Innocent Blood (33 page)

Screams of the city’s dying filled his ears even now.

“What happened?” Erin asked, sounding far away.

“She found me unworthy. She destroyed the most crucial part before I could see it.”

“But who is she?” Jordan asked. “If she was around during the Crusades, then again during the Renaissance with Judas, she must be immortal. Does that mean she is a
strigoi
? Or someone like Judas or the boy?”

“Neither,” Bernard realized aloud. He pointed to the wings drawn over her shoulders. “I believe she is an angel.”

He stared at Erin, his eyes welling with tears.

And she found me unworthy.

44

December 20, 7:38
A.M.
CET

Off the coast of Italy

Rhun stood at the pilothouse door as the hydrofoil raced toward the shore. Following Erin’s advice they had plotted a course northwest of the city of Naples, aiming for a dark bay in the Tyrrhenian Sea, in the shadow of the volcanic cone that the Cumaean Sibyl made her home.

Black waves churned past their hull, and ash blasted Rhun’s bare face. It did not smell of blood, only of iron and cinders and sulfur. When he wiped it from his brow, grit coated his fingertips.

The quakes had stopped, but the eruption continued, churning smoke and ash into the world, jetting sprays of fiery lava into the darkness beyond the rim of the cone. Erin had told them that this caldera lay in the center of a larger supervolcano called Campi Flegrei. She warned that if this smaller burning match set off that monstrous well of magma beneath it, much of Europe was doomed.

How much time did they have?

He raised his eyes to the sky for an answer—and found none. Sunrise was upon them, but under the cloak of the volcano’s shroud, it remained a moonless night. The lights of the ship tunneled through the black snow.

Inside the cabin, Erin and Jordan covered their noses and mouths with scraps of ripped cloth, like thieves in this endless night, protecting themselves against the ash fall.

Jordan shouted and pointed his arm. “To the left, is that a helicopter parked on the beach?”

Rhun saw he was correct, slightly irked that the soldier had noted it first. With Rhun’s sharper eyes, he picked out its unique shape, its markings, both a match to the aircraft that had attacked them.

“It’s Iscariot’s helicopter!” he confirmed for the others.

Christian turned the hydrofoil toward it, sweeping his lights across its bulk.

In return, gunfire spat at them, taking out one of their lights, chattering across the bow. Jordan and Erin ducked. Christian gunned the engines, looking as if he intended to ram the chopper as they beached.

“Hold tight!” Christian called out.

Instead, Rhun stepped free of the door, moving to the bow. He heard sand and rock grind under the fins—and the ship jerked to a sudden halt. Thrown forward, Rhun leaped high, using the momentum to fly over the bow rail and across the remaining strip of water. He landed smoothly on the soft sand near the helicopter. He spotted a shift of shadows and fell upon it. The gunman wore a pilot’s leathers and bared the fangs of a
strigoi
.

Rhun slashed his
karambit
across the beast’s throat, slicing with the blessed steel down to bone. The pilot fell to his knees, then his face. A pool spread across the sand as black blood attempted to boil the holiness out of the cursed body, taking his life with it.

Rhun did a fast canvass of the ash-covered beach—then waved everyone to shore.

As they clambered to him, Rhun looked from the dead body to the dark sky. With day turned to night, any manner of creature could walk free.

Jordan picked up something glittering out of the black ash. “One of Iscariot’s moths.” He played the beam of his flashlight across other bits of brightness that glittered under the light, like a scatter of emeralds in dirt. “The moth in my hand looks intact. I bet the gears and clockwork couldn’t handle all this ash.”

“Still, be careful where you step,” Erin warned her companions. “They’re likely still full of poisonous blood.”

It was sound advice.

Christian especially searched the ground, looking wary.

Rhun joined him. “How do you feel?”

After a nervous lick of his lips, he said, “Better. A little wine, a little fresh air . . .” He waved sardonically to the dark snowfall. “Who wouldn’t feel as strong as an ox?”

Rhun cast him an appraising look.

Christian straightened, going serious. “I am doing . . . okay.”

Rhun certainly could not fault his handling of the ship. He had gotten them back to the coast in under twenty minutes.

Beyond Christian, Bernard searched the beach, likely looking less for evidence of Iscariot’s whereabouts as for the reinforcements he had summoned while en route. The team could not expect much immediate help, only from those Sanguinists within easy reach of Naples. Rome was too far for them to get here in time.

Erin called out, her voice muffled by her mask. She and Jordan had moved closer to the cliffs. “Footprints! Over here in the sand!”

Rhun joined them, bringing Christian and Bernard.

She pointed as Jordan swept his flashlight. Even dusted with ash, the fresh tracks were plain, crisply impressed into the soft sand. She glanced up, her face streaming with sweat. The very air here burned. “Looks like they headed into that nest of boulders.”

Rhun nodded and took the lead. He forced his way between the rocks until he reached the mouth of a narrow tunnel that broke into the cliff face. Despite the ash fouling the air and caking his nostrils, he smelled the breath of brimstone coming from this tunnel.

Jordan shone his light inside, revealing a long throat of black rock, streaked with yellow veins of sulfur.

“This must lead beneath the volcanic hill,” Erin said. “Likely burrowing toward the ruins of Cumae and the sibyl’s throne to the northeast.”

And below it
,
the gates of Hell.

Bernard touched Christian’s shoulder. “You remain here with Erin and Jordan. Await the arrival of those I’ve summoned. Once here, follow our path.” He nicked a finger with a blade. “I’ll leave blood for you to follow.”

Erin stepped up. “I agree Christian should stay here, to lead the others, but I’m coming now. I know the sibyl and her local history better than anyone. You may need that knowledge in that maze below.”

Jordan nodded. “What she said. I’m coming, too.”

Bernard conceded, too easily. Rhun wanted to argue more stridently, but he also knew how futile it was to thwart Erin.

They headed inside, leaving Christian to guard their rear, to ready any reinforcements.

Rhun led the way, trailed by Bernard. He noticed how Jordan kept Erin safely ahead of him. Free of the rain of ash, the two had tugged off their masks, breathing easier, but their faces streamed with salt and sweat.

Rhun shifted farther ahead, needing no light. He sniffed at the air as he came to any crossroads. Through the stink of sulfur, Rhun’s sharp nose picked out other scents: older sweat, a familiar perfume, a musky cologne. The distinct trail led him through the darkness as surely as any map.

The passageways twisted and turned. His shoulders scraped the sides, but he did not slow. Bernard kept to his heels or strode alongside when he could. Plainly Bernard had noted the trail ahead, too, while in turn marking their own path with drops of blood.

Rhun tuned out that crimson note, while trying his best not to listen to the frightened beat of Erin’s heart. Yet, despite her fear, she kept going, unflagging in her determination and will. Jordan’s heart also raced, but Rhun knew it was more in fear for her safety than his own.

Behind him, the beams of their flashlight bumped along, illuminating the way in short bursts. As they moved ever deeper, he noted tendrils of blackness snaking along the ceiling, looking like the smoky curl of living vines. The deeper they went, the thicker the tendrils grew, seeming to rise from the depths below.

He wafted a tendril to his face and coughed its foulness back out as he sniffed. It reeked of sulfur, but also of rotting flesh, of corruption, of the darkness of an ancient crypt.

He shared a worried glance with Bernard.

Then Bernard’s gaze snapped forward.

Distracted, with his senses addled by the dark smoke, Rhun almost missed it. A scuff of bare feet, a whisper of cloth—then the others were upon them, blades flashing in the dark.

Strigoi.

A trap.

Rhun and Bernard met the sudden charge with silver and swiftness, their movements a synchronized blur. The two had fought alongside each other many times in their long lives. They felled the first two easily enough—but more surged from tunnels ahead, stirring the darkness with their damnation, filling it with the hiss of their ferocity.

Luckily, the tunnels were narrow, limiting how many could reach them at any one time. Instead, the pack seemed more determined to hold them back, to wear the Sanguinists down. Perhaps, for Iscariot to be victorious, it did not require killing the Sanguinists. He merely had to hold them in check, to buy himself enough time to complete his task here.

Which offered Rhun hope.

If Iscariot sent these beasts to thwart them, there must be something worth
thwarting
.

Maybe we are not too late.

Rhun gritted his teeth and fought on.

Gunfire erupted behind them. A glance back showed more
strigoi
appearing to their rear. Either they had lain in wait, or others had circled this maze to come behind them. Jordan’s machine pistol tore through the first bodies. Erin had a pistol out, too, popping past the soldier’s shoulder.

“Help them,” Bernard said. “I can hold the front.”

But for how long?

Rhun turned and added his blade to the battle in the rear, the trio working efficiently together. Erin slowed them with well-placed shots to knees and legs. Jordan strafed heads, blasting apart skulls. Rhun took out anything that got close.

They held their own, but time ticked away.

Surely that was Iscariot’s goal.

Then past the mass of
strigoi,
figures in black robes swept into view, cutting through the rearguard, their silver crosses flashing in the darkness.

Sanguinist reinforcements.

Christian led them, blades in both hands. He cut a swath through the remaining
strigoi
to join them. Jordan clapped him happily on the shoulder.

More Sanguinists swept past to join Bernard.

Rhun followed.

Bernard pointed to the surrounding labyrinth of passages. “Spread out. Clear our flanks!”

Moving again, Rhun redoubled his efforts, slashing
strigoi
and forcing the party ever forward. Ahead the tunnel widened, revealing a subterranean river, a bridge, and a torchlit cavern beyond.

Rhun and Bernard drove the remaining
strigoi
over the edge of the river and into the boiling water below, where they were swept away. The Sanguinist reinforcements swelled behind them, bolstering their rear.

Erin joined Rhun, pointing through the sulfurous steam of the river. Vague shapes moved out there, but there was no mistaking the silhouette of a sacrifice.

“Hurry!”

Together, the team raced across the slick stone of the arched bridge.

As soon as Rhun’s foot touched the floor on the other side, the very air changed, going as cold as a tomb in the dead of winter. Erin and Jordan’s breath blew white as they gasped at the change. But far more chilling was the horrific sight that awaited them.

In the room’s center, a pale shape lay pinned under ropes atop a black stone. A cloud of dark fog enveloped him completely, churning and swirling, reaching the arched roof and stretching to every tunnel, snaking out tendrils, questing for the open air.

The place reeked of doom and corruption.

The familiar gray figure of Iscariot stood limned against that dread force, a triumphant expression on his face.

Beyond the altar, a woman hung from the wall, her dark skin shining, her eyes seemingly aglow.

“It is she!” Bernard said, clutching his sleeve.

Rhun ignored the cardinal, spying the one final figure in this grim theater.

To the right, Elisabeta lay on the floor, in a pool of black blood, but little of it seemed to be her own. She struggled beneath a half dozen
strigoi
. Others were dead around her. A handful of moths lay twitching on the cold stone, their wings frosted brittle by the cold.

Her eyes found his, full of terror—but not for her own life.

“Save the boy!”

7:52
A.M.

Jordan drew closer to Erin, taking swift inventory.

In that moment of stunned incapacitation, a flurry of
strigoi
rushed from the closest tunnels to either side. Bernard took those on the left; Rhun charged to the right.

Jordan pushed Erin forward, out of those pincers.

He aimed for the only other direct threat in the room.

He had his machine pistol up and rushed the gray-suited figure. As Iscariot turned, Jordan skipped any witty repartee. He fired three fast bursts into the man’s chest, clustered on his heart.

Iscariot collapsed backward onto the floor, bright red blood soaking through his jacket and white shirt, spreading across the stone.

“Owed you that, bastard,” he mumbled, rubbing his own chest.

Still, he kept his weapon trained on the man. Iscariot was immortal, would likely heal, but how long would it take? It had taken the boy some time to recuperate. He hoped for the same here, but he kept watch. A trail of crimson blood ran across the black rock as if aiming for that black swirl.

The blood froze before reaching it.

Erin stepped in that direction, plainly wanting to help the boy.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Hold on.”

She glanced at him. “Do you think it’s poisonous?”

“I think it’s something
way
beyond that,” he said. “Let me go first.”

As he moved closer, he felt the ever-present burn in his shoulder go cooler. With every step, his legs turned leaden. It was as if whatever force roiled up from below could stanch that fire inside him—and take all his strength with it. His chest suddenly ached, drawing his fingers to where he had been shot. He looked down, expecting blood.

“Jordan?”

“I can’t . . .”

He fell to his knees.

7:53
A.M.

Rhun heard the gunshots, watched Iscariot fall, incapacitated for now. Behind him, Bernard fought before the mouth of a tunnel, keeping
strigoi
bottled on that side. Rhun leaped over those holding Elisabeta captive. While in the air, he reached down and ripped two of her assailants off her, tossing them forward into the pack coming at him.