernard had committed the greatest sin, and he would be punished, perhaps even with death.

Rhun felt no pity for him.

Elisabeta dropped her head against his chest, too weak even to lift it. She murmured to him, more breath than words. “I am weary, Rhun… weary unto death.”

He held her, matching her soft whisper. “You must feed. We will find someone who will give us blood to restore your strength.”

Sophia spoke behind him, looming over them. “That is impossible. She cannot be allowed to exist. She is a strigoi now and must be destroyed.”

Rhun looked to the others, finding no dissent. They intended to slaughter her like an animal. But he found succor from the most unlikely source.

Bernard spoke as if he still had a voice in such matters. “She must drink the wine, become one of us. I took this sin of her creation upon myself… because the countess swore to face this challenge. To drink the holy wine and join our order.”

Or die in the effort.

Rhun looked down at Elisabeta in shock. She would never have agreed to such a thing. But Elisabeta lay in his arms with her eyes closed again, having faded away in her weakened state.

Sophia touched the silver cross that hung round her neck. “Even if she passes such a test, it will not ameliorate your sin, Cardinal.”

“I will accept my punishment,” he said. “But she must take the holy wine — and accept God’s judgment.”

Rhun protested. “This is not her sin.”

Christian crossed to join Sophia. “Rhun, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter how she was changed, only that she’s now a strigoi. Such creatures cannot be allowed to live. They must either face this trial, drink the wine — or be killed.”

Rhun considered escaping with her. Even if he could overwhelm those gathered here, what then? A damned existence wandering the earth, fighting to keep her from expressing her true nature, both of them severed from God’s grace?

“It must be done, and it must be done now,” Sophia said.

“Wait.” Jordan held up a hand. “Maybe we all need to step back, talk this through.”

“I agree,” said Erin. “This is an extraordinary set of circumstances. Remember, she has information we need. Should we not at least obtain that before we risk losing her again?”

“Erin’s right,” Jordan said. “It seems the countess was paid in full. She got what she asked for, and now she needs to tell us what she knows.”

Christian frowned, but he looked like he was being slowly swayed to their side. Unfortunately, Sophia looked little moved, and she was backed by the two Sanguinists at her side.

Then support came from a new direction.

“I will tell you what I know,” Elisabeta rasped out, turning her head with what clearly took great effort. “But not if it means my death.”

Sophia slipped free two curved blades, their lengths shining in the candlelight. “We cannot let a strigoi live. The rules are clear. A strigoi is allowed only two choices: to join our order or to be put immediately to death.”

Rhun tightened his arms around her. He could not lose her twice in one night. If necessary, he would fight.

Perhaps sensing the tension was coming to a head, Erin stepped between Rhun and the others. “Can we not make an exception for her? Let her keep her current form. The Church was willing to work with her as a strigoi before, when we sought out the First Angel. She was allowed to live as a strigoi in exchange for her help back then. Are these current circumstances any different?”

Silence hung within the room.

Bernard finally broke it with the truth. “We lied to her before. If she had survived as a strigoi after the First Angel was recovered, she was to be killed.”

Erin gasped. “Is that true?”

“I was to end her cursed life by my own hand,” Bernard said.

Rhun stared at his mentor, the man who had raised him in this new life. He had trusted Bernard for hundreds of years. Now he felt the world shifting beneath him. Nothing was as it seemed. No one was who they said they were.

Except for Elisabeta.

She had never pretended to be anything other than what she was, even when she was a monster.

“So your promises are meaningless, Cardinal,” said Elisabeta. “Then I see no reason to adhere to my oaths. I will tell you nothing.”

“Then you will die now,” Bernard said.

She stared at the cardinal, the two ever at war. “Put the question to me then,” she said. “Offer me what you Sanguinists must offer any strigoi in their custody.”

No one spoke.

She rested her head again, looking up at Rhun, her eyes aglow with sadness but purpose. “Put the question to me, Rhun.”

“I will not. You have nothing to answer for.”

“Oh, but I do, my love. In the end, we all do.” She reached up and touched his cheek with a trembling hand. A ghost of a smile showed on her tired lips. “I am ready.”

Bernard interrupted. “You will be burnt to ash if you touch the wine. Tell us what you know first and perhaps God will forgive you.”

She ignored him, keeping her gaze upon Rhun.

He read her determination. With cold lips, he asked her, “Do you, Bathory de Ecsed, forsake your damned existence and accept Christ’s offer to serve the Church, to drink only His blood, His holy wine… for now and forever?”

Her gaze never faltered, even as his tears fell upon her face.

“I do.”

12

Erin stared up at the vast cupola in the center of St. Mark’s Basilica, raising her face to that golden shine as if it were the risen sun. It was nearing midnight, but here the darkness of the night held no sway.

Earlier, down in the smaller silver chapel, she had watched the others lead the countess away into the darker recesses of the Sanguinist level. Erin worried what they might do to her, but Sophia had been adamant that this was a sacred rite of their order, one Erin couldn’t observe. All she knew was that Elizabeth would be washed and dressed in a nun’s habit before she underwent the ritual of transformation, which apparently involved prayers, repentance, and drinking transubstantiated wine.

Erin would have liked to witness that event, but she wasn’t the only one shut out.

One Sanguinist had not been permitted to go with the others.

At least not yet.

She turned to find Rhun pacing the length and breadth of the vast basilica, stirring the candles in his wake as he passed from one shadow to another. He clasped his rosary with one hand, never letting go. His lips moved in constant prayer. She had never seen him so agitated.

Jordan, in contrast, sat sprawled on a nearby pew. His machine pistol lay within easy reach. She crossed and scooted in next to him, settling her backpack beside her.

“I think Rhun’s going to wear ruts in the marble,” Jordan said.

“The woman he loves might die tonight,” she said. “He’s earned the right to pace.”

Jordan sighed. “She’s not really that great of a catch. I’ve lost count of the times she’s hammered him.”

“That doesn’t mean he wants to watch her die.” She took Jordan’s hand, dropping her voice, knowing that Rhun could likely hear them, even from across the nave. “I wish there was something we could do.”

“For who? Rhun or Elizabeth? Remember, she asked to be turned into a strigoi. Something tells me she calculated the angles before she agreed to convert. I say we let the chips fall where they may.”

Erin leaned against Jordan’s side, noticing again his burning heat. He shifted away from her. It was a slight movement, but unmistakable.

“Jordan?” she started, ready to confront her own fears. “What happened to you in Cumae?”

“I already told you.”

“Not about the attack. You’re still burning up… and… and you seem different.”

That word barely described what she felt.

Jordan sounded faraway. “I don’t know what’s happening. All I know — and this is going to sound strange — but I feel like what has changed in me is leading me down a good path, a path I must follow.”

“What path?” Erin swallowed.

And can I come with you?

Before he could answer, Rhun appeared at the end of their pew. “Could I trouble you for the time, Jordan?”

Jordan took his hand from hers to check his wristwatch. “Half past eleven.”

Rhun held his pectoral cross, staring toward the stairwell in the north transept that led below, plainly distraught. The ceremony was to begin at midnight.

Erin stood up, drawn by his anguish. She wasn’t going to get anything more concrete out of Jordan. Maybe he didn’t know more than he had already told her, or maybe he just didn’t want to tell her. Either way, she wasn’t doing any good sitting here.

She joined Rhun. “Jordan’s right, you know.”

Rhun turned his face toward her. “About what?”

“Elizabeth is an intelligent woman. She wouldn’t agree to convert unless she thought that she stood a good chance of surviving the transformation.”

Rhun sighed. “She thinks that the process is complex, that it leaves room for doubt and error, but it does not. I’ve attended many of these ceremonies in the past. I’ve seen many… succumb when they drink the wine. She cannot trick her way through it.”

He set off again to pace, but Erin kept to his side.

“Maybe she’s changed,” she offered, not truly believing it but knowing Rhun wanted to.

“It is her only hope.”

“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

“I pray you are right, because I—” Rhun’s voice broke, and he swallowed before speaking. “I cannot bear to watch her die again.”

Erin reached over and took his cold hand. His fingertips were red, blistered from the silver of his rosary beads. He stopped and looked into her eyes. The suffering in those dark eyes was hard to face, but she didn’t look away.

He leaned toward her, and she instinctively took him in her arms. For the space of a breath, he relaxed against her and let her hold his cold, hard form. Over his shoulder, she saw Jordan watching them. Knowing how he felt about Rhun, she expected him to be jealous, but he stared past her, clearly lost in his own world, a world where she seemed to be losing her place.

Rhun broke free of their embrace, touching her shoulder gently. The simple gesture conveyed his gratitude to her. Even in his anguish, he was more aware of her than Jordan.

They returned down the nave silently until they reached Jordan.

He glanced over at them, looking infuriatingly calm. “It’s almost time,” he said before Rhun could ask. “Will you be with Elizabeth when she takes the wine?”

“I cannot,” Rhun said, his voice dropping even lower. “I cannot.”

“Are you not allowed to be there?” Jordan asked.

His guilty silence was answer enough.

Erin touched Rhun’s arm. “You must be there.”

“She will live or die regardless of my presence, and I cannot watch if… if…”

He sagged beside her.

“She’s frightened, Rhun,” Erin said. “No matter how she tries to hide it. There’s a chance that these could be her last moments on earth, and you’re the only one left in the world who truly loves her. You can’t leave her alone.”

“Maybe you are right. If I had let her live out her life as God intended, she would not be suffering this fate now. Perhaps it is my duty—”

Erin squeezed his arm. It felt like clutching a marble statue, but there was a wounded heart somewhere deep inside. “Don’t go out of a sense of duty,” she urged. “Go because you love her.”

Rhun bowed his head, but he still looked undecided. He turned and started on another circuit of the nave. She let him go alone this time, knowing he needed to ponder her words, to make up his mind.

She blew out a breath and sat next to Jordan again. “If we were in this position, would you let me drink the wine alone?”

He lifted her chin with a finger to face him. “I’d break your ass out of here before it got to that.”

She grinned back at him, enjoying this moment, but it didn’t last.

Christian appeared from the entrance of the basilica and crossed down the aisle toward them. He carried a flat box that smelled like meat, cheese, and tomatoes. His other hand held two brown bottles.

“Pizza and beer,” Jordan said. “You’re a dream come true.”

“Remember that when calculating my tip.” Christian handed him the box.

Rhun returned to them, suspecting Christian came with more than just a late dinner.

The young Sanguinist nodded to Rhun. “It’s time. But you don’t have to be present. I understand how painful that might be.”

“I shall go.” He gave Erin a long look. “Thank you for reminding me why, Erin.”

She bowed her head, acknowledging his words, wishing she could go with him, to be there for him if the countess didn’t survive.

Rhun turned away and headed off to face what was to come, to share it with Elizabeth.

Their two fates forever entwined.

Elizabeth stood again in the silver chapel where she had died and been born again. Someone had cleaned her blood from the floor and walls. The room smelled of incense and stone and lemons. Fresh beeswax candles had been lit on the altar.

It was as if nothing had ever happened.

She stared up at the bright mosaic of Lazarus overhead. He had done what she would soon attempt, and he had survived. But he had loved Christ.

She did not.

She ran her palm over her black garments, the uniform of a lowly nun. A silver rosary had been tied around her waist, and a pectoral cross hung from her neck. Both objects burned even through the thick cloth. She felt like she had donned a costume, one she might wear to a ball.

But that wasn’t her only masquerade.

Keeping still so that no one would know how she truly felt, Elizabeth reveled at the strength inside. The cardinal had fed deeply on her and had offered little of his own blood in return, not enough to sustain her. Even worse, her sensible shoes stood on holy ground, a place that should have weakened her even further.

But she felt strong — stronger, perhaps, than she ever had.

Something has changed in the world.

Eight Sanguinists shared the chapel with her, watching her, judging her. But she only noted one. Rhun had come to participate in this rite, standing next to her. She was surprised how deeply this gesture struck her.

He stepped closer, his words a faint whisper. “Do you have faith, Elisabeta? Faith enough to survive this.”

Elizabeth looked up into Rhun’s concerned eyes. For centuries, he wanted nothing more than for her to battle the evil inside her, to devote herself to a joyless existence serving a church she had never trusted. She wanted to comfort him, to reassure him, but she would not lie to him, not when this might be their last moment together.

The Sanguinists behind him chanted a prayer. If she tried to escape, they would kill her — and if she died, then Tommy would die along with her. Down this burning path lay the only chance to save the boy’s life and her own.

“I do have faith,” she told Rhun, which was the truth. It just wasn’t the faith he wanted her to possess. She had faith in herself, in her ability to survive this and save Tommy.

“If you don’t believe,” Rhun warned, “if you don’t believe Christ can save your damned soul, you will die with the first sip of His blood. It has ever been so.”

Has it?

Rasputin had been excommunicated from the Church, yet she had seen with her own eyes that he still lived outside of the realm of the Church. Likewise, the German monk, Brother Leopold, had betrayed the Church for fifty years, yet he had drunk the wine countless times and never been burned.

Was it the monk’s belief in his purpose, in the one he served, that had sustained him?

She hoped it was so. For her sake, and for Tommy’s. She had to trust that there were other pathways to the salvation offered by that holy blood. While her heart was not pure, surely helping Tommy was a noble enough goal.

But if I am wrong…

She reached to Rhun’s bare wrist, touching it with a finger. “I want you to give me the wine. No one else.”

If I’m to die, let it be by the hands of someone who loves me.

Rhun swallowed, fear darkening his face, but he didn’t refuse her. “Your heart must be pure,” he warned. “You must come to Him with openness and love. Can you do that?”

“We will see,” she said, shying from his question.

Satisfied but reluctant, Rhun gestured to the silver chalice resting on the altar. The sharp smell of wine rose from it, cutting through the incense. It was difficult to fathom that such a simple substance, a fermentation of grapes, could hold the secret of life. Or that it might destroy her newfound immortal power and her along with it.

Rhun stood before the altar, facing her. “First, you must publicly repent your sins, all of your sins. Then you may partake of His holy Blood.”

With no other choice, she listed sin after sin, seeing how each one fell onto Rhun’s shoulders, how he took the blame for her acts onto himself. He bore it in front of her, and she recognized pain and regret in his eyes. In spite of everything, she would have spared him that if she could.

By the time she had finished, her throat was hoarse. Many hours had passed. Her strigoi body sensed that daylight was not far away.

“That is all?” Rhun asked.

“Is it not enough?”

He turned, picked up the silver chalice from the altar, and held it above his head. He chanted prayers necessary to transform the wine into the blood of Christ.

All the while, Elizabeth searched her conscience. Did she feel fear that these were her last moments? That she might soon be burned to ash and scattered across the clean floor? She came to only one conclusion.

Whatever must come would come.

She knelt before Rhun.

He bent down and brought the chalice to her lips.

13

Jordan stretched a knot out of his back. He had fallen asleep, sprawled across one of the wooden pews of the basilica. He stood now and twisted his spine to and fro, forcing circulation back through his body. He bent down and massaged a spasm in his calf.

I can miraculously heal a mortal wound, but I got nothing for a charley horse.

He hobbled toward Erin, who studied a piece of artwork a few yards away. She stood with Christian, who had kept them company during this long vigil, all of them waiting for word about Elizabeth. From the slight hunch in Erin’s shoulders and the puffiness of her red eyes, he doubted she had gotten any sleep.

Christian could have joined his fellow Sanguinists and participated in the rite, but he remained here, either to guard them from some kind of threat or to keep them from interfering with what was happening down below. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to watch the countess burn to death any more than Rhun did.

All night long, Christian had been straightforward with them, answering Erin’s questions about what was likely going on below. And more important, he also fetched Jordan more beer.

“What are we looking at anyway?” Jordan asked as he joined them.

Erin pointed to the mosaic straight above their head.

He craned his neck. “Is that Jesus sitting on a rainbow?”

She smiled. “Actually, it is. He’s ascending to heaven. Giving this section of the basilica its name: the Ascension Cupola.”

The three of them continued along the nave. Erin questioned Christian about various pieces of art, but clearly there was a greater question hanging above all three of their heads.

Jordan finally asked it. “Do you think she’ll survive the wine?”

Christian stopped, sighing loudly. “She will survive if she truly repents of her sins and accepts Him into her heart.”

“That’s not likely to happen,” Erin said.

Jordan agreed.

Christian had a more compassionate response. “We can never know the heart of another. No matter how much we think that we might.” He turned to Jordan. “Leopold had us all fooled, serving as agent of the Belial within our own folds for decades.”

Erin nodded. “And he was able to drink holy wine without burning to ash.”

Jordan frowned, realizing there was one subject he’d never had the time to address. He had told everyone about Leopold’s body missing from that subterranean temple, but he never elaborated on the stranger aspect of that story.

“Erin,” he said, “there is something I never mentioned about that attack in Cumae. That strigoi who… who wounded me… just before he died, he said he was sorry. He knew my name.”

“What?”

Christian turned sharply to him. Apparently Baako and Sophia had also failed to share this detail with the Sanguinists. Perhaps all of them had been ready to simply dismiss it as a coincidence. Maybe the dead strigoi was German, which would explain the accent. Maybe he knew Jordan’s name because whoever sent that monster down there knew the Warrior of Man was in that buried temple.

Still, he wasn’t buying it.

Jordan, mein Freund…

“I swear the voice that came out of the strigoi was Leopold’s,” he said.

“That’s impossible,” Erin muttered, but she had witnessed enough of the impossible to be unsure now.

“I know how it sounds,” he said. “But I think Leopold was using that body like a mouthpiece.”

Erin remained silent, her gaze distant as she digested this information. “What sort of connection could there be between them to allow that to happen?”

Christian offered one theory. “Maybe when Leopold died, his spirit leaped into this other strigoi.”

Erin turned to him. “Has that ever happened before?”

Christian shrugged. “Not that I know, but since meeting the two of you, I’ve witnessed many things I thought would have been impossible.”

Erin nodded at the truth of his words. She eyed Jordan. “Was there anything else unusual about that strigoi, anything that might explain such a psychic link?”

“Besides being supersized in strength and speed?” he asked.

“Besides that.”

Jordan remembered one last detail. “Actually there was one other odd thing. He had a black mark on his chest.” He mimicked with his own palm. “It was shaped like a hand.”

Erin’s hunched shoulders grew straighter. “Like Bathory Darabont had?”

“That’s exactly like I thought. Some mark of ownership.”

“Or possession,” Erin added.

Christian looked concerned. “They must have finished with the autopsy on that body back in Vatican City. Perhaps by the time we’re back there, they’ll have some better explanation. Cardinal Bernard will likely know what to—”

Christian’s voice died away. Plainly he had momentarily forgotten that the cardinal was no longer in charge of the Sanguinists. He was now a prisoner.

Jordan shook his head. This was the worst time for the order to have a shake-up in leadership. “What will happen to Bernard?” he asked.

Christian sighed. “He will be taken back to Castel Gandolfo and placed on house arrest until he is ready to stand trial. Because he is a cardinal, a conclave of twelve other cardinals must be gathered to pass sentence. It might take a couple of weeks, especially with the increased strigoi attacks.”

“What are they likely to decide?” Erin asked.

“Cardinal Bernard is powerful,” Christian said. “Few will want to speak against him. Because of that — and the fact that there are mitigating circumstances — penance will likely be assigned.”

“What kind of penance?” Jordan asked.

“He committed a grievous sin. Normally a death sentence would be warranted. But the order can also choose to forgive him. Sophia told me that the cardinal has broken our laws in the past, feeding on human enemies during the Crusades.”

“The Crusades?” Erin’s voice rose in pitch. “That was over a thousand years ago.”

“You guys have pretty long memories,” Jordan said.

“It is a difficult calling.” Christian fingered his rosary beads. “And if Countess Bathory has information that can aid you in the quest to reshackle Lucifer, the court may go easy on the cardinal.”

Erin looked down the length of the nave. “So Bernard’s life might depend on the countess surviving her transformation?”

“Seems fitting,” said Jordan.

“Fitting or not,” Christian said, “I’m sure we’ll know her fate soon enough.”

Jordan imagined Bernard was resting no easier this night.

Serves him right.

With both arms shackled in front of him, Bernard braced his legs as best he could against the roll of the boat. The silver manacles seared his wrists each time he moved, filling the dark hold with the smell of his own charred flesh.

I have been imprisoned like a common thief.

And he knew whom to blame for his current state: Cardinal Mario. The cardinal of Venice had always loathed Bernard, mostly because Bernard thwarted his centuries-long campaign to move the center of the Sanguinist order to this decadent city of canals. This harsh trip in the dark hold was the payment for that sin.

Still, this was but an annoyance. Bernard had no illusions of what was to come. While he didn’t know what his exact punishment would be for this greater sin, he would be toppled from his lofty post, falling so far that he could not even guess where the bottom might land. He would certainly be stripped of his title.

Death would be a simpler option.

He bowed his head. He had served the Order of the Sanguines for nearly a thousand years. Few Sanguinists of his age remained. In all that time, he had never been tempted to retreat to the Sanctuary, to become one of the Cloistered Ones. That was not a path for him or his ambitions.

I belong among the ranks of the Church, serving the order to my fullest capacity.

He lifted his cuffed hands high enough to touch his pectoral cross with his thumbs. The pain was familiar, comforting. It reminded him that he was not done serving.

He must focus on that — rather than how he had been laid low by the likes of Elizabeth Bathory. Fury flashed through him, but he schooled himself, accepting his faults. The countess had recognized the depth of his pride, used the fires of his ambition against him. Her words rang in his head.

Only you have the power to save your world.

She had tempted him — not just with blood, but with her precious knowledge. Stored in her brain were secrets that he had desired as much as he had wanted her blood. He had been too eager to pay her price. She had known what music to play.

And I was but her instrument.

But no longer.

The others did not understand the depth of evil that the countess carried in her black heart, but Bernard did. He had no doubt the wine would consume her, but if it did not, he must be ready.

He knew one way to control her if she survived. She cared for the boy, Tommy.

Control the child, and you control the mother.

He shifted enough to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket. His captors had stripped him of his weapons, but they had left him with this. He dialed a number in the dark. Even in times such as this, there were those who were loyal to him.

“Ciao?” said a voice on the other end.

Bernard quickly explained his needs.

“It will be done,” his conspirator said, closing the connection.

Bernard took cold comfort that his plan for the countess would not fail.

This time, I will turn her into an instrument of my purpose.

No matter the cost.

Elizabeth knelt with the chalice poised at her lips, teetering on the brink between salvation and extinction. Above her head, the mosaic of Lazarus stared back down at her, along with Christ, but she found herself looking at those gathered to witness that event. They were Lazarus’s family, his sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany. The small glass tiles captured their looks of terror, not joy.

Did they fear their brother would not survive the act of drinking Christ’s blood?

Her gaze drifted to another who matched their fear, who held the chalice to her lips. Reflected candlelight shone on Rhun’s tense face, turning his pale skin to silver. She had never seen him look so terrified, save the moment when she had first kissed him in front of the fireplace at her castle, the moment that had set the events in motion that led them both here.

Rhun’s dark eyes stared into hers. This was the moment for a poetic farewell, but she could think of nothing to say to him, especially in front of the gathered Sanguinists.

She focused on Rhun, letting everything else go.

“Ege’sze’ge’re,” she whispered over the brim of the cup. It was a common Hungarian toast: To your health.

Rhun’s eyes softened with the hint of a smile.

“Ege’sze’ge’re,” he repeated with a small nod.

She tilted her head, and he tipped the cup.

A spill of wine poured over her tongue.

It is done…

As she swallowed, the liquid burnt a fiery trail down her throat. It felt as if she had sipped molten rock. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her back arched in agony, thrusting her breasts against the rough-spun cloth of her nun’s habit. Her arms jerked wide. Fire flowed through her body into her limbs, out to her fingertips. Every vein in her body ran with flame. It was an agony that she had never known.

With that pain, the wine’s holiness spread inside her, draining her strigoi strength. It fought against the darkness in her blood. But the holiness did not win. The evil was not completely burned away. It still pulsed within her, like a banked fire.

She finally gasped out a breath, casting out some of the fire.

She suspected what might come next, bracing herself against it. From Rhun’s account, every time she drank the wine she would be forced to relive her worst sins. He called this experience penance. Its purpose was to remind each Sanguinist that they were fallible and that only His incredible grace could carry them through their sins.

And I have so much to atone for.

As the fire receded inside her, she bowed forward across her knees, covering her tear-stained face with her hands. But it was not to blot out any terrible memories.

It was to hide her relief.

She had survived their test — and she saw no scenes of past depredations. Her mind felt as clear as it ever had been. It seemed she needed no penance.

Perhaps because I have no regrets.

She smiled into her palms.

Were the Sanguinists the architects of their own penance and their own pain?

Rhun’s hand dropped onto her shoulder as if to comfort her. She let it stay, unsure how long penance normally lasted. She kept her hands in front of her face and waited.

Finally, Rhun’s fingers tightened on her shoulder.

Taking this as a sign, she raised her head, careful to keep her expression tragic.

Rhun beamed down at her as he helped her to her feet. “The good in you was triumphant, Elisabeta. Thank the Lord for His eternal mercy.”

She leaned on him, notably weaker from the holiness, stripped of the strangely expanded strigoi strength. She clutched Rhun’s hand, while gazing across the faces gathered here, most remained stoic, but a few could not hide their surprise.

She continued to play the role expected of her. She looked into Rhun’s eyes. “Now that I’m reborn, I cannot break my promise to you, to everyone. I will tell you what I know, something that could help you on your quest. Let this be my first act of contrition.”

Rhun hugged more tightly to her, thanking her and perhaps wanting to reassure himself that she was indeed still alive.

“Then let us go,” he said.

He led her past the others. They touched her shoulders as she walked among them, welcoming her to their ranks. However, one witness could not keep the shock from her face. She was the last to acknowledge Elizabeth.

Sister Abigail gave a small bow of her head.

“I am humbled to have joined you, Sister,” Elizabeth said.

The old nun marshaled her features into something resembling welcome. “It is a difficult path that you walk now, Sister Elizabeth. I pray that you will find the strength within yourself to keep to it.”

Elizabeth fixed the somber expression on her face. “As do I, Sister.”

She headed out of the chapel, bottling the laughter ringing inside her.

Who knew escape would be this easy?

14

The Blood Countess survived…

Still coming to grips with this, Erin stared at Elizabeth’s back as the former countess led them across the depths of St. Mark’s Basilica. She was dressed in a simple nun’s habit, accepted now as one of the Sanguinists. Still not believing this sudden change, Erin studied her. Despite the humble clothes she wore, Elizabeth still strode with the haughtiness of royalty, her shoulders thrown back, her neck stiff.

But she did pass the Sanguinists’ test.

Erin gave a small shake of her head, accepting this truth.

At least for now.

And if nothing else, the woman was at least proving cooperative.

“This is what I’ve come to show you,” Elizabeth said, stopping beneath a magnificent mosaic that graced the roof above. “It is titled the Temptation of Christ, one of the finest in the basilica.”

Rhun kept to Elizabeth’s side, shadowing her at every step, his gaze wide upon her, his face full of relief and awe… and joy. After all that the countess had put him through, he still loved her.

Jordan stood a little apart from Erin. She wished Jordan would look upon her with that same expression of unquestionable, unquenchable love. Instead, he studied the spread of the artwork.

“So this is showing the three times Satan challenged Christ,” Jordan said, “when Christ was out fasting in the desert for forty days.”

“Exactly,” Erin said. “The leftmost section shows the devil — that’s the black angel in front of him — bringing Christ stones and tempting him to turn them to bread.”

Christian nodded. “But Christ refused, telling him Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God.”

Erin pointed to the next section. “The second temptation is where the devil tells Jesus to jump off a building and have God catch him, but Jesus refused to tempt the Lord. And the last one — showing Christ standing on a set of mountains — is where the devil offers Christ all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“But Jesus turns him down,” Jordan said.

“And the devil is banished,” Erin added. “Then those three angels to the right take care of Jesus.”

A new voice intruded. “And that number is significant.”

Erin turned to Elizabeth, who kept her hands demurely folded before her.

“What do you mean?” Erin asked.

“Three temptations, three angels,” Elizabeth explained. “Note also that Christ stands atop three mountains during the second temptation. Three was always an important number to the Church.”

“As in the Son, the Father, and the Holy Ghost,” Erin said.

The Holy Trinity.

Elizabeth unfolded her hands and motioned to Rhun, Christian, and herself. “And it is why the Sanguinists always move in groups of three.”

Erin also recalled how it took the blood of three Sanguinists to open the door that Bernard had sealed. Even the Blood Gospel’s prophecy centered on three figures: the Woman of Learning, the Warrior of Man, and the Knight of Christ.

“But that’s not the most significant trio that is hidden in this mosaic,” Elizabeth said and pointed up. “Look closer at the mountains under Christ’s sandals.”

Jordan squinted. “It looks like He’s standing on some sort of watery bubble?”

“And within that bubble?” Elizabeth asked.

With the mosaic so far overhead, Erin wished that she had binoculars, but she still saw clearly enough to understand. Small luminous tiles of white surrounded a trio of objects hidden there, floating in that watery brilliance.

“Three chalices,” Erin said, unable to keep the awe from her voice.

One hope rose through the questions in her mind: Could one of them be Lucifer’s Chalice, the cup they were supposed to find?

She turned to Elizabeth. “But what’s the significance of you showing us this?”

“Because it might be linked to your quest. Long ago, this artwork was commissioned by men who would later form a court in Prague under Emperor Rudolf II. The Court of the Alchemists.”

Erin frowned. She had read about that group, in children’s tales about the Biblical golem. They were a group of famous alchemists assembled in Prague, who studied the occult, along with seeking ways to transform lead to gold. In their many labs, they sought to tease out the secrets of immortality.

So far as she knew, they had failed.

“What’s the significance of the chalices?” Erin asked.

“I do not know for sure. But I know they are somehow connected to that green stone you found. That green diamond.”

“Connected how?” Jordan asked.

“That stone also has a history that goes back to the Court of the Alchemists. To a man I once knew, back when I was performing my own study concerning the nature of the strigoi.”

Erin scowled at her choice of words. Study. It was a despicably clinical way to describe the torture and murder of hundreds of girls.

“He was one of the court’s alchemists,” Elizabeth continued. “He showed me that symbol you discovered on that diamond, the mark I copied in my journal.”

“Who was he?” Erin pressed.

“His name was John Dee.”

Erin stared harder at Elizabeth. John Dee was a famous English scientist who lived during the sixteenth century. Through his skills with navigation, he helped Queen Elizabeth set up the British Empire. But later in his life, he would become world renowned as an astrologer and alchemist. He lived during a time when religion, magic, and science stood at the crossroads.

“What was he working on that involved the green diamond?” Erin asked.

“One of Dee’s life goals — one that would discredit him in the end — was his quest to speak with angels.”

Angels?

A year ago Erin would have scoffed at the idea, but now — she glanced over to Jordan — she knew how real they were.

Elizabeth continued. “Dee worked with a young man named Edward Kelly, who claimed to be a scryer.”

“What’s that?” Jordan asked.

“A fortune-teller,” Erin explained. “They used crystal balls, tea leaves, and other means of predicting what was to come.”

“In Kelly’s case, he possessed a black polished mirror, said to be constructed of obsidian from the New World. In that mirror, he claimed the angels appeared to him, or so he convinced John Dee. Dee transcribed the words of those angels using a special language that he invented.”

“Enochian,” Erin said.

Elizabeth nodded. “In time, Dee lost his faith in Edward Kelly and wished to speak to the angels himself. To that end, he sought to open a portal to the angelic world through which he might speak to those beings and share their wisdom with mankind.”

“But what does any of this have to do with the green stone?” Jordan asked.

“Exactly,” Erin muttered.

“The stone held the power to open that portal. It was full of a dark energy, one strong enough to pierce the veils between our worlds. On the day that Dee was to open the portal, a calamity occurred, and he and his apprentice were found dead in the laboratory. Emperor Rudolf hid the stone so that none could unleash its power again.”

“How did you learn of this?” Erin asked.

The countess smoothed the folds of her skirt. “Because Emperor Rudolf II told me.”

Christian frowned skeptically. “You knew the emperor?”

“Of course, I knew him,” she snapped, clearly angry. “I come from one of the most royal houses in Europe.”

“I meant no offense, Sister,” said Christian.

Elizabeth quickly collected herself, refolding her hands at her waist, looking like she was trying her best to be that humble nun again. She did a poor job.

“The emperor wrote me a letter,” she explained. “He knew that Master Dee and I were the only ones in the known world engaged in the same kind of research — exploring the nature of good and evil.”

“How does any of this help us move forward on our quest?” Jordan asked.

“Dee knew much more about this diamond than he was willing to share in letters,” she said. “Like that symbol. I suspect he knew its significance. If we could find his old papers, his private notes, we could learn the truth.”

Erin nodded. At least it’s a place to start.

Rhun stared at Elizabeth. In fact, his gaze rarely left her features. “What has you looking so worried?”

Erin tried to read that same anxiety in the woman’s stoic face, but failed. Then again, Rhun knew her better than anyone.

“From small details in the emperor’s description of the state he found Dee and the boy’s bodies, I fear that Dee’s portal did not open unto the holy angels, but unto the darkest angel of all — Lucifer himself.”

Elizabeth stared up at the black figures above their heads, tempting Christ. Silence filled the vast church as the implications of her statement slowly settled in on them all. The countess finally turned to them again.

“No matter what,” Elizabeth warned, “we must keep the stone in one piece.”

Jordan exchanged a look with Erin.

“Show her,” Erin said.

Jordan slowly pulled the two broken pieces of diamond from his pocket. Elizabeth shrank back from the glittering green shards. Even Erin could read the raw fear on her face. It was unmistakable now.

“It is free,” she whispered.

“What is free?” Erin asked.

“There is nothing left for us to do,” Elizabeth said, ignoring the question, her voice low and frightened. “Except to plan for Lucifer’s return.”

Rhun stared at Elisabeta in disbelief, searching for deceit but finding only authentic fear. “Lucifer?” he asked. “You truly think his return is close?”

“The strigoi have changed, have they not?” Elisabeta’s eyes bored into his. “Possessing more speed, more strength?”

Jordan nodded, rubbing his belly.

“But what does it mean?” Erin asked.

“It means that the danger facing you is greater than you realize.” Elizabeth touched the broken stones with one finger. “It has escaped its prison.”

“What has escaped?” Rhun asked, drawing her hands away. If any evil remained in that stone, he didn’t want Elisabeta near it.

“The gem was filled with dread forces, an energy amassed and distilled across many years as John Dee harvested them.”

“Harvested whom?” Erin asked. “What energy are you talking about?”

“The essence of over six hundred strigoi. Dee collected their dying energies at the moment of their death and funneled them into the heart of the diamond.” She turned to Rhun, clutching his arm. “You’ve slain enough strigoi to have seen the dark smoke that drifts free upon their deaths.”

Rhun slowly nodded, glancing to Erin and the others, seeing recognition in their expressions. They had all witnessed it at one time or another.

Erin spoke, “In your journals, it showed you killing a strigoi in a glass coffin. You illustrated that smoke rising from their bodies.”

“That was as far as I could carry my experiments. But Dee learned to trap those essences using a glass apparatus of his own invention — and to collect them. Somehow, he discovered this green stone could contain such concentrated evil.”

Jordan looked down at the two heavy shards in his hands. “And now those forces have been let loose.”

“The act of shattering this stone,” Erin said, “could it be what the Blood Gospel’s prophecy was referencing, that the shackles of Lucifer have been loosened?”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, “but it is surely the reason that the strigoi have grown more powerful of late.”

“Why is that?” Rhun asked.

She turned to him. “Do you truly not know?”

Rhun simply frowned.

“Haven’t you ever wondered what it is that gives you your long life, your strength?” Elizabeth asked.

“A curse,” he said.

“That is a simple answer,” she said. “Surely the Church has scholars who have delved more deeply into this mystery than that.”

“If so,” said Christian, “we don’t know about it. So tell us.”

Elisabeta shook her head as if she could not believe their folly. “From my experiments and from Dee’s research into angels, we came to believe that all strigoi are fueled from a single angelic force — a dark angel.”

Rhun stared up at the figures of Lucifer above.

Elisabeta followed his gaze. “Have you not seen how the smoke of a dying strigoi does not drift up, but worms down?”

He slowly nodded. “Returning to Hell.”

“Returning to its source. To Lucifer himself.”

Rhun lifted his hands, staring at his flesh, thinking of that Satanic energy inside, restrained only by the grace of Christ’s holy blood. To the side, Christian looked equally aghast, both of them for the first time perhaps understanding their truest natures.

Thankfully, Erin directed the line of inquiry in a more practical direction. “Elizabeth, you said before that it was free, that it had escaped its prison. What do you think was released from that diamond?”

“I cannot say for sure, but Dee had collected a specific number of strigoi spirits. Six hundred and sixty-six, to be precise.”

“The Biblical number of the beast,” Erin said.

“Dee believed, when he reached that number, that those essences would coalesce, come together to give birth or perhaps bind a demon.”

“The Biblical beast,” Rhun said, beginning to fathom Elisabeta’s earlier terror.

“Dee believed he could coerce that demon to open that angelic portal, but he failed.”

“And now it’s loosed upon this world,” Rhun said.

Elisabeta squeezed her hands together at her waist. “For any hope of stopping it, we must find Dee’s old papers. Only he might have understood what he created.”

“Where do we begin to look?” Erin asked.

“His old labs in Prague. That is, if they still exist. Dee knew how to keep secrets. He had hidden compartments throughout his rooms. In the fireplace, false walls, even the caverns underneath his laboratory. We must go to his workshop in Prague and seek out those answers.”

Rhun looked to Erin and Jordan. It was a tenuous lead, but it was more solid than anything else. “What do you two think?”

Jordan glanced over to Erin.

She nodded. “I think it’s worth a shot. And with everything that’s happening, we should head out immediately.”

“I can get the helicopter warmed up,” Christian said. “But who all’s going?”

Erin waved to Rhun and Jordan. “The trio, of course.”

Elisabeta stirred, straightening her shoulders. “I should accompany you, too. I have visited Dee’s workshop and know many of its secrets.”

Christian raised an eyebrow. “You have just joined our order, Sister Elizabeth. It is common for those new to the cloth to spend months in seclusion, to learn to govern the animal forces within. It is a dangerous time.”

Elisabeta bowed her head, but Rhun saw a familiar flash of anger in her silver eyes. “If that is the will of the Church, I must obey it. Yet, I do not see how you can succeed on this mission without my aid.”

A voice rose behind them, revealing someone who had been eavesdropping on their conversation from the shadows.

“Sister Elizabeth should assist the trio on their quest,” Sophia said, as she stepped out the darkness. “No one else in the Church has her knowledge. Risks must be taken if we hope to succeed.”

Elisabeta bowed her head. “Thank you, Sister Sophia.”

“You have taken the wine. If God trusts you, we can do no less.” Sophia nodded to Christian. “But the concerns raised a moment ago are real ones, so I will travel with you. To help you to be alert to temptation.”

“I would welcome your expertise in such matters,” Elisabeta said.

Rhun suspected Sophia was joining them, not as a tutor, but as a bodyguard — to keep an eye on Elisabeta. And maybe that was wise. Either way, the matter was settled.

Christian turned away. “I’ll prepare a flight schedule. Barring any problems, we should be in Prague by noon.”

As they prepared to follow, Rhun watched Jordan pocket the two halves of the green stone, reminding him what had been released into this world. If Elisabeta’s fears were true, a demon had been set free.

But what manner of beast was it?

15

How much longer must I wait…?

Legion remained hidden under the shadow of an archway. From the darkness, he studied the columned façade of the great church on the far side of the sunlit square. Bright midday sun reflected off its golden surfaces and burned his eyes, but he stayed in place.

I have waited long, and I can wait longer still.

As he kept vigil, rooted inside Leopold, he searched out other eyes, those whom he had enslaved with the touch of his hand. Through those distant branches, those other eyes, he saw a hundred other views, from places that were yet in darkness:

… a torn throat of a young girl, pouring crimson over black tar streets…

… the wet terrified eyes of a man in a metal box anticipating his death at the sharp teeth of a beast of the night…

… another stalks a dark wood, circling a couple entangled together and oblivious to all but their own lusts…

At any moment, he could do more than just see. He could pull his awareness fully into one of those slaves, taking possession of its limbs and body. But he remained where he was, planted firmly in this vessel, his foothold in his world. He searched yet again through the memories cast out by that small flame flickering in the enormity of his darkness.

Leopold had recognized the sanctified stronghold across the square.

And now I know it, too.

St. Mark’s Basilica.

Legion had come here from Rome, brought by a trembling Sanguinist priest who listened behind the door of one called Cardinal Bernard. From those ears, he had learned that the trio of prophecy would gather here. Though he wanted to know what transpired within those holy walls, he dared not trespass himself.

Not only was that ground sacred, but the day’s fierce sun threatened to burn him to ash. He had brought nothing with which to cloak himself. Even in the shadows, the sunlight tingled against his skin. The sun would soon chase him into a nearby house or perhaps deep below the sea that fed the canals.

I can rest under the cool green water during the heat of the day.

The temptation called to him, to experience that beauty: the sparkle of flitting fish, the dance of emerald veils of seaweed. He wanted to revel within it, to be part of it.

But not yet.

Instead, he must linger in this city of foul canals, a patchwork of human depravity and holiness. The trio he hunted had sought sanctuary here. And despite Leopold’s attempts to hide knowledge of them, Legion had slowly gleaned more.

Two of the trio were, of course, mortal.

The Warrior and the Woman.

But the third — the Knight named Rhun Korza — had arrived later than the others. He was a Sanguinist, like Leopold, which meant he was corruptible. Legion was capable of touching that darkness inside the Knight with his own shadows.

Marking him, binding him to my will.

Sadly, it was something he could not do with the Warrior or the Woman, who held no such darkness inside, but Legion only needed the Knight.

Korza would be his way into the trio, his way to destroy the prophecy from within.

A heavy door slammed across the square, drawing his attention.

A troop of silent-hearted Sanguinists poured out of that holiness and into the open square. Legion searched their faces, breathing deeply of the smoke cast out by Leopold’s flame. Leopold knew many of them by name and habit.

But his gaze fixed to one in the center, standing with the Warrior and the Woman.

Rhun Korza.

Once he bows to me, we will purge his world, returning it to a paradise.

But his prey stayed ever in the light, frustratingly so. With no other recourse, Legion followed them along the narrow streets of Venice, keeping to the shadows. Through passing doors, he heard the heartbeats of those going about their dreary human lives — but one heart drew his attention more fully.

The Warrior should already be dead. Legion remembered possessing the strigoi who had attacked the man: the thrust of the blade into this one’s soft belly, the heavy pour of hot blood against his cold hands.

But the Warrior’s heart still beat.

Closer now, Legion recognized a foreign note to its rhythm, as if the trumpeting of a great horn echoed behind those stolid beats.

It was a mystery, but one that would have to wait.

The others had reached their destination, hurrying during this last stretch under the merciless sun.

I have no more time.

The others rushed into a building, one smelling of oil, as much of this world does now. A bladed machine rested on the roof. Leopold knew this device.

… a helicopter, for flying like a bumble bee…

A trickle of awe filled Legion at the mastery of these mortals over their limited world. Man had conquered much in the centuries that Legion had been imprisoned.

Even the skies.

Knowing this, Legion struggled with how he could continue his hunt. The helicopter would soon fly into the sun of a new day, bearing away the trio. He must know where they were headed.

Already those blades had begun to turn.

From the building below, a smaller group of Sanguinists exited. It was the escort who had guarded the trio’s passage through the city, preparing to return to their holy roosts. Most headed back from whence they had come, back toward the basilica, but one figure split away, heading another direction.

Her path took her along a canal, whose closest bank still lay in deep shadows.

He quickly circled through other patches of darkness to trail her.

As he ran, he listened to the city, to its shouts and laughter, the growl of its engines, the hammering of its construction. He heard little of the natural world here. No birdsong, no brush of wind through leaves. Mankind had taken over this island — as they had much of this modern world — and tamed it for their uses, destroying the wild gardens, killing the creatures that lived in harmony there.

While God might tolerate such ruin to his creation, I will not.

To that end, he closed in on the swish of cloth as his target continued along the canal, oblivious to the hunter behind her.

He pulled her name from Leopold and spoke it aloud.

“Sister Abigail…”

The Sanguinist turned toward him. Her hair was as gray as stone, pulled away from a fretful face. She was plainly irritated, and her anger made her react too slowly. As horror widened her eyes, reflecting back his dark countenance, he was upon her.

He lunged out and touched her cheek, branding his mark into her flesh.

She immediately sagged against him. He caught her, embraced her. As he held her, he flipped through her memories like a book.

… walking the wet streets of London holding a hand above her head. Mother…

… standing before a simple white gravestone. Father…

… joyful people dancing in the streets. The Great War has ended, but so many lost. So many wild fields bombed into stripes of death…

… giant stones falling from the sky. Bombs. Another war, greater even than the last. Weapons that can annihilate everything that man was given…

… a man with eyes the color of thunderclouds and cold skin. He takes her blood and offers his in return…

… a battlefield of mud. Brown eyes, slanted at the corners. Bombs falling, destroying good and evil alike. Another war, Korea, and she hunts with the man with the storm-cloud eyes…

… a choice given by a woman wearing a cross. Repent or die. Wine burning against her lips…

Legion took in the nun’s life, breathing it all in, but her past held little interest. He pushed aside those memories and searched for fresher ones.

… The face of a woman appears. She has curls of black, eyes of silver gray. She is beautiful, and the cold form of Abigail hates her…

Legion extracted her name.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory.

She was of no use to Legion. Losing patience, he concentrated instead on a single purpose, focusing it into the woman he embraced.

Where are they going?

Abigail’s lips moved, already close to his ear. “They head to Prague.”

Legion shivered at that name, a place tied to his own history, where he had been first imprisoned. It seemed as much as he hunted the trio, they were closing in on his past.

He drew his intention into a single word.

Why?

Quiet words reached his ear. “They search for the journals of John Dee.”

This time, his own memories overwhelmed him.

… The man with a beard as white as milk and clever dark eyes…

… those eyes smile at me on the other side of the green flame. He is my jailer…

… I burn with pain and hatred…

He shoved Abigail away from him, holding her at arm’s length, his mark emblazoned on her cheek. He now knew where he must go.

To Prague.

He already had slaves nearby and would gather them toward that old city, but he intended to go there himself. Abigail could travel in the daylight, and she could help him do the same.

In that city, he would avenge his past, protect his future … and destroy the hopes of all mankind.