Innocent Blood (38 page)

He listened for heartbeats from them—but found none.

All
strigoi
.

Rhun stepped forward, shielding Erin and Jordan behind him. He had led the pair to this moment—back inside the mountain of Masada, when he had revealed his nature to them. He had set them on this bloody path, and he could do no less than give his life to protect them now. But he feared that it would not be enough.

Then again, he was not alone this day.

Christian drew to one side of him, Bernard on the other, and flanking them all were Agmundr and Wingu. Elisabeta hung back with Tommy, crouching from the threat, showing sharp teeth.

Upon some silent signal, the entire pack of
strigoi
began to lope across the sand at a speed that no human could ever match, racing under this dread gray sky.

Erin’s heart skipped faster, but she held her ground. Jordan stood calm next to her, his bravery evident with every strong beat of his heart.

Rhun drew his blade and waited.

He picked out his first target: the biggest warrior, a tall man in the middle. Christian followed his gaze, nodded, and picked another for himself. Rhun watched the others choose their targets.

With discipline and training, the Sanguinists could break the first wave of attackers. Additionally, his group had the advantage of fighting on holy ground.

It might weaken the others enough.

It might.

Then another hatch dropped from the flank of the helicopter and dark beasts poured out of the shadows and into the grim light.

Rhun’s fragile hope faded.

Blasphemare.

He spotted gray jackals with long noses and large ears, howling as they ran, their cries piercing the day. Behind them came a pride of black-coated lions flowing with a sinuous grace, like oil across the sand.

Each was twisted into a fearsome and monstrous incarnation of its natural self, born of black blood and cruelty.

He tested their heartbeats, finding them slow and deep, attesting to their age and strength. Even without the
strigoi,
Rhun doubted that his forces would stand against these creatures for long—if at all.

Rhun swallowed once and whispered a quick prayer.

They were doomed.

As had been foretold the day he was turned, he would die fighting.

But Erin deserved a better fate.

4:31
P.M.

It had to be
blasphemare
, too.

Jordan groaned. He gripped his machine pistol more firmly, knowing it was little better than a popgun against these beasts.

The countess drew Tommy back behind her. “Don’t paint the devil on the wall,” she told him.

What does that mean?

Tommy was equally baffled and voiced it aloud. “Huh?”

The boy looked at the menagerie hauling ass toward them. It sure looked like the devil was all around them. And this was no painting, but a slavering, howling horde in all its cinematic glory.

“It means . . .
have hope,
” she explained.

It was odd to hear the countess talking of hope when Jordan himself couldn’t seem to muster more than a scrap of it. Still, it was nice of her to try to comfort the kid.

The
strigoi
horde reached the crater’s rim first and rather than flooding over the edge, they parted and swept outward, encircling the bowl, trapping them completely. Or perhaps they also sensed the holiness of this sand-and-glass valley.

The countess hissed low in her throat, pulling Tommy farther behind her. The Sanguinists moved to match the
strigoi
maneuver, ringing everyone in a protective circle.

Arella spoke near Jordan’s ear, making him jump, coming upon him so quietly.

“The countess speaks wisdom,” Arella whispered. “All can yet be won.”

Before Jordan could ask her what that meant, Arella grabbed Tommy from behind Bathory and yanked him toward the open mouth of the well—and pushed him into it. He cried out as he splashed clumsily into the water.

Bathory was upon her in a flash, knocking her away. But a splash from the well washed across her boots. She cried out and fell back, as if it had been molten lava.

Arella returned to the well’s edge as Tommy floundered below.

“Beware,” she warned. “Only those imbued by angels can touch these waters. All others will be destroyed. Even humans.”

With those dire words, she dove into the water, catching Tommy’s arm and dragging him below.

The countess hung back, looking stricken.

No wonder the well had been so firmly sealed and left to the sand and ages.

“At least the boy is safe from immediate harm,” Rhun consoled her.

Yeah
,
but what about us?

Jordan widened his shooting stance. He stared up at the horde gathered around them.
Strigoi
hissed and drew long curved swords.
Blasphemare
crowded in by their hips and shoulders. At least the bastards hadn’t brought guns—then he remembered
why
they didn’t carry such weapons.

They preferred to eat their prey alive
.

51

December 20, 4:33
P.M.
EET

Siwa, Egypt

Movement drew Erin’s eye to the crater’s edge, to where a giant in brown leather stalked forward, edging into the bowl. The
strigoi
was black skinned, shaven headed, pierced with steel, dragging a long broadsword behind him. He bent to pinch some of the sand and cast it away in disgust, likely sensing the holy ground. He spit where he tossed the grains, sneering and looking down at them.

At her.

A chill swept through her.

He continued another step, then another into the crater.

He didn’t come alone.

A pair of
blasphemare
lions padded to either side of him, staying close, their eyes searching, tails swishing grains. Their manes were black rather than tawny, ruffled by the hot desert wind. Their eyes shone toward her with a dread crimson under the ash-covered day. They snarled, showing fangs that better fitted something saber-toothed. Black claws dug deep, kicking sand back in a posture of pure feline threat.

The giant swung his sword in an easy figure eight through the air, the long blade an extension of his muscular arms.

Suddenly Erin wished she had not insisted her group come to Siwa.

Still, she pushed such thoughts down and firmed her grip on her gun. No matter the outcome in the next few minutes, she knew it was
right
to come here. Her guilt lay not in bringing everyone here but in failing to solve the mystery of these sands in time, the riddle hidden behind Arella’s calm eyes.

Around her, the Sanguinists had drawn their swords. Bernard carried an antique curved blade that shimmered like water, made of Damascus steel, edged with silver, likely deeply blessed. Christian brandished a curved blade, too, but his was modern, a
kukri
out of Nepal. Agmundr drew a longsword from a sheath across his back. Wingu raised two shorter blades, one in each hand, swinging them with grace and power.

Rhun simply had his
karambit
in hand, its hooked edge as lethal as any
blasphemare
claw.

The giant
strigoi
took a final step forward, drawing the lions at his hips—then stopped again.

From behind him, a familiar silver-haired figure stalked into view. Iscariot had changed out of his usual gray suit into leather armor, bleached white, tailored gracefully to his muscular body.

Jordan swung his machine pistol toward him.

Iscariot noted the motion, and a shadow of a derisive smile etched his features. The man had plainly recovered from the last time Jordan had shot him with that same weapon.

Iscariot lifted an arm and released an emerald-winged moth into the air.

The Sanguinists shifted warily, their eyes upon its flutter. How many of those poisonous creations had he brought with him? With enough of them, he could fell the entire group of Sanguinists without stirring his army.

But the moth flew only a few feet into the crater before spiraling to the ground, shattering a wing to iridescent scales as it crashed. Whether from the contamination of the ash in the air or from the blowing dust of sand, apparently its delicate cogs could not handle this harsh terrain.

Or maybe again it was the holiness found here.

No matter the cause, at least one threat had been neutralized.

Not that it would likely change the final outcome.

Iscariot’s voice carried easily down into the crater. His gaze swept over them, noticing who was missing. “It seems you have lost your two angels.”

Erin willed herself to keep her gaze fixed on the enemy and not let it twitch toward the well where Arella had vanished with Tommy. She hoped that the boy would get away, that the spring led out to some secret exit, some distant pool. Tommy’s immortality should keep him alive, even drowned underwater.

“We may have lost our angels,” Jordan called back. “But I see you found your demons.”

Iscariot laughed and gestured to the Sanguinists. “You have your own
demons,
Warrior of Man.”

“
Friends,
” Jordan countered. “Not demons.”

Iscariot frowned at them, clearly having no more patience. “Where are you hiding him?” he asked, leaving no doubt he was talking about Tommy.

Iscariot must know, as long as Tommy was loose, that his plan to unleash Hell on Earth remained threatened.

Silence stretched for several breaths.

Judas’s eyes settled on Erin and remained there. He lifted an arm and pointed to her. “No one is to harm her,” he called out loudly. “She is mine. She will give me my answer.”

A wave of snarling and hissing swept along the crater’s rim.

“Kill the rest!”

4:34
P.M.

Far down the throat of the well, Tommy kicked as hard as he could, heading even deeper. The initial shock after the strange woman tossed him down here and dragged him under had faded. Now he just tried to keep up with her. Despite the sudden dunking, he oddly trusted her.

He didn’t know if she was really an angel, but she’d saved his life, so for now, he would give her the benefit of his doubt.

To either side, the walls of the well felt like beach glass, still rough, but too smooth to be rock. He pictured that explosion etched above, of a battle between Lucifer and Michael. That same blast must have gone deep under the earth, sealing off that pool where Christ had stood and melting everything around it to glass.

He wanted to disbelieve that story, too, except for two things.

One, the water grew ever warmer the deeper he dove.

Two, beneath him, lighting his way, a golden glow beckoned, outlining the woman’s sleek legs.

He chased after her until his lungs were bursting, his ears stinging from the pressure.

Down, down he went.

Finally, he reached the bottom, desperate for air.

She pointed to a side cavern that opened a few yards off. With his lungs burning, he ducked through the short passageway, pushing off the smooth walls and kicking off the bottom. The source of the light came from there, drawing him like a moth to a flame.

But it wasn’t a
flame
he sought.

Air.

He had dived with his father off the Catalina coast, into sea caves that pocked that island, remembering ducking through rock to find a cave sloshing with water below and a pocket of air above.

He prayed the same would be found here, some secret cave where he could hang out with this woman until the battle ended, and it was safe.

Safe . . .

How long had it been since he had felt safe?

His lungs screamed as he scrabbled the last distance, worming through the entrance to the cave. His vision began to close down, squeezing narrower, dancing with sparks. He knew he didn’t have enough air even to make it back to the surface. He was committed now. His father had once said that the most important thing in life was finding the right path and committing to it.

Somehow, Dad, I don’t think this is what you meant.

Panic lent his arms and legs extra strength. He popped into the small cavern, lined by gold glass and littered with loose sand below. Knowing there must be air above—
why else drag him down here?—
he pushed hard off the bottom.

He shot up—and his head crashed against the ceiling.

He pawed the roof, searching for even a bubble, some tiny breath of air.

There was none.

4:35
P.M.

Strigoi
and
blasphemare
poured down the sides of the crater like a foul wave.

Jordan gripped his gun tightly, trying to ignore the dark giant barreling toward them, in the lead, flanked by the pair of shadow-maned lions.

Erin aimed at one of the beasts.

Jordan swung to a different target, knowing his weapon would do little against what was surging over the crater’s rim. He had to trust the Sanguinists to handle that first wave.

Instead, he aimed to the side, near the edge of the sandy bowl. He waited for the dark army to reach there—then fired.

The spatter of hot round pierced the fuel tank of their helicopter.

The explosion ripped the craft apart in a fiery blast, sending the rotors cutting a swath through the
strigoi
and slamming into the far crater wall. The sudden blast and resulting damage shattered the initial charge, sending
blasphemare
loping away, hissing and howling at the smoking wreckage. Several
strigoi
struggled in the sand with severed limbs. Others were clearly dead.

Rhun glanced approvingly toward him.

Jordan used the stunned moment to swing his weapon toward Iscariot, who remained at the crater’s edge. He steadied and aimed for the guy’s center mass, not trusting a head shot from this distance, especially as limited as Jordan was on ammunition. He dared not waste a single round.

He squeezed the trigger, intending to drop the guy again, if only for a short time. Temporarily leaderless, maybe the army could be routed.

But as he fired, the huge bulk of a jackal swerved in front of Iscariot, taking the rounds across its shoulders, saving the bastard. Black blood flowed from the beast’s side, but it didn’t look bothered as it stalked back and forth, keeping its master protected.

Iscariot retreated down the rim’s far side, further sheltering himself.

Coward.

Closer at hand, the dark giant recovered quickly, lunging forward again to close the distance, rallying those nearest to him. He snarled, showing long fangs.

Agmundr met the challenge, bounding in front of him.

Giant against giant.

It was no contest.

Fueled by holiness, Agmundr swung his longsword so fast it sang through the air. He cleaved the
strigoi
’s head clean off its shoulders, the snarl still fixed to that skull as it flew away.

Jordan strafed the horde charging to the left.

Wingu and Christian leaped to the right.

Rhun and Bernard guarded their rear.

Elizabeth kept near the well’s edge, neither threatening nor helping, simply guarding Tommy’s retreat to who knew where.

Erin fired behind Jordan’s shoulder, popping a lion clean through the eye, sending it rolling to Agmundr’s feet, where a whirl of his huge blade caught the beast in the throat.

Jordan felt bad for the damned creature. It hadn’t asked to be turned into what it was. But pity only brought you so much mercy.

He kept firing.

Agmundr faced the second lion, dancing before it, both adversaries looking for a weakness—then a massive jackal barreled into the Viking, blindsiding him, sinking powerful teeth into his thigh.

Jordan shot the beast in the shoulder, but it didn’t even flinch.

Growling, Agmundr fell to the sand and rolled onto his back. The jackal released its hold of his thick leg and lunged for his throat. Jordan fired at its face—only to find his weapon empty.

Screw it . . .

He rushed forward with his gun raised, ready to use it as a club. Before he could bring it down, snapping jaws darted under Agmundr’s sword. Yellow teeth ripped deep into the Viking’s throat.

Agmundr bucked once from the assault—then went limp, as the jackal ripped upward, taking out the man’s entire throat.

Cold blood splashed Jordan’s arm.

He fell back.

The jackal turned toward him, blood and slather dripping from its gray muzzle onto the gold sand. Its massive haunches bunched—then it sprang straight at him.

His entire world became yellow fangs and a terrifying howl.

4:36
P.M.

Rhun spun to Jordan’s defense. From the corner of an eye, he had watched Agmundr fall, and the soldier leap to help—only to face the same jaws that took the mighty Viking’s life.

Rhun slammed into the huge jackal’s side. Its jaws snapped shut less than an inch from Jordan’s face. The beast skidded in the sand, sliding around to face him, nails digging through sand to scratch the glass beneath.

Rhun held his bloody
karambit
in front of him and prayed for the strength to protect the others. The very air was full of blood as Christian, Bernard, and Wingu continued their dance among the dark horde. The crimson mist sang to his own blood, begging him to drink lustily from that font.

Rhun held his breath against it.

Across from him, the jackal’s angry red eyes locked onto his. Gray hair bristled down the scruff of its hunched neck. A snarl revealed yellow teeth set in a powerful jaw.

As it lunged, Rhun kept firm in the sand and thrust out his arm, ramming his
karambit
between the pointed teeth and deep into the creature’s mouth. With all the force that he could muster, he drove his blade up through the roof and into its brain—then yanked his hand out.

The beast collapsed, black blood frothing from its mouth to stain the sand. Its front paws scratched at its jaws, whimpering from the pain.

Pity rose in Rhun at the sight of one of God’s creatures turned into such a suffering monstrosity. Finally, that crimson glow dulled to a sightless brown, as the beast was freed of its curse.

Rhun had no time to rejoice in its release.

A heavy force bore him to the sand from behind, slamming his face into the jackal’s dark blood. Claws raked his back, shredding through his armor and skin, a long claw catching on his rib.

Rhun screamed—as a lion roared in triumph atop him.