Innocent Blood (14 page)

I will get you to safety,
he promised.

He stared up at the midday skies, the crisp blue smudged by smoke.

Where could they go?

12:52
P.M.

The helicopter came in fast and low and landed in an undamaged part of the field. The pilot cracked a window and waved to the group gathered at the edge of the wreckage.

“That must be our ride,” Jordan said, recognizing the expensive helicopter, a twin to the one that had rescued them out of the desert of Masada all those months ago.

Jordan took Erin’s hand, and together they navigated through the last of the rubble to the helicopter. He was shaky on his feet, but Erin seemed mostly fine. He recalled the blur as Rhun had torn Erin from his grasp and crashed through the window when the train exploded.

Rhun’s quick reaction had likely saved her life.

Perhaps he should forgive the Sanguinist priest for his prior actions, for feeding and leaving Erin to die in the tunnels under Rome, but he still couldn’t muster up enough goodwill to do so.

Ahead, the rotors kicked up dust and pieces of grass. The pilot wore the familiar midnight-blue uniform of the Swiss Guard and gestured to the back, indicating they should climb in.

Erin clambered aboard first and reached a hand down to Jordan.

Forgoing pride, he took it and allowed her to help him inside.

Once buckled in, he glanced out the open door toward the other Sanguinists. Swirling dust obscured all but the approaching forms of Christian and Rhun. Slung between them, they hauled a ragged black bundle, fully covered in a cloak.

The countess.

Bernard followed next out of the dust behind them. He carried Father Ambrose’s body. Behind him, Nadia trailed.

Christian and Rhun climbed inside. Once seated, Rhun took possession of Bathory’s form, cradling her on his lap, her draped head resting on his shoulder.

“No sign of Leopold?” Jordan asked Christian.

The young Sanguinist shook his head.

Bernard arrived and held out his bundle. Christian took it, and together the two strapped Ambrose’s body to a stretcher, their movements quick and efficient, as if they had done this a thousand times before.

And they probably had.

The cardinal stepped back from the helicopter, allowing Nadia to board. She tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed her thumb up to indicate that he should take off.

As planned, Bernard would remain behind to explain everything to the police, to put a public face on this tragedy. It would be a tough job, especially as he was clearly still grieving.

The rotors sped up with a roar of the engine, and the helicopter lifted.

Once high enough, it swept over the carnage.

Faces pressed to the windows, everyone searched below and came to the sad and inevitable conclusion.

Brother Leopold was gone.

17

December 19, 1:04
P.M.
CET

Castel Gandolfo, Italy

Erin gripped Jordan’s arm as the helicopter sped toward a quaint stone village nestled among pines and olive groves next to a large lake. Its cobalt waters reminded her of Lake Tahoe, stirring a longing to be back in California—protected from all this death and chaos.

Not that trouble couldn’t find me there
,
too.

She remembered Blackjack, heard the screams of the
blasphemare
cat.

She knew any lasting peace would escape her until this was over.

But would it ever be truly over?

The pilot aimed for the edge of the lush volcanic crater that overlooked the lake and the village square. Surmounting its stony crest like a crown sat a massive castle with red tile roofs, two leaden domes, and massive balconies. The grounds themselves were just as impressive, divided into private manicured gardens, contemplative fishponds, and tinkling fountains. Avenues were lined by pine trees or dotted with giant holm oaks. She even spotted the ruins of a Roman emperor’s villa.

She had no trouble recognizing the pope’s summer residence.

Castel Gandolfo.

As their aircraft descended toward a neighboring helipad, she wondered about this destination. Had the residence always been their goal or was this simply a quick and convenient hideout after the explosion?

Ultimately she didn’t care. They needed rest and a place to recuperate.

Any port in a storm . . .

She glanced at her fellow passengers, recognizing this truth. Jordan looked haggard under a mask of soot and grime. Nadia’s stern countenance was set, but shadowed with sadness. Christian still had traces of blood streaked in the creases of his face, making him look much older, or maybe it was just exhaustion.

Across from her, Rhun hadn’t taken his eyes off the bundle in his arms, looking stricken and worried. He cradled Bathory’s cloaked head against his shoulder with one hand. The countess lay still as death in his arms.

As soon as the skids touched ground, the Sanguinists rushed Erin and Jordan off the helipad. Ambrose’s body remained on board, although each Sanguinist touched him as they disembarked, even Rhun. According to Christian, the pilot and copilot would attend to the priest’s body.

Erin and Jordan followed the others down a gravel path through a rose garden, the plants long off their bloom. A few minutes later, they reached a spade-shaped door set into the stucco garden wall. Christian opened it and led them down a corridor with a gleaming terrazzo floor. Salons and rooms opened to either side, decorated with medieval tapestries and gilt-edged furniture.

At an intersection, Nadia beckoned Rhun to the left with his burden. Christian pointed Erin and Jordan to the right.

“I’m taking you to rooms where you can wash up,” he said.

“I’m not letting Erin out of my sight,” Jordan said.

She tightened her grip on his hand. She wasn’t letting him out of her sight either.

“Already figured as much,” Christian said. “And I’m not letting either of you out of my sight until you are safe in that room. The plan is to wait for the cardinal’s return. We’ll recover and regroup, then figure out what to do next.”

With the matter settled, Jordan followed Christian. Tall windows on one side of this corridor looked out over the lake. White sails glided across the blue water, and seagulls soared above. It was a serene view, almost surreal after all the devastation and death.

Jordan was clearly less captivated, his mind elsewhere. “What do you think happened to Leopold?”

Christian touched his cross. “He was closer to the source of the explosion. His body may never be found. But the cardinal will keep searching until rescue personnel and police arrive. If Leopold’s body is found, the cardinal will claim him and bring him here.”

Reaching an oaken door, Christian unlocked it and ushered them both through, then followed them inside. He quickly crossed and closed the shutters over the windows that looked out upon the lake. He switched on a few wrought-iron lamps. The room held a double bed with a white duvet, a marble fireplace, and a seating area in front of the windows.

Christian disappeared through a small side door. Erin followed after him, trailed by Jordan. She found a simple bathroom with white walls, toilet, and sink. A shower stood in the corner, tiled in the same marble as the floor. Two thick towels rested on a low wooden table, topped by a fresh change of clothes.

It looked like she would be wearing tan pants and a white cotton shirt. Jordan would have on jeans and a brown shirt.

Hanging against the back of the bathroom door were a pair of familiar leather jackets. On their prior mission, she and Jordan had worn this very set of outerwear, constructed from the hides of grimwolves—slash-proof and tough enough to withstand
strigoi
bites. She stroked her hand down the battered brown leather, remembering the battles of the past.

Christian opened the medicine cabinet and took out a first-aid kit. “This should have what you need.”

He turned and marched back to the hall door. He lifted up a stout brace that leaned against the wall next to the exit and handed it to Jordan. “This is reinforced with a core of steel.”

Jordan hefted the bar. “Feels like it.”

“Once I’m on the other side, use it to brace the door.” Christian pointed to a chest at the foot of the bed. “You’ll also find weapons there. I don’t expect you’ll need them, but it’s better not to be caught off guard.”

Jordan nodded, eyeing the chest.

“Let no one in besides me,” Christian said.

“Not even the cardinal or Rhun?” she asked.

“No one,” Christian repeated. “Someone knew we were on that train. My best advice for both of you is to trust no one except each other.”

He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Jordan lifted the heavy bar and secured it in place.

“So much for Christian’s pep talk,” she said. “That wasn’t exactly reassuring.”

Jordan moved to the chest and opened it up. He took out a machine gun and examined it. “Beretta AR 70. At least this is reassuring. Fires up to six hundred fifty rounds per minute.” Then he checked the ammunition supply in the chest and smiled as he came up with another weapon, a Colt 1911. “It’s not my own pistol, but it looks like someone did their research.”

He handed it to her.

She checked the magazine. The bullets were made of silver—fine against humans, essential against
strigoi
. The silver reacted with their blood, helping to even the odds.
Strigoi
were hard to kill—tougher than humans, able to control their blood loss, and possessing supernatural healing abilities. But they weren’t invulnerable.

Jordan next eyed the bathroom. “I’ll let you take first crack at the shower, while I see about getting a fire started.”

It was a fine plan, the best she had heard all day.

But first, she stepped close to him, inhaling his musky scent, smelling soot underneath. She tilted up and kissed him, glad to be alive, to be with him.

As she leaned away, Jordan’s eyes were pinched with concern. “You okay?”

How could I be?
she thought.

She was no soldier. She couldn’t walk through fields of bodies and keep going. Jordan had trained himself, the Sanguinists, too, but she wasn’t so sure she ever wanted to be that tough, even if she could. She remembered the thousand-yard stare that Jordan sometimes got. It cost him, and she bet it cost the Sanguinists, too.

He whispered, still holding her, “I don’t mean about today. I feel like you’ve been holding something back since we met in California.”

She slipped out of his embrace. “Everyone has secrets.”

“So tell me yours.”

Panic fluttered in her chest.

Not here. Not now.

To hide her reaction, she turned and headed for the bathroom. “I’ve had my fill of secrets today,” she said lamely. “Right now, all I want is a hot shower and a warm fire.”

“I can’t argue with that.” But despite his words, he sounded disappointed.

She entered the bathroom and closed the door. She gladly shed her clothes, happy to rid herself of the smell of soot and smoke and replace it with lavender soap and a citrus shampoo. She stood for a long time under the hot spray, letting it burn away the day, leaving her skin raw and sensitive.

She toweled and slipped into a soft robe. Barefooted, she returned to the main room. The lamps had been switched off, and the only illumination came from the crackling fire.

Jordan straightened after jabbing and rolling a log into better position in the flames. He had shed his suit coat and shredded shirt. His skin shone in the firelight, bruised and crisscrossed with scratches and cuts. Across the left side of his chest, his tattoo almost seemed to glow. The artwork wrapped around his shoulder and sent tendrils partway down his arm and across part of his back. It looked like the branching roots of a tree, centered on a single dark mark on his chest.

She knew the history of that mark. Jordan had been struck by lightning when he was in high school. He had died for a short period of time before being resuscitated. The surge of energy had left its fractal mark across his skin, bursting capillaries, creating what was called a Lichtenberg figure, or a lightning flower. Before it faded, he had the pattern tattooed as a reminder of his brush with death, turning the near tragedy into something beautiful.

She drew closer, as if drawn by that residual energy.

He faced her, smiling. “Hope you didn’t use all the hot—”

She put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Words weren’t what she wanted right now. She tugged her belt loose and shrugged out of the robe. It slithered to the floor, brushing against her breasts and pooling at her ankles.

With one hand, he stroked her hair back from her neck. She arched her throat in invitation. He took it, trailing slow kisses down to her collarbone. She moaned, and he drew back, his eyes dark with passion and an unspoken question.

In answer, she pulled him by the waistband of his pants toward the bed.

Once there, he shed the last of his clothes, ripping them off and kicking them away.

Naked, aroused, he lifted her up in his arms. Her legs wrapped around his muscular thighs as he lowered her to the bed. He loomed over her, as wide as the world, shoving away everything, leaving only them, this moment.

She pulled him down for an urgent kiss, tasting him, her teeth finding his lower lip, his tongue with her own. His warm hands ran over her skin, across her breasts, leaving a trail of electricity in their wake—then slid around to her lower back to lift her higher.

She arched under him, needing him, knowing she would always need him.

His lips moved to her throat, brushing across the scars on her neck.

She moaned, pulling his head hard against her, as if begging him to bite her, to open her again. A name rose to her lips, but she trapped it inside before it escaped into the world.

She remembered Jordan begging for her secret.

But the deepest secrets are the ones we don’t know we’re keeping.

His lips moved to below her ear, his breath heating the nape of her neck. His next words groaned out of him, full of his truth, felt in the bones of her skull.

“I love you.”

She felt tears rise to her eyes. She drew his mouth to hers and whispered as their lips brushed. “And I love you.”

It was her truth, too—but perhaps not her whole truth.