Blood Infernal

24

Erin thrashed wildly out of a nightmare of fire and demons.

She woke into a room shining with the light of a new day. It took her a few panicked breaths to recognize the simple room, to recall their midnight flight from Prague to this idyllic countryside south of Rome. She was in the papal residence at Castel Gandolfo. She drank in the familiarity: the plain white walls, the wood floor that shone in the morning sunlight like warm honey, the solid mahogany bed with a crucifix hanging above the headboard. She and Jordan had stayed in this very room the last time they had come here.

I’m safe…

Maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but it was the safest she had felt in a long time.

The windows were secured with thick wooden shutters, but a pair of them had their slats opened enough to let in the sunrise. She welcomed the golden light after the long night of terror. They had taken a private jet — a Citation X — that whisked them under papal orders from that medieval city to here. They had landed, exhausted and worn, bloodied and bruised.

Her first thought was of Rhun.

Upon landing, he had been rushed by stretcher to a Sanguines infirmary. Erin had wanted to follow, but she could barely stand. Jordan had half-carried her here in the middle of the night. They had both collapsed in bed, limbs wrapped around each other. For once, she had not worried about the heat from his naked skin, curling against it like a warm fire.

Still, a twinge of guilt at abandoning Rhun remained with her. She did her best to shake it off, shying away from the memory of touching Rhun, sharing that momentary blood bond with him.

Rhun is in the best hands, she reminded herself. He certainly had a nurse who would brook no ill treatment, who would watch over him. Elizabeth had refused to leave Rhun’s side. Though he had never woken, the woman had kept hold of his hand the entire flight and had shadowed Rhun’s stretcher down to the infirmary, despite the clear fatigue in her face and body.

Erin might not trust Elizabeth, but when it came to Rhun, there was no better guard dog while he recuperated.

The clunk of a shower shutting off drew her gaze to the bathroom door. It was the noise of that running water that had woken her. She reached to the rumple of bed sheets next to her, feeling the fading warmth of Jordan’s body. She rested a palm on the imprint of his head on the pillow.

Concern for him ached through her, but she had to admit she felt much better after a night’s sleep next to him. She stretched out and sighed.

Pretty good… considering.

But was it just from the rest? Though bruises peppered her back and a scalp wound had been closed with butterfly bandages, she felt immensely better — better than she should.

She shifted to the patch of residual warmth from Jordan’s body, luxuriating in the memory of his skin against hers, wondering if the night spent bathed in that heat had anything to do with how she felt now.

Or was it simply having this time alone with Jordan?

He had certainly seemed more like himself.

The bathroom door opened with a creak, and she turned.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Jordan stood in the doorway, outlined in steam, wearing only a white towel. She smiled at him, still nestled in the sheets, which suddenly seemed much warmer.

He cocked one eyebrow and let the towel drop, wiping a rivulet of water from one temple with his hand. Her gaze took him in, appreciating every ripple, every damp trail.

Everyone in their party was covered in bruises and cuts. But not Jordan. His smooth skin was unmarked, and he practically glowed with health. Soft light reflected off the blond hairs on his arms and muscular legs. He looked like a Greek statue — too perfect to be real.

He crossed the room to stand in front of her. His bare skin was only inches away from hers. She wanted to touch him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Ready for anything,” she said, her grin widening. “Starting with you.”

She stared up into his bright blue eyes. They had stood like this many times before, but it always felt new, always gave her a flutter in her chest. She touched the twining tattoo that covered his shoulder and upper chest. His heart beat against the soft skin of her palm. She traced those curling blue lines, her fingertips sliding down the smooth skin of his stomach.

She knew the tattoo’s shape and size. It was now unmistakably larger than it had been a few days before, extending in dark crimson coils and vines — a visible sign of how he was changing. She was especially concerned about the lines that now encircled his neck, as if those new vines were choking him as surely as those demon’s black fingers had. But she knew those same crimson lines had likely healed him, fading his bruises, and repairing a crush of cervical vertebrae.

She should appreciate those lines, but instead they terrified her.

“Don’t look so worried.” Jordan took her hand from his chest and kissed her palm. His soft lips burned against her skin. “We’re here, together, and alive. It doesn’t get any better than that.”

Erin couldn’t argue with that.

His tongue traced up her hand to the inside of her wrist. Her breath caught in her throat. He dropped to a knee, kissing along her arm, his mouth light as a butterfly against her bruised skin. Tingling traveled up her arm to her breasts and body.

She wrapped her arm around him and pulled him closer. She wanted to feel his skin against hers again, to forget everything that had happened, and believe, even for a moment, that everything was all right.

Jordan slid into bed next to her, his warm hands caressing her, exploring her, moving ever lower. She wanted to lose herself in him completely, but his feverish heat reminded her how he had retreated from her, how those eyes had looked at her without seeing her.

She shuddered.

“Shh,” he whispered, mistaking her reaction. “You’re safe now.”

He rolled on top of her. His smoldering blue eyes told her that he wanted nothing else but her, and that he still loved her. As his eyes drifted closed, she reached toward him for a kiss.

His lips whispered gently against hers, soft as the wind. “I missed you.”

“Me, too,” she answered.

Her mouth opened to his, hungry for the taste of him. His arms tightened around her, holding her so close that she could barely breathe. It wasn’t close enough.

When he pulled his head back, she moaned. She didn’t want the kiss to end. Ever. She couldn’t bear to lose him, to lose this closeness. She traced the curve of his jaw, his cheekbones. Her fingertip lingered on the tiny indent in his upper lip that was shaped like a bow. Those lips smiled at her and kissed her again.

For a long time, nothing existed but the two of them, lost in the heat of each other’s bodies. Time became meaningless. It was just the taste of him, the stubble of his cheek on her thigh, the press of their bodies, of him inside her, making her feel whole, not that she needed him to be complete, just that it felt so very right.

Then for a moment, lost in the passion, her body responding to his every touch and movement, she closed her eyes — and flashed to that time with Rhun in the chapel, recalling the fiery ardor of her blood flowing through him, until his body became hers.

She gasped, arching under Jordan, pulling him tighter to her with her legs. She rode that moment like a wave, lost in a blur of ecstasy, unsure where her body began and ended.

Finally, she collapsed, gasping, trembling.

Jordan kissed her, calming her, smiling down at her.

She stared up at him, loving him more than ever. Still, guilt flickered inside her, knowing not all of her response rose from Jordan’s touch.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, running a finger along her cheek.

“No… it was perfect.”

Too perfect—and it scared her.

They cuddled together as sunlight crept across the room. At some point, Erin dozed off into a dreamless slumber. When she woke, she listened for the shower, for some sign that Jordan was still here, but she knew he was gone.

A flicker of panic rose inside her.

He’s probably off getting breakfast.

She pushed back her fears and climbed from the bed, needing to move. She took a quick shower. The steaming hot water massaged the remaining aches from her body, waking her more fully. Afterward, she buffed her skin dry and climbed into a fresh set of clothes supplied to them last night, pulling on a pair of jeans and a white cotton shirt.

Lastly, she donned a leather jacket. The coat had been fashioned from the hide of a grimwolf. From past experience, she knew it was as strong as armor. She let some of that strength sink into her, centering her for the day ahead.

A knock sounded from the door. She turned as it opened. Her body tensing, until she saw Jordan.

“I come with breakfast,” he said, holding up a tray of coffee, fruit, and croissants. “Along with marching orders.”

“Marching orders?”

“Ran into Christian. He says we’ve been granted permission to speak to the prisoner.”

Cardinal Bernard.

“It’s about time,” she said.

Jordan gave her a mock scowl. “It wasn’t like any of us were up to an interrogation last night.”

True.

“When can we talk to him?”

“At eight o’clock… in about an hour.” He crossed to the bed with the tray, sat down, and patted the mattress. “So how about I serve you breakfast in bed?”

She dropped next to him. “I think it only counts if we’re naked.”

He placed the tray on the nightstand. “I like that rule… and you know how I’m a stickler for rules.”

He began to undo the buttons of his shirt.

Elizabeth carefully changed the wine-soaked bandage on the stump of Rhun’s left arm. She removed the old wrap and examined the wound. Already the skin knit over most of the raw muscle, but much still needed healing. She covered the damage with a compress soaked in holy wine, earning a small gasp of pain from Rhun, but still his eyes did not open.

Come back to me, Rhun.

She secured the compress with a fresh wrap, then leaned back. She sensed that the sun had risen an hour or so ago. She had spent the entire night with him in this windowless cell. It reeked of incense and wine, with a hint of hay and brick dust and reminded her of the time she had spent imprisoned here. Still, she stayed, wanting to be here when Rhun awoke.

She scowled at the room, finding it unfit.

The cell contained a simple wooden bed covered with a pallet of straw, a stand holding a lit beeswax candle, a flask of wine, clean white gauze, and jars of ointment that smelled of wine and resin. The room was a match to her own that neighbored this one, not that she had used it this long night.

The scuff of leather on stone drew her gaze to the small door. A short chubby monk with a gray friar’s tonsure entered, carrying fresh wine and more bandages.

“Thank you, Friar Patrick.”

“Anything for Rhun.”

The friar had assisted her in her ministration of Rhun, coming and going throughout the night. Genuine sorrow crossed his face at the sight of Rhun’s still form on the bed. He cared for Rhun, more than simply as a fellow Sanguinist. Perhaps the two were friends.

“You should take some rest, Sister Elizabeth,” he offered for the eleventh time. “I can watch over him. If there’s any change, I will inform you immediately.”

She opened her mouth to refuse — when she felt a soft buzz from the pocket of her skirt, rising from the phone hidden there.

Tommy.

She had used many moments during the night — when she was alone — to try to call the boy, but she only heard the same mechanical voice over and over again, asking her to leave a message. She never had, fearing who might retrieve her words.

“Thank you, Friar Patrick.” Elizabeth stood from her bedside stool. “I believe I shall go rest.”

His expression was a mix of surprise and relief.

She gave him a bow, then turned on her heel and left the room. She crossed to the neighboring cell and closed the stout door. Only then did she pull out the phone. Words glowed on the small screen.

She didn’t understand how to respond to Tommy’s message, nor did she understand the small symbol at the end. But she understood the word trouble.

Fearfully, she gripped the phone and dialed his number.

C’mon, already…

Tommy sat on the closed seat of the bathroom toilet, the shower running noisily nearby. He wore only a towel. He stared at his phone, praying for Elizabeth to respond to his text. He watched the locked door, fearful of the guards out in the hallway of this apartment in the outskirts of Rome. The windows of the place were barred. The only way in or out was past a pair of Sanguinist priests, both wearing civilian clothes, who stood post before his door.

Finally, the phone vibrated in his hand.

He answered it immediately, keeping his voice down to a whisper. “Elizabeth?”

“Tommy, where are you? What’s wrong?” As usual, the woman never bothered with the usual pleasantries that everyone else used on the phone.

“I’m somewhere in Rome.”

“Are you in danger?”

“I don’t think so, but something’s wrong with this whole setup. The priest who came with me from Santa Barbara didn’t take me to Vatican City. He dumped me in some apartment instead. It’s locked up tight… with guards.”

“Can you tell me anything about where they’ve taken you?”

“It’s an old building. Yellow. Smells like garlic and fish. I’m on the third floor. I can see a river from the bedroom window and a fountain with a fish spewing water. Also I think there’s a zoo nearby. At least, I heard lions roaring.”

“Good. I should be able to find such a yellow building. It might take time, but I will get to you.”

Tommy lowered his voice even more. “They say I’m in danger… from you, but I know that’s wrong.”

“I would never hurt you, but I will make them pay if you come to harm while under their care.”

Tommy grinned. He had no doubt that she would come and kick their asses, but he didn’t want to see her get hurt.

As the room grew steamy from the running shower, he listened for a moment to see if anyone noted their conversation before continuing. “I overheard them saying that Bernard wanted me kept under lock and key until you do what they want. I don’t know if that’s true or not. But if it is, don’t give in to them.”

“I will do what I need to do to get back to you. I will free you, and we will find a way to make you well again.”

He sighed, baring his arm. The single melanoma lesion had multiplied, spreading like wildfire up his arm. He had new lesions on his legs and left buttock. With his angelic blood gone, it was like the cancer was making up for lost time.

“It’s not so bad,” he lied. “Just get tired easily, but they let me sleep.”

“Save your strength.”

Yeah, easier said than done.

Knuckles rapped against the bathroom door, making Tommy jump. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, but those Sanguinists could move like ghosts.

“I gotta go,” Tommy hissed. “I miss you.”

“I… miss you as well.”

He pressed the disconnect button, pushed the phone behind the toilet’s water tank, and dashed into the shower. He splashed around loudly before shouting.

“Can’t a guy take a shower in peace?”

“You’ve been in there a long time,” a gruff voice said. “And I heard talking.”

“I’m a teenager! Sheesh. I’m always talking to myself.”

There was a long moment of silence, then his guard spoke in a more fatherly tone. He must have known Tommy was lying, covering something up, but the guy went for the wrong explanation.

“If you are touching yourself in there, young man, it is nothing to be embarrassed about. But you must confess such sins to your parish priest.”

“First of all, I’m Jewish. Second of all, screw you!”

Tommy stood under the spray, his face hotter than the steam.

Okay, now I really do want to die.

Elizabeth headed back to Rhun’s room, resting a palm over her concealed phone. Anger flared inside her, but she banked it. When the time came to rescue Tommy, she must act with icy clarity. Emotion had no place until then.

She intended to confront the cardinal, but first she wanted to check on Rhun.

As she entered, she smoothed her skirt and adjusted her sleeves. She found Friar Patrick kneeling next to Rhun’s bed, holding his hand.

The friar raised his head and beckoned her forward. “He still rests.”

Stepping to the bed, she studied Rhun’s face, relaxed in sleep. He looked much as he always had, untouched by the many years and tragedies that had made up his long life. Would that he had lived the life of an ordinary priest, dying with only a single lifetime of cares at the end. He did not deserve the fate that had been thrust upon him.

“I’m sure he’ll rouse soon,” Patrick continued. “The prompt care in the field saved his life.”

She pictured Erin painting her blood over his wounds. As frail and mortal as she was, the archaeologist had saved him.

“You may sit and pray with me if you like,” the friar offered.

She wanted to stay, but she glanced back at the wooden door. “I must speak with Cardinal Bernard first.”

“I heard the others are meeting with him soon.”

This she had not heard.

Anger built inside her, knowing what that villain had done with the ailing boy, turning him into a pawn.

She backed out of the room, then hurried down to the end of the corridor. A trio of unfamiliar Sanguinists — two men and a woman — guarded this section of the residence. But was it to protect Rhun or keep her in place?

She spoke to the woman, an African, with skin darker than Elizabeth had ever seen. “I must speak to Cardinal Bernard. I have information vital to the security of the order.”

The woman’s round eyes studied Elizabeth. “Access to the prisoner is restricted. Only his personal aide, Father Gregory, is permitted to speak to him, to attend to the cardinal’s requests. I could give such a message to Father Gregory to pass on.”

“I must speak with the cardinal myself.”

The other’s lips pinched. “Given his crimes against you, I’m afraid that is forbidden.”

Elizabeth kept her voice soft, as meek as she could manage. “But I understand that my companions are scheduled to meet with him this morning. Surely, I may address him in the company of others?”

“The edict was firm.” The nun’s expression turned sterner. “As the victim in the charges against him, you are not to be allowed to see him under any circumstances.”

“Then it appears I must permit my companions to pass on that information themselves.” Elizabeth gave a small bow of her head, hiding her fury, and walked slowly back to her cell.

Once alone in her room, she slammed a palm against the brick wall.

I will make you pay for taking Tommy, Bernard… even if I have to destroy everything you hold dear.

A knock on the door drew her attention back around. Friar Patrick called through the stout planks, his voice stoked with happiness.

“Rhun… he wakes!”

25

Rhun struggled through a fog of pain and blood. He smelled wine, incense. He heard excited voices, naggingly familiar. His vision swam, then slowly settled to reveal a small room, lit by candlelight.

Where am I…?

He tried to raise his head, but that only set the world to spinning even faster. Cold hands touched his forehead, encouraging him to lie back down.

“It’s okay, Rhun, my son. Not too fast.”

He focused on the gently smiling face, recognizing the friar.

“Patrick…”

“That’s right.” The friar turned enough to reveal someone bent behind him.

“You’re finally awake, I see,” Elizabeth said sternly, but her eyes shone with clear relief.

“I am.”

He barely recognized his voice. It was deep and hoarse, the voice of another man, a weaker one. He tried to sit up, but he fell back as pain flared up along his left side. He gritted his teeth against it, reaching to massage the source — only to find nothing there. He turned to see.

My arm is gone.

The shock returned a kaleidoscope of memories: the bell shattering atop him, Erin pulling him to safety, fire and smoke closing in on them both.

That was as much as he recalled.

“What happened?” Rhun gasped out. “How are we in Castel Gandolfo? Why are we—?”

Elizabeth sank to a stool and took his right hand. He gripped her fingers, and she, in turn, squeezed reassurance.

He took several breaths, steadying himself. “How long have I been out?”

“Just the night.” Elizabeth slowly explained all that had transpired, telling him what they had learned from John Dee’s papers, and how they connected him to Cardinal Bernard. “That’s why we’re here. To find out what he knows. But you, the famous Knight of Christ, need to rest.”

She smiled at him.

He turned his head and studied the bandaged stump of his limb. “I remember…”

He let his voice die away, recalling a vague vision of writhing in pleasure, of hot fingers, steeped in blood, gripping him, bringing him to the height of rapture.

He stared up at Elizabeth. “Erin.”

A wounded look shadowed her eyes. “Yes, it was the archaeologist who saved you. Used her blood to draw you back from the brink of death.”

Patrick touched Elizabeth on the shoulder. “But it was you, my dear sister, who never left his side all night, tending to his wounds, ministering Christ’s blood through his lips.”

Rhun touched Elizabeth’s knee. “Thank you.”

She dismissed his gratitude with a toss of her head. “Erin and Jordan are scheduled to meet with Bernard this morning.”

“When?”

Elizabeth glanced to Patrick, who checked his watch.

“In another twenty minutes or so,” he said.

“I should be there.” Rhun used his remaining arm to push himself up. Agony flared, but he withstood it this time. “Where are my clothes?”

“I do not believe that is wise,” Patrick said.

“Wise or not, I must go.”

Recognizing his determination, Patrick slid an arm around his shoulders. The friar glanced to Elizabeth as Rhun’s blanket slid down, exposing his naked state. “Perhaps, Sister, you should leave him to me for the moment.”

Elizabeth turned to the pile of clothes, picked up a folded pair of trousers, and shook them out. “Not to be immodest, but who has been cleaning his wounds all night? I am not so faint a woman as to go weak at the sight of a naked man.”

Patrick lowered his face, hiding a grin. “As you wish.” The friar helped Rhun stand. “Go slowly.”

It was sage advice. The room swayed as he attempted a few steps, but after several tries, he could soon stand on his own and move with little assistance. Still, he needed help dressing, especially with only one arm.

Once finished, Elizabeth knotted his loose sleeve and tucked it into his belt. She eyed him up and down. “You’ve looked better, Rhun.”

“I’ve felt better.”

Patrick took him by the elbow, helping steady him toward the door. “I’ll go with you, take you to where they are holding Cardinal Bernard.”

Rhun glanced to Elizabeth. “Are you coming?”

She looked hopeful, but Friar Patrick quickly quashed it. “That is not allowed, I’m afraid. The cardinal has insisted that he will only speak with the trio of prophecy.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “As a prisoner, can he set such conditions?”

“He can,” Patrick answered. “He is not without his allies in the Holy See. Even now. I am truly sorry, Sister.”

“So be it.” Elizabeth crossed her arms, looking more defiant than the acquiescence of her words.

Rhun understood her frustration. Bernard had wronged her, stolen her very soul, and yet he was free to set the terms of their contact, while she was restricted and confined. Who truly was the prisoner here?

“Go,” she said, dismissing them both, her words bitter. “Perhaps I shall take up needlepoint while I wait.”

With no other choice but to leave her behind, Rhun headed out the door and down the corridor. Even with Patrick’s support, he trailed fingers along the whitewashed bricks to keep his balance. His right arm was gone. Even though he could see the stump and feel the pain, he did not seem able to come to terms with his new state.

A new limb will grow.

He had seen such miracles in the past, but he also knew it might take years.

How can I properly protect Erin and Jordan in this maimed state? What will become of our quest?

Patrick led him through the papal residence, letting Rhun set the pace. Thankfully he grew stronger with every candlelit hall they crossed, every winding stair they climbed. Eventually, he walked free of Patrick’s support, but the friar stuck to his side.

Rhun sensed his friend wished to speak. “What is it, Patrick? If you keep looking over your shoulder like that, you’ll get a permanent crick in your neck.”

Friar Patrick tucked his hands into his wide sleeves. “It concerns your other friend.”

It took Rhun a moment to decipher his words. “The lion cub…”

He remembered the creature’s plaintive cry, how the small cat had nudged the body of its dead mother.

“He has changed much. Growing far faster than any natural creature should.” Patrick looked at him. “What haven’t you told me about him?”

Rhun knew he could no longer keep the secret of the cub’s birth. “His mother was a blasphemare.”

Patrick drew to a sudden stop in the hallway, forcing Rhun to do the same. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Shame flared through him. “I thought if you believed the cub to be tainted you wouldn’t take him in.”

“Nonsense. He is clearly not tainted. If anything, I’d say he is blessed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have never seen his like before. He is a gentle soul. Full of mischief, yes, but there is no corruption. I see only a sweetness about him.”

Rhun felt a deep measure of relief. He had sensed the cub’s essential goodness back in the desert, and he was glad to hear it borne out. “I’ve wondered about him since I found him.”

“And do you know anything more about him?”

“Very little. His mother was badly wounded by the angelic blast following the battle in Egypt. I suspect the cub was spared in her womb, a testament to its innocence. And perhaps some of that angelic essence was instilled into him.”

Patrick touched his arm. “I don’t doubt it. Thank you for sharing this miracle with me. I never thought to see its like, a creature the mirror opposite of the blasphemare, a beast blessed by purity. It is a wonder.”

“Can you still keep it a secret… at least for now?”

“Do not trouble yourself on that account.” Patrick waved ahead and set them in motion again. “I am happy to have this miracle all to my own for now.”

They continued through to a far corner of the residence.

“The cardinal is being kept in a private apartment around the next corner,” Patrick said.

As they turned into another hall, Rhun spotted a pair of Sanguinists, both hooded and cloaked, with blades drawn, at the end of the passage. They guarded a stout wooden door, marking Bernard’s current prison cell.

Rhun started toward it, noting the windows lining the way looked out upon the blue majesty of neighboring Lake Albano. Rare Renaissance paintings dotted the walls, their oils aglow in the sunlight. He imagined Bernard’s cell had the same view and was likely equally well appointed.

The cardinal certainly did have allies who were looking after him.

A call rose from behind, coming from another hallway that ended here.

“Rhun!”

He turned to see Erin rushing forward, her jacket winging open. Jordan stalked after her, looking less thrilled to see him.

“Shouldn’t you still be in bed?” the big man said as they gathered together in the hall.

Friar Patrick bowed his head toward Erin and shook Jordan’s hand. “He has mended well enough for now, but I’ll trust the two of you to take charge of him from here.” The friar turned to Rhun. “I will leave you with your companions. But I will be on the estate should you need the council of an old fool such as myself.”

“You have never been a fool,” Rhun answered.

Friar Patrick shrugged, tucked his hands into his sleeves, and walked briskly away.

Erin’s eyes studied Rhun anxiously as they headed toward the guarded doors. “How do you feel?”

“Stronger,” he answered truthfully. “It seems I have you to thank for my life.”

She gave him a small smile. “It was my turn.”

“Gotta admit,” Jordan said, “for a guy who counts his birthdays by the centuries, you’re a tough old nut.”

Rhun felt himself relaxing in their camaraderie. Admittedly, they were a team that had survived much together, but they were more than that.

They were friends.

As they reached the doors, the guards parted. From under his hood, one spoke, sounding none too happy at their intrusion, nor to whom they had come to see.

“The cardinal has been expecting you,” the guard said, his contempt for the prisoner plain.

The other guard removed a large key from under his cloak and unlocked the door. He did not bother to open it.

Rhun shifted forward, but his balance betrayed him. Erin caught his arm.

Jordan moved to the door and shoved it open, speaking to the guards. “You both need to work on your hospitality skills. Trust me, my Yelp review about this place will sting.”

Jordan held the door for Erin and Rhun.

They passed into a sumptuous entry hall, decorated with plump furniture and heavy silk drapery. Beyond that space, a short passage led to bedrooms, a small parlor, and a powder room. The place was kept dark, except for candlelight glowing through a door at the end. Rhun heard a faint voice rising from there. The words were too inaudible to understand, but the accent was unmistakable.

Bernard.

Was someone with him? Patrick had told him on the way up that Bernard’s assistant, Father Gregory, had been coming and going at all hours of the day and night, likely running errands for the cardinal as the man fought to keep his position, to control the gears that his sin had set in motion.

Jordan heard the cardinal, too, and strode briskly down the hall. He took in the surroundings as he went. “Talk about a pretty bird cage,” he mumbled sourly.

Rhun followed.

Erin hovered at his side, clearly worried about his stability, but he waved her forward.

Jordan reached the half-closed door first and rapped a knuckle on it. When his knock went unchallenged, Jordan pushed inside. Erin kept close at his heels, plainly full of questions for Bernard.

Rhun hurried after them. He had much to ask Bernard himself about his lies and half-truths, especially concerning the cardinal’s old friend, the crusader Hugh de Payens.

As Rhun slipped into the room, he saw the disheveled state of Bernard’s temporary desk, the pools of melted candle wax on top, the heavy silk drapes that had been tied closed over the windows.

Something’s not—

The door slammed shut behind him.

He turned too slowly to block the shoulder that rammed into him, knocking him to the floor. Agony lanced through him as he landed on his left side, jarring his stump and closing his vision to a knot.

A dark shape sped past him and struck Jordan a blow to the skull with the bust of a statue. As Jordan collapsed, Erin was grabbed and tossed over the desk, where she hit a draped window and crashed to the floor.

Before Rhun could even sit up, a hand grasped his neck with iron-strong fingers and yanked him high, until only his toes brushed the carpet.

A ghastly chuckle cut through his pain.

Cardinal Bernard leered at him. His scarlet robes hung in tatters on his nearly naked form. Madness crazed his brown eyes.

“Welcome, Knight of Christ… welcome to your ruin.”

26

Dazed by the sudden attack, Erin grabbed the edge of the desk and pulled herself up, ignoring the ache in her side. Her flung body had knocked over the lone candle. The room was now dark, lit only by filtered light coming from the shuttered windows.

Her first thought was: strigoi.

She stumbled to the window behind her and yanked on the drapes. A sash had been knotted over them, keeping them from opening completely, but she managed to part the heavy silk enough to bring sunlight into the room.

Twisting back around, she saw an impossible sight. Cardinal Bernard had Rhun clutched by the throat, pinned against a bookcase. Rags of scarlet draped the man’s nearly naked body, revealing scores of scratches on the white skin beneath, as if he had torn his own robes from his shoulders in a rage.

On the rug behind them, a figure lay unmoving on the floor, blood seeping from his scalp.

Jordan…

Rhun seemed to recover from his surprise. A silver blade appeared in his right hand and bit deep into the cardinal’s arm. Fingers released his throat. As Rhun slumped down the bookcase, he lashed at the cardinal — but only swiped through empty air.

Bernard was already across the room, ripping a sword from the wall. The unearthly speed with which he moved told her that the cardinal no longer obeyed the vows of a Sanguinist. Like the strigoi, his power sprang from a darker source.

What had happened?

Jordan stirred, his eyes fluttering open. In the darkness, they shone with a faint golden gleam.

Before Jordan could gather his wits, Bernard rushed Rhun.

Rhun leaped to the side, crashing clumsily into a giant Chinese vase. His natural grace was plainly thrown off balance by his missing arm.

She drew a dagger from an inner sheath in her jacket, ready to defend the others. But she wasn’t a fighter. Her best weapon was her mind. Bernard went after Rhun again, but Jordan broadsided the cardinal, knocking him over a large standing globe.

As the cardinal sprang back up with a snarl — his body framed in a sliver of sunlight — Erin searched his exposed nakedness, looking for a telltale black handprint.

Nothing.

She wasn’t surprised.

How could Legion have possessed the cardinal? Especially while the man was imprisoned here? But if Legion wasn’t the source of this corruption, what was?

Must think…

Jordan joined Rhun, both facing down the raving beast that was the cardinal.

Erin studied the room, searching for whatever held the cardinal in thrall. Her gaze swept across the chaos atop his desk. She saw nothing unusual: papers, books, a leather-bound journal. She looked around the base of the desk. As she did so, her toe nudged a black pouch on the floor. Something rolled out the open end.

A piece of black glass.

It seemed to exude darkness. She had seen such a poisonous artifact before: in the Egyptian desert. Rhun had recently led a team to rid the sands of such evil. She dropped to a knee, knowing what rested on the carpet.

A drop of Lucifer’s blood.

She used a piece of paper to scoop the stone up, while grabbing the ties of the bag. Straightening, she rolled that black tear into the pool of sunlight atop the desk and emptied the pouch’s contents beside it. The pile of dark drops seemed to suck in the light, creating little voids in the fabric of the universe. She didn’t need to touch them to sense their malignancy, their wrongness.

But how could she vanquish it?

Sunlight clearly had no effect.

And why should it?

Millennia ago, these drops of Lucifer’s blood had fused with the Egyptian sand, creating a black glass that sealed in their malevolence, protected the darkness within from the light of the sun. If two thousand years of desert heat hadn’t harmed them, then simple Italian sunlight wouldn’t have any effect.

But what if—

Her eyes fell on a toppled stone paperweight on the corner of Bernard’s desk. It was in the shape of an angel — but more important, it was heavy.

She grabbed it, lifted it high, and smashed it down on a dull black drop, shattering it to dust.

Across the room, Bernard howled and hissed.

So you feel that, do you?

She lifted the paperweight again and again, crushing drop after drop. With each strike, a tendril of black smoke rose up from the crystalline powder. It swirled in a circle, snaking away from the exposure of the sun, then over the edge of the desk, where it plunged through the floor.

She remembered Elizabeth’s recounting how the essence of a strigoi would do the same upon the beast’s death, returning to its source.

Lucifer.

As she shattered the last obsidian piece, Cardinal Bernard gave out a final gasp, toppling over, his body thudding to the floor.

Rhun knelt over Bernard’s body, his knife at the cardinal’s throat, ready to kill his old friend. Jordan had collected the abandoned sword and stood guard by his shoulder. By now, the two cloaked guards had rushed into the room, sweeping in with weapons bared, drawn by the clatter of the brief fight.

Fearing what other evil might be about, Rhun shouted. “Guard the doors! Let no one in without my word!”

They gave him curt nods and returned to their posts.

As Rhun watched, madness faded from the cardinal’s eyes. It was replaced with something that Rhun had never seen there before.

Doubt.

Rhun leaned back, lifting his blade away, but keeping it ready.

Bernard sat up, gathering the shreds of his robes around himself, as if trying to do the same with his dignity. He ended with his hands trembling in his lap.

Erin came over, still holding a small angelic sculpture. The bottom was cracked, coated with black dust. “It was those drops of Lucifer’s blood.”

Rhun nodded, understanding. “I left them after I returned from Egypt. Locked up in the cardinal’s safe. It’s my fault.”

“No…” Bernard shook his head. “It was my hubris, believing I could dabble with such darkness and remain untouched.”

“But why mess with them in the first place?” Jordan asked.

“I hoped to learn something from them, something about Lucifer.” Bernard stared at Rhun. “Last night, when Father Gregory brought word that you were headed back from Prague, that you were coming with questions about stones associated with Lucifer, I remembered what you had brought back from Egypt.”

“The glass stones,” Rhun said.

“I was going to wait until you were all here before examining them, but after Father Gregory fetched them for me from my safe in my old offices, they called to me. I could not resist.”

Rhun nodded, turning to the others. “I saw the same affliction strike members of the team who had traveled with me to Egypt.”

Bernard stared around, a hand rising to touch his forehead in confusion. “I don’t know how long I was under its power. It took me, but it gave nothing in return.”

“But you’re free now,” Erin said. “And we have questions.”

“About Hugh de Payens,” Bernard said with a sad nod. “Father Gregory informed me of this, too. You want the truth about my friend.”

Erin brought a gentler tone to her voice, possibly responding to the pain and sorrow in the cardinal’s voice when he mentioned this figure from his past. “So Hugh didn’t die, as you claimed, during the Second Crusades?”

Bernard’s voice was barely above a whisper. “He did not.”

Erin held an arm toward the cardinal, helping him up. “Jordan, fetch him a blanket.”

Rhun guided Bernard to a set of chairs by the fireplace, careful of the broken pieces of vase on the floor. Jordan returned from a neighboring bedroom with a woolen throw and handed it to Bernard, who wrapped his nakedness, sighing his gratitude, slowly regaining some of his dignity. He looked, again, like the man Rhun had known so long.

Erin sat in a chair across from Bernard, leaning forward. “Tell us what really happened.”

Bernard looked at the cold fireplace, his gaze still lost, slipping into the past. “Hugh took me in when I was a savage beast. He prayed for me when I was lost.”

Rhun had not heard this story. “Are you saying he was the one who converted you, brought you into the Sanguinist fold?”

A small nod confirmed this.

Rhun knew such a monumental act’s significance, how it could deeply bond a pair. It was, in fact, Bernard who had brought Rhun to this holy path, becoming his mentor and friend, and despite the cardinal’s recent actions, he would always owe Bernard a debt of gratitude. The bonds between Bernard and Hugh de Payens must have been equally strong.

“I was a lost savage until he saved me,” Bernard continued. “Together we brought many into the order. Many. We founded the Knights Templar. We did much good.”

“Nine men, bound by blood,” Erin said quietly. “A Sanguinist order of warrior monks.”

“What were these Sanguinist Templars exactly?” Jordan asked.

Bernard glanced to the big man, a touch of pride stiffening his bowed back. “We were a knighthood within a knighthood, capable of fighting a double battle against both the adversaries born of flesh and those spirits risen out of evil. Our armor was our faith, as much as it was our chain mail. We feared neither men nor demons.”

“So you truly are Bernard of Clairvaux?” Erin asked.

“I am. And together, Hugh and I performed great acts, uniting the scattered Templars under a single banner, giving them unity and strength of purpose.” Bernard stared around at them. “You must understand, Hugh was a great leader. Charismatic, sympathetic, empathetic. Men and Sanguinist fell in line behind him, willing to give their lives upon his word. But over time, it became too much.”

“I knew men like that,” Jordan said. “The characteristics that make a man a good leader — like empathy — sometimes make them more susceptible to battle fatigue, to PTSD.”

“What happened to Hugh?” Erin asked.

Bernard sighed heavily. “He abandoned the Templars. After the Second Crusades.” He stared at Rhun. “In truth, he left our order entirely.”

“He left the Sanguinists?” Rhun could not hide his shock.

Sanguinists didn’t leave. They were either killed in service to the Church, or they forsook from their vows, returning to their unholy natures so that they had to be hunted down and slain. The only Sanguinist who had escaped such a fate was Rasputin, who had built his own twisted version of the order within the Russian Orthodox Church, safely entrenched in the city of St. Petersburg, beyond the reach of the Sanguinists.

But apparently there had been one other.

“Where did he go?” Rhun asked.

Bernard looked to his hands. “He sojourned far and wide at first, alone, both hermit and nomad. Eventually he settled in the remote mountains of France, to a hermitage of his own making. There, he found some measure of peace, discovering grace in the wild places of the world.”

“So what are you saying?” Rhun asked. “That he reverted to a strigoi?”

Bernard shook his head.

Rhun struggled to understand. “Then how did he come to live beyond the protection of the Church?”

“He simply did,” Bernard answered evasively, not meeting Rhun’s eye.

It was Erin who clarified some of this story. “That’s why you spread the lie of his death, wasn’t it? Hugh de Payens abandoned the order, but he didn’t return to his savage ways. He found his own path to grace, independent of the Church.”

Rhun stared at her, unable to accept her words. There could be no other path to grace than humble service to the Church. He and all the Sanguinists had been taught this simple truth since the days of Lazarus.

“I could let no one know,” Bernard explained. “What if more Sanguinists were to leave the order? So I made up a story of a noble death, of a life given in service to the Church. But that was only half the reason for the lie”

“What’s the other half?” Erin asked.

“When Hugh spoke of leaving the order, I knew that they would kill him for it. To save him, I made up that story.” Bernard looked to Rhun, as if searching for absolution. “I lied to the order. I lied to the Church. But they would have hunted him down like an animal, and he was no animal. He was my friend.”

Rhun settled heavily to another chair, weakened both by his injuries and by the revelations.

This Sanguinist had found grace outside the Church.

Rhun’s mind whirled. He had joined the Sanguinists because he had thought that it was the only way to live with his curse. The choice offered to him had been a simple one: die as a strigoi or live as a man of the cloth, helping to protect others. At the time, centuries ago, Rhun had already been on the road to the priesthood, studying in a seminary, so his decision had been an easy one: he would serve. He had thought it the only way.

When Rasputin had left the Church nearly a century ago and built up an army of followers strong enough to protect him from the Church’s justice, Rhun’s faith had not faltered. Rasputin’s life was one of wickedness and deceit, and Rhun would not follow his example. But to hear that there might be another path frightened him and made him angry.

He stared toward the sunlight flowing through the windows.

Has my entire existence been a lie?

Erin noted how Rhun sagged in his chair, reading the forlorn look etched on his face. She knew he had been through too much. He had nearly died and lost his arm, but she suspected this news was a deeper wound, one that would take some time to heal, if it ever did. She could almost see Rhun’s foundation and faith in the Church crumbling beneath him.

But for now, they had more pressing matters to discuss.

She confronted Bernard. “Does Hugh still live?”

“He does.”

Rhun looked sharply at Bernard, but the cardinal would not meet his eye.

“He still maintains his remote hermitage in those mountains,” Bernard admitted.

“Do you know anything about the stones?” Erin nodded to Jordan, who pulled out the pieces of green diamond. “Hugh gave this one to John Dee, and maybe two more like it.”

“I know nothing. It was why I thought to dabble with those cursed drops.”

Jordan pocketed the diamond. “So it sounds like we’re going to have to go to the horse’s mouth. Pay this old guy a visit, if we want any answers.”

Exactly.

“Tell us how we can find him,” Erin urged.

Bernard lifted a hand, but he let it drop to his knee in a gesture of defeat. “One does not simply request an audience with Hugh de Payens. He has no interest in worldly concerns, and his hermitage is well guarded.”

“Guarded?” Jordan frowned. “How?”

“What you must understand, what made Payens such a great leader, was his ability to read another’s heart, to know them often better than they know themselves. And it wasn’t just the hearts of men. He had a keen affinity for all God’s creatures and became a great admirer of St. Francis of Assisi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Rhun sat straighter, looking horrified.

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

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

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

Bernard bowed his head, acknowledging this truth.

“Great,” Jordan mumbled.

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

27

Jordan watched the cardinal lower the phone atop his desk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erin didn’t look swayed by this argument.

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

“But he survived,” Jordan said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What could that be?

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

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

Bernard frowned, looking confused.

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

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

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

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

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

“What omen?” Erin asked.

“Have you not heard?” he asked.

“We’ve been busy,” Jordan said.

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

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

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

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

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

So who else had the friar—

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

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

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

Jordan heard a most peculiar sound.

Rhun was laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell?

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

Bernard was right.

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

Then the lion growled at him, baring fangs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something’s in there.

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

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

Rhun nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Legion,” Erin said.

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

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

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

Bernard nodded. “You have one advantage.”

“What’s that?” Jordan asked.

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

Surprised, Rhun glanced to Patrick.

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

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

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

A clear sign of good judgment.

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

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

“Where did you find him?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

So whom could they trust?

Rhun stared at Erin and Jordan, knowing one certainty.

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

28

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

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

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

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

The grimwolf.

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

But not all of them.

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

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

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

All except one.

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

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

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

What I know now…

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

Where I will go…

To find the stones.

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

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

I will return paradise to you — and to myself.

Your new dark king.