Innocent Blood (11 page)

Hello
,
my beloved.

There was no warmth in her words, only disdain.

Elisabeta switched to Italian, though her dialect was old, too. “I trust you did not find your brief time in my prison too burdensome. But then again, you took my life, you destroyed my soul, and then you stole four hundred years from me.” Her silver eyes glared out of the darkness at him. “So I doubt you’ve been punished quite enough.”

Every word cut him with its truth. He had done all that to her, a woman he had once loved—still loved, if perhaps only the memory of her former self. He reached for his pectoral cross, found a new one hung around his neck, and prayed for forgiveness for those sins.

“Has Christ been much comfort to you these last hundreds of years?” she asked. “You look no happier than you did in my castle centuries ago.”

“It is my duty to serve Him, as always.”

One side of her mouth lifted in a half smile. “You give me the politic answer, Father Korza, yet did we not once promise to speak truth to each other? Do you not owe me at least so much?”

He owed her much more.

Nadia glared at Elisabeta with undisguised rage. “Do not forget that she left you in that coffin to suffer and die. Or all the women she killed on the streets of Rome.”

“It is her nature now,” he said.

And I made her so.

He had perverted her from healer to killer. All her crimes rested on his conscience—both in the past and now.

“We can control our natures,” Nadia countered, touching the delicate silver cross at her neck. “I control mine every day. So do you. She is fully capable of doing the same, but she chooses not to.”

“I will never change,” Elisabeta promised. “You should have just killed me at my castle.”

“So I was ordered,” he told her. “It was mercy that hid you away.”

“I trust little in your mercy.”

She shifted in her seat, lifting clasped hands to brush a lock of hair from her forehead before settling them again in her lap. He saw she wore handcuffs.

“Enough.” Bernard gestured to Nadia.

She stepped closer to the sofa and pulled Elisabeta none too gently to her feet. Nadia kept firm hold of her. She would not underestimate Elisabeta as he had when he took her from the wine.

The countess only smiled, baring her handcuffs toward Rhun.

“Shackled like an animal,” she said. “That is what your love has brought me.”

10:55
A.M.

Leopold started at one end of the dining car and worked his way to the other. He did what he was ordered to do, closing each set of curtains, pulling the panels tightly together until no scrap of sunlight came through.

The car grew dark, the only illumination coming from the electric lights mounted on the ceiling. He paused outside the door to the last car.

The two humans’ hearts beat louder. He smelled the anxiety rising from them like steam. A twinge of pity flickered through him.

“What are you doing?” Erin asked, but she was no fool. From the way she glanced from the steel door to the closed windows, she must already sense that something dangerous was about to be brought in here.

“You are perfectly safe,” Leopold assured her.

“To hell with that,” Jordan swore.

The soldier reached across Erin to the curtain next to her and yanked it back open. Sunlight poured into the room, bathing her.

Leopold stared at Erin in the middle of the pool of sunlight, trying to decide whether to return and secure the curtain. But from Jordan’s expression, he decided against it. Instead, he rapped on the thick steel door, alerting those inside that all was ready.

Christian stood, as if readying for battle, and placed himself between Erin and the door, standing half in shadow, half in light.

The door opened, and Cardinal Bernard stepped first into the car, wearing his full scarlet vestments. His eyes moved from Erin to Jordan. “First, let me apologize for such clandestine measures, but after all that has occurred—both here and in California—I thought it wiser to be cautious.”

Neither of the two humans seemed overly satisfied by this explanation, plainly suspicious, but they politely remained silent.

That awkward tableau was interrupted as the galley door on the other side of the car opened, and Father Ambrose appeared. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and stepped inside, uninvited. He must have heard Bernard’s voice and come to offer assistance to the cardinal—and to eavesdrop on the discussion.

Bernard strode across the car. The cardinal took Erin’s hand in both of his own, then Jordan’s. “You both look well.”

“As do you.” Erin tried to smile, but Leopold could read the worry from her face. “Is there any news on Rhun’s whereabouts?”

Hope rang there. She genuinely cared for Rhun.

Leopold hardened his heart against the rising guilt inside him. He liked these two humans, cherished their vitality and intelligence, but he reminded himself for the thousandth time that his betrayal served a higher purpose. This knowledge did not make his traitorous acts any easier.

“I’ll explain all in good time,” Bernard promised them. His eyes turned to his assistant. “That will be all, Father Ambrose.”

With a peeved sigh, his assistant retreated back into the galley, but Leopold had no doubt that the spidery priest had an ear close to that door, hanging on their every word. He was not about to be left out in the dark.

Then again
,
neither am I.

He remembered his promise to the
Damnatus,
felt again the touch of the dire moth on his shoulder, the flutter of its wing against his neck.

I must not fail him.

13

December 19, 11:04
A.M.
CET

South of Rome, Italy

Once Father Ambrose was gone, Cardinal Bernard signaled to the shadows beyond the open steel door.

Erin tensed, her fingers tightening on Jordan’s hand. She was suddenly very happy Jordan had yanked the curtains open. Still, despite the streaming sunlight, she felt chilled.

From out of the darkness a black-clad priest stepped into the bright car. He was skeletally thin, a gaunt pale hand held the edge of his hood against the glare. He moved in halting steps, but there remained a certain grace about him, a familiarity in his movements.

Then he dropped his hand and revealed his face. Lanky black hair hung over dark, sunken eyes. His skin was pulled tight across broad cheekbones, and his lips looked thin, bloodless.

She remembered kissing those lips when they had been fuller.

“Rhun . . .”

Shock pulled her to her feet. He looked as if he had aged years.

Jordan rose and kept to her side.

Rhun waved them all back to their seats. He then hobbled, assisted by Bernard, and fell heavily into the vacant chair next to Christian. Erin noted he kept out of the worst of the bright light. While Sanguinists could tolerate sunlight, it weakened them, and clearly Rhun had few reserves to spare.

From across the table, familiar eyes locked onto hers. She read exhaustion there, along with a measure of regret.

Rhun spoke softly. “I understand from Cardinal Bernard that we have come to share a blood bond. I apologize for any suffering that might have caused you.”

“It’s fine, Rhun,” she said. “I’m fine. But you . . .”

His pale lips lifted into a ghostly attempt at a smile. “I have felt more vigorous than I do now, but with Christ’s help, I will recover my full strength soon.”

Jordan took her hand atop the table, making his claim on her clear. He glared at Rhun, showing no sympathy. Instead, he turned to Bernard, who stood beside the table.

“Cardinal, if you knew Rhun was missing for so many weeks, why did you wait so long before reaching out to us? You could have called before he got into this sorry state.”

The cardinal folded his gloved fingers together. “Until a few hours ago, I did not know of the dark act committed against Dr. Granger in the tunnels below St. Peter’s. I could not know of any bond between him and Erin. But Rhun’s actions have offered hope for the world.”

Rhun dropped his gaze to the table, looking mortified.

What was the cardinal talking about?

Bernard lifted his arms to encompass the train. “With all who are gathered here—the prophesied trio—we can now seek the First Angel.”

Jordan glanced around the table. “In other words, the band’s back together again. The Knight of Christ, the Warrior of Man, and the Woman of Learning.”

At the mention of the last of that trio, he squeezed Erin’s fingers.

She slipped her hand free. “Not necessarily,” she reminded everyone.

She heard that pistol blast again in her head, pictured Bathory Darabont collapsing in that tunnel.
I murdered the last of the Bathory line.

Rhun stared at her. “The three of us have accomplished much.”

In this, Jordan seemed to agree. “Damned straight.”

They might be right, but it was the
damned
part that worried her.

11:15
A.M.

The train slowed and changed tracks, continuing its journey south.

Jordan glanced out the window, trying to guess their destination. Bernard had still not told them. Instead, the cardinal had vanished again into the rear car, leaving them to their own thoughts, to digest all that had happened.

It was a big meal.

A clink of metal drew his attention back to that dark doorway. Bernard emerged again, with two women in tow.

The first was tall, a dark-haired and dark-eyed Sanguinist. He immediately recognized Nadia. He eyeballed her leather armor and the length of silver belted at her waist. The latter was a chain whip, a weapon the woman was extremely skilled at wielding. She also had a long blade strapped to her side.

The phrase
dressed to kill
came to mind.

Nadia’s attention stayed focused on the second woman.

Not a good sign.

The stranger was shorter than Erin, with short curly ebony hair. She wore jeans and boots, the right one torn, exposing a splint on that leg, plainly a recent injury. Over her clothes, she shouldered an old-fashioned heavy cloak that seemed to weigh her down. Her tiny hands were folded demurely in front of her, and it took Jordan a second more to see that she wore handcuffs.

In one gloved hand, Nadia held a thick chain tethered to those handcuffs.

They weren’t taking any chances with this one.

Why was this woman so dangerous?

As the prisoner limped closer, Jordan saw her face. His jaw clenched to keep from gasping in surprise.

Silvery eyes met his. He studied the shape of those perfectly formed lips, the high cheekbones, the curly fall of her locks. If he changed the hue of her hair to a fiery red, she would be the spitting image of Bathory Darabont, the woman Erin had killed in the tunnel below Rome.

Erin had stiffened next to him, also recognizing the obvious family resemblance.

“You found another from the line of Bathory,” Erin said.

“Yes,” the cardinal said.

Jordan inwardly groaned.
Like the last one hadn’t been trouble enough.

“And she is
strigoi,
” Erin added.

Jordan flinched in surprise, suddenly understanding the need for the heavy guard, the drawn shades. He should have recognized this fact himself.

The woman fixed Erin with a cold, dismissive stare, then turned to the cardinal. She spoke to him in Latin, but her accent sounded Slavic, very much like Rhun’s when he got angry.

Jordan looked at the prisoner with new eyes, appraising the threat level, calculating contingencies if this monster broke free from her handlers.

Once the woman had finished, Bernard said, “It’s better if you speak English. Matters will go much more smoothly.”

She shrugged, turned to Rhun, and spoke in English. “You already look much refreshed, my love.”

My love? What did that mean?

As a priest, Rhun wasn’t supposed to take lovers.

She sniffed curtly at Erin and Jordan, as if they had both crawled out of some gutter. “It seems such low company suits you well.”

Rhun gave no indication that he had heard her.

Cardinal Bernard stepped forward and made a formal introduction. “This is Countess Elizabeth Bathory de Ecsed, widow of the Count Ferenc Nádasdy Bathory de Nádasd et Fogarasföld.”

Erin gasped, drawing Jordan’s eye, but she simply kept staring at the woman.

In turn, the cardinal introduced both of them to the countess. Fortunately their titles were much shorter. “Allow me to present Dr. Erin Granger and Sergeant Jordan Stone.”

Erin found her voice again. “Are you claiming that this is
the
Elizabeth Bathory? From the late 1500s?”

The woman bowed her head, as if acknowledging this truth.

Emotions ran across Erin’s face—a mix of relief and disappointment. They both knew how convinced the Church was that the Woman of Learning would arise from the Bathory line.

“I don’t understand,” Jordan said. “Is this woman a
Sanguinist
?”

The countess answered, “I will have no part of that dreary order. I place my faith in passion, not penitence.”

Rhun stirred. Jordan remembered the priest’s story from when he was new to the Sanguinist fold. In a moment of forbidden passion, Rhun had killed Elizabeth Bathory and the only way to save her was to
turn
her, to change her into a
strigoi
. But where had this woman been for the last four hundred years? The Church had been convinced the Bathory line had died with Darabont.

Jordan could guess the answer:
Rhun must have hidden her.

It seemed the priest had kept quiet about more than just biting Erin.

Bernard spoke. “I believe that those gathered here are our best weapons in the upcoming War of the Heavens, a battle prophesied by the Blood Gospel. Here stands the world’s only hope.”

Countess Bathory laughed, the noise both amused and bitter. “Ah, Cardinal, with your love for the dramatic, you should have been better served by becoming an actor on a wider stage than the pulpit.”

“Nevertheless, I believe it to be true.” He turned and confronted the woman’s disobliging manner. “Would you rather the world end, Countess Bathory?”

“Did not my world come to an end long ago?” She glanced to Rhun.

Nadia pulled out her blade from its sheath at her hip. “We could make it a
permanent
end. After the murders you committed, you should be executed on the spot.”

The countess laughed again, a musical tinkling sound that raised goose bumps on the back of Jordan’s neck. “If the cardinal truly wished me dead, I would be a pile of ashes in St. Peter’s Square. For all your stern words, you need me.”

“That’s enough.” Bernard raised his red-gloved hands. “The countess has a duty to perform. She will serve as the Woman of Learning—or I will thrust her out into the sunlight myself.”

11:22
A.M.

Erin steeled herself against her wounded pride.

That was a clear vote of no confidence from the cardinal.

Was Bernard really so certain of Bathory and so uncertain of her?

She had one advocate in her corner. Jordan slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Screw that. Erin proved that
she
is the Woman of Learning.”

“Did she now?” Countess Bathory ran her pink tongue along her upper lip, revealing sharp white fangs. “Then it seems I am not needed after all.”

Erin kept her face blank. Over the centuries, Bathory women had been singled out for generations, trained to serve as the Woman of Learning. She had no such pedigree. Although she had been part of the trio that had recovered the Blood Gospel, it had been Bathory Darabont who actually succeeded in opening that ancient tome on the altar of St. Peter’s.

Not me.

Bernard pointed a hand at the countess. “What can explain her presence here except the fulfillment of prophecy? A woman believed to be dead, but resurrected by Rhun, the indisputable Knight of Christ.”

“How about poor judgment?” Christian said, coming to Erin’s corner. “And blind coincidence? Not every fall of a coin is prophecy.”

Jordan nodded firmly.

Rhun spoke, his voice hoarse. “It was
sin
that brought Elisabeta to this moment, not prophecy.”

“Or perhaps a lack of experience with sin,” the countess countered with a spiteful smile. “We could spend many idle hours speculating as to
why
I am here. None of that should obscure the fact that I
am
here. What do you wish of me, and what shall you pay for my cooperation?”

“Is it not payment enough to save the earthly realm?” Nadia asked.

“What do I owe this
earthly realm
of yours?” Bathory straightened her back. “Against my will, I was torn from it, ripped away by the teeth of one of your own. Since that time I have spent far longer locked away than free. From this moment on, I will do
nothing
that does not benefit me.”

“We don’t need her,” Jordan said. “We have Erin.”

Both Nadia and Christian nodded, and gratitude at their trust filled her.

“No,” Bernard said firmly, ending the discussion with his sternness. “We need this woman.”

Erin clenched her jaw. Again she was being cast aside.

The countess stared at Bernard. “Then explain this role of mine, Cardinal. And let us see if you can buy my help.”

As Bernard explained about the prophecy, about the looming War of the Heavens, Erin reached down and took Jordan’s warm hand. He tilted his head to look at her, and she lost herself for a moment in those clear blue eyes, the eyes of the Warrior of Man. He squeezed her hand, making a silent promise. Whatever happened, she and Jordan were in this together.

The cardinal finished his explanation.

“I see,” Bathory said. “And what manner of payment might I expect if I help you find this First Angel?”

Bernard bowed his head toward the countess. “There are many rewards to be had by serving the Lord, Countess Bathory.”

“My rewards for serving the Church have been scant thus far.” The countess shook her head. “The glory of service does not content me.”

In this one instance, Erin agreed with Bathory. The countess had certainly gotten a raw deal—turned into a
strigoi,
imprisoned first in her own castle, then in a coffin of wine for hundreds of years.

Everyone the woman knew was long dead. Everything she cared about was gone.

Except Rhun.

“My desires are of utmost simplicity.” The countess held up one imperious finger. “First, the Sanguinists must protect my person for the rest of my unnatural life. Both from other
strigoi
and meddling humans.”

She held up another finger. “Second, I must be allowed to hunt.”

She unfolded another finger. “Third, my castle shall be restored to me.”

“Elisabeta,” Rhun whispered. “You do your soul a disservice by—”

“I have
no
soul!” she declared loudly. “Do you not remember the day you destroyed it?”

Rhun let out a quiet sigh.

Erin hated to see him look so defeated. She hated Bathory for causing it.

“We can reach an accommodation,” the cardinal said. “If you choose to live in a Sanguinist enclave, you will be sheltered from all who wish to do you harm.”

“I shall not be locked away in some Sanguinist nunnery.” The countess’s voice rang with anger. “Not for Christ, not for any man.”

“We could give you a suite of apartments in Vatican City itself,” Bernard countered. “And Sanguinists to protect you when you leave the Holy City.”