Innocent Blood (5 page)

Lifting her finger from his stolen cross, she allowed herself a moment of cold satisfaction. As she moved her arm, her fingers dragged over a battered shoe atop another pile.

This tiny bit of leather marked her first kill in this new age.

She savored that moment.

As she fled the dark catacombs—blind to
where
she was,
when
she was—rough stones cut through the thin leather soles of her shoes and sliced her feet. She paid them no heed. She had this one chance of escape.

She knew not where she ran to, but she recognized the feel of holy ground underfoot. It weakened her muscles and slowed her steps. Still, she felt more powerful than she ever had. Her time in the wine had strengthened her, how much she only dared to guess.

Then the sound of a heartbeat had stopped her headlong flight through the dark tunnels.

Human.

The heart thrummed steady and calm. It had not yet sensed her presence. Faint with hunger, she rested her back against the tunnel wall. She licked her lips, tasting the Sanguinist’s bitter blood. She lusted to savor something sweeter, hotter.

The flicker of a faraway candle lightened the darkness. She heard the pad of shoes drawing nearer.

Then a name was called. “Rhun?”

She flattened against the cold stone. So someone was searching for the priest.

She crept forward and spotted a shadowy figure stepping around a far corner toward her. In one raised hand, he carried a candle in a holder, revealing the brown robes of a monk.

Failing to see her, he continued forward, oblivious of the danger.

Once close enough, she sprang forward and bore his warm body to the floor. Before the man could even gasp, her teeth found his luscious throat. Blood surged through her in wave after wave, strengthening her even more. She reveled in bliss, as she had every time since the first. She wanted to laugh amid this joy.

Rhun would have her trade this power for scalding wine, for a life of servitude to his Church.

Never.

Spent, she released the human shell, her curious fingers lingering on the fabric of the robes. It did not feel like linen. She detected a slipperiness to it, like silk, but not like silk.

A trickle of unease wormed through her.

The candle had snuffed when the man fell, but the ember at the wick’s tip glowed dull red. She blew on it, brightening its color to a feeble orange.

Under the dim light, she patted down the cooling body, repulsed again by the slippery feel of the fabric. She discovered a silver pectoral cross but abandoned its searing touch.

She reached down his legs and pulled a shoe from one lifeless foot, sensing strangeness here, too. She held it near the light. The top was leather, scuffed and unremarkable, but the sole was made of a thick spongy substance. She had never seen its like. She pinched the material between her thumb and forefinger. It gave, then sprang back, like a young tree.

She sat back on her haunches, thinking. Such a peculiar substance had not existed when Rhun had tricked her into the coffin of wine, but now it must be commonplace enough for a lowly monk to wear.

She suddenly felt like screaming, sensing the breadth of the gulf that separated her from her past. She knew she had not slumbered for days, weeks, nor even months.

But years, decades, perhaps centuries.

She accepted this brutal truth, knowing one other.

She must take extra care in this strange new world.

And she had. Moving from the shoe, she picked up a white ball with a red star on it from the tabletop. Its surface felt like human skin, but smoother. It repulsed her, but she forced herself to hold it, to toss it in the air and catch it again.

Upon leaving the catacombs, she had been so frightened.

But soon others became frightened of her.

She had crept through the tunnels, expecting more monks. But she had encountered none as she followed the whisper of distant heartbeats ever higher.

Eventually she reached a thick wooden door and broke through it with ease—and stepped into unfettered air. It caressed her body, dried the wine on her dress, and carried with it the familiar smells of humans, of perfumes, of stone, of river. But also odors she had never scented before—acrid stinks she imagined only existed in an alchemist’s workshop. The stench drove her against the door, almost back across the threshold and into the shelter of the dark tunnels.

The foreignness terrified her.

But a countess never cowers, never shows fear.

She straightened her back and stepped forward as a lady must, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes and ears alert to danger.

As she moved away from the door, she immediately recognized the columns to either side, the massive dome rising to the left, even the obelisk in the plaza ahead. The Egyptian spire had been erected in the piazza the same year that her daughter Anna was born.

She relaxed upon seeing all this, knowing where she was.

St. Peter’s Square.

Sardonic amusement warmed her.

Rhun had hidden her under the Holy City.

She kept to the edge of the piazza. Tall poles illuminated the square with a harsh, unnatural flame. The light hurt her eyes, so she shied away from it, staying near the colonnade that framed the plaza.

A couple strolled past her.

Ill at ease, she slipped behind a marble column. The woman wore breeches, like a man. Her short hair brushed the top of her shoulders, and her partner held her hand as they talked together.

She had never seen a woman so tall.

Hidden by the column, she studied other figures shifting out on the square. All brightly dressed, bundled in thick coats that looked finely made. Out on a neighboring street, strange wagons glided along, led by unnatural beams of light, pulled by no beasts.

Shivering, she leaned against the column. This new world threatened to overwhelm her, to freeze her in place. She hung her head and forced herself to breathe. She must shut it all out and find one simple task . . . and perform that task.

The reek of wine struck her nose. She touched her sodden garment. It would not do. She looked again out at the plaza, at the women in such strange garb. To escape from here, she must become a wolf in sheep’s clothing, for if they guessed what she was, her death would follow.

No matter how many years had passed, that certainty had not changed.

Her nails dug deep into her palms. She did not want to leave the familiar. She sensed that whatever lay beyond the plaza would be even more foreign to her than what lay inside.

But she must go.

A countess never shirked from her duty.

And her duty was to survive.

Sensing she had hours before dawn, she lowered herself into the shadows of the colonnade. She sat not breathing, not moving, as motionless as a statue, listening to chaotic human heartbeats, the words from many tongues, the frequent laughter.

These people were so very different from the men and women of her time.

Taller, louder, stronger, and well fed.

The women fascinated her the most. They wore men’s clothing: pants and shirts. They walked unafraid. They spoke sharply to men without reprimand and acted as if they were their equals—not in the calculated way she had been forced to use in her time, but with an easy manner, as if this was commonplace and accepted.

This era held promise.

A young mother approached carelessly with a small child in tow. The woman hunched in a burgundy-colored woolen coat and wore riding boots, although by the smell of them they had never been near a horse.

Small for a woman of this time, she was close to Elisabeta’s own size.

The child dropped a white ball with a red star on it, and it rolled into the shadows, stopping a handsbreadth from Elisabeta’s tattered shoes. The ball smelled like the bottom of the priest’s shoes. The child refused to go after the plaything, as if sensing the beast hiding in the shadows.

Her mother coaxed her in queer-sounding Italian, waving toward the forest of columns. Still, the little girl shook her head.

Elisabeta ran her tongue across her sharp teeth, willing the mother to come in after the toy. She could take the woman’s life, steal her finery, and be gone before the motherless child could cry for help.

From the shadows, she savored the child’s terrified heartbeats, listening as the mother’s tones grew more impatient.

She waited for the proper moment in this strange time.

Then sprang.

Elisabeta lowered the ball to the table, sighing, losing interest in her trophies.

Standing, she crossed over to the vast wardrobes in the bedroom, stuffed with silks, velvets, furs, all stolen from her victims these many weeks. Each night, she preened before the perfect silver mirrors and selected a new set of clothes to wear. Some of the garments were almost familiar, others as outlandish as a minstrel’s garb.

Tonight she chose soft blue pants, a silk shirt that matched her silver eyes, and a pair of thin leather boots. She ran a comb through her thick black hair. She had cropped it to her shoulders, matching the style of a woman whom she had killed under a bridge.

How very different she looked now. What would Anna, Katalin, and Paul say if they saw her? Her own children would not recognize her.

Still, she reminded herself,
I am Countess Elisabeta de Ecsed
.

Her eyes narrowed.

No.

“Elizabeth . . .” she whispered to her reflection, reminding herself that this was a new time and, to survive it, she must abide by its ways. So she would take on this more modern name, wear it like she wore her new hair and clothing. It was who she would become. She had played many roles since she had been betrothed to Ferenc at age eleven—an impulsive girl, a lonely wife, a scholar of languages, a skilled healer, a devoted mother—more roles than she could count. This was but another one.

She turned slightly to judge her new self in the mirror. With short hair and wearing pants, she looked like a man. But she was no man, and she no longer envied men their strength and power.

She had her own.

She walked to the balcony windows and drew back the soft curtains. She gazed at the blaze of glorious man-made lights of the new Rome. The strangeness still terrified her, but she had mastered it enough to eat, to rest, to learn.

She took strength in one feature of the city, the one rhythm that survived unchanged across the centuries. She closed her eyes and listened to a thousand heartbeats, ticking like a thousand clocks, letting her know, in the end, that the march of time mattered little.

She knew what time it was, what time it
always
was for a predator such as she.

She pushed open the balcony doors upon the night.

It was time to hunt.

6

December 18, 5:34
P.M.
PST

Santa Clara County, California

As twilight swept over the hills and meadows, Erin thundered down the last of the trail toward the stables. With no urging, Blackjack galloped at full speed into the yard.

She kept one hand on the reins and the other on her pistol. As her gelding skidded and stuttered to a stop in the dusty yard, she twisted in her saddle. She pointed her weapon toward the black hills.

While racing here, she had failed to spot the creature that had spooked her horse, but she had
heard
it. Sounds of branches cracking, of brush being trampled, had chased them out of the hills. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadowy hunter was playing with them, waiting for full night to attack.

She wasn’t about to give it that chance.

She trotted Blackjack past her old Land Rover, only to discover a new car—a black Lincoln town car—on its far side, parked a distance away. She passed closer to it on the way to the stables, spotting a familiar symbol on its door: two crossed keys and a triple crown.

The papal seal.

The fear inside her stoked higher.

What is someone from the Vatican doing here?

She searched and saw no one and urged Blackjack forward toward the stables. Once at the sliding doors of the barn, she reined in the horse. Coughing from the dust, she slid from the saddle and kept hold of both Blackjack’s lead and her pistol. Seeking answers as well as shelter, she hurried to the doors and reached for the handle.

Before her fingers could touch it, the door slid open on its own. A hand burst out, grabbed her wrist in an iron grip, and hauled her across the threshold. Startled, she lost her grip on Blackjack’s lead, fighting just to keep her footing.

Her attacker pulled her into the darkness of the stable, and the door slammed closed behind her, leaving her horse on the outside. Gaining her feet, she twisted to the side and kicked hard, her boot striking something soft.

“Ow. Take it easy, Erin.”

She immediately recognized the voice, though it made no sense. “Jordan?”

Hands released her.

A flashlight clicked, and a white glow illuminated Jordan’s face. Past the sergeant’s shoulder, she spotted Nate, safe but looking pale, his eyes too wide.

Jordan rubbed his stomach and flashed her that crooked grin of his, immediately drawing a large amount of the tension from her bones. He stood there in dress pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, displaying his muscular tanned arms.

She leaped to him and hugged him hard. He felt warm and good and natural, and she loved how easy it was to fall into his arms again.

She spoke into his chest. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“In the flesh . . . though after that kick of yours, maybe a tad more sore.”

She leaned back to take him in. A day’s worth of stubble shadowed his square chin, his blue eyes smiled at her, and his hair had grown out longer. She threaded her fingers through that thick wheat-blond hair and pulled him down into a kiss.

She wanted nothing more than to lengthen it, to linger in his arms, maybe show him the empty hay loft upstairs, but she stepped back, drawn away by a larger concern.

“Blackjack,” she said. “My horse. We have to get him inside. Something’s out there in the hills.”

She turned to the door—as a horse’s scream erupted, ripping through the night and quickly cutting off. Before anyone could move, a heavy object thudded against the neighboring wall. They fled deeper into the stables, to where the other horses were boarded in stalls. She looked toward the door.

No
,
please
,
no . . .

She pictured her large gelding, with his trusting eyes and soft nose, the way he pranced when happy, and his gentle neighs that greeted her whenever she entered the barn.

Jordan readied his black Heckler & Koch MP7, a mean-looking machine pistol.

She lifted her small Glock 19, recognizing a problem. “I need something bigger.”

Jordan handed his flashlight to Nate and reached to his belt. He pulled out his Colt 1911 and passed it to her, the same gun he had loaned to her often in the past. She wrapped her fingers around the grip and felt safer.

She turned to give her Glock to Nate, to offer him some protection—when a stranger appeared, stepping out of the deeper shadows behind him and startling her. The man wore a formal dark blue uniform, with two gold crosses embroidered on his lapels.

A chaplain?

“I hate to interrupt your happy reunion,” the stranger said. “But it’s time we thought about leaving here. I searched for other exits, but the main door remains the wisest path.”

“This is Christian,” Jordan introduced. “Friend of Rhun’s, if you get my drift.”

In other words,
Sanguinist
.

Nate’s voice trembled. “The professor’s car is parked about fifty yards away. Could we make it that far?”

As answer, an unnatural screeching pierced the night.

From the stalls all around, the horses stamped and shouldered into their gates, whinnying their growing terror. Even they knew escape was the only hope.

“What’s waiting for us out there?” Jordan asked, his weapon fixed on the door.

“From its smell and hisses, I believe it’s a cougar,” Christian said. “Albeit a tainted one.”

Tainted?

Erin went colder. “You’re talking about a
blasphemare
.”

The chaplain bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Blasphemare
were beasts that had been corrupted by the blood of a
strigoi,
poisoned into monstrous incarnations of their natural forms, with hides so tough that Sanguinists made armor out of their skins.

Nate sucked in a quick breath. She touched him with one hand and felt him shiver. She didn’t blame him. A
blasphemare
wolf had once savaged him badly.

She had to get Nate out of here.

A ripping, splintering sound erupted to their left. Nate swung the flashlight toward the noise. Four hooked claws shredded through the thick redwood wall. Panicked, Nate fired the Glock at it.

The claws vanished, followed by another yowl, sounding angrier.

“I think you pissed it off,” Jordan said.

“Sorry,” Nate said.

“No worries. If you hadn’t fired, I would’ve.”

The cat bowled into the same wall, shaking the rafters, as if trying to break inside.

“Time to go,” Christian said and pointed to the door ahead. “I’ll exit first, try to draw it off, and you follow in a count of ten. Make straight for Erin’s Land Rover and get moving.”

“What about you?” Jordan asked.

“If I’m lucky, pick me up. If not, leave me.”

Before anyone could argue, Christian covered the distance to the door in a breath. He grabbed a handle and shoved open the front doors. In front of him stretched an expanse of dust and grass. In the distance stood her beat-up Land Rover and the shiny Lincoln town car. Both looked much farther away than when she had ridden up on Blackjack a moment ago.

Christian stepped into the night, illuminated by a lamp over the door. A flash of silver showed that he’d drawn a blade, then he vanished to the left.

Jordan kept his gun up, plainly starting a countdown in his head.

Erin turned away, remembering Blackjack. She hurried along the line of six stalls and began releasing the catches, swinging the doors open. She wouldn’t leave the horses trapped in here to die as Blackjack had. They deserved a chance to run.

Already frightened, the horses thundered out of the stalls and swept between Jordan and Nate. Gunsmoke followed last. Nate ran his fingers along the mare’s sweating flanks as the horse raced by, as if longing to accompany her. Reaching the door, the horses fled out into the night.

“That’s a ten count,” Jordan said and waved his free arm toward the open door.

The three of them rushed forward, following the dust-stirred trail of the horses out into the yard. Jordan kept to their left, pointing his gun in the direction Christian had vanished.

As Erin sprinted with Nate toward the Land Rover, motion drew her attention back to the stable. From around the far corner, Christian came tumbling back into the yard, landing in a crouch.

From that same corner, a monstrous beast stalked into view.

Erin gaped at the sight.

Nate tripped, crashing down to one knee.

The cougar padded into the yard, its tail lashing back and forth. It stretched nine feet, well over three hundred pounds of muscle, claws, and teeth. Tall, tufted ears swiveled, taking in every sound. Red-gold eyes shone in the darkness. But the most striking feature was its ghostly gray pelt, like a shred of fog made flesh.

“Go,” Jordan urged, seeing her slow to help Nate. “I got him.”

But who has you?

She stayed with them, keeping her Colt high.

Across the yard, the beast snarled at Christian, revealing long fangs—then lunged. But it was a feint. It jumped past the Sanguinist chaplain and headed straight for them.

By now, Jordan had Nate back on his feet, but the two men would never get out of the way in time. Standing her ground in front of them, she squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck the animal on the forehead, but it merely shook its head and kept coming.

She kept firing as it barreled toward her.

She couldn’t run, not until Nate was safe.

She squeezed the trigger over and over again—until finally the Colt’s slide locked back. Out of bullets.

The cat bunched its back legs and bounded across the last of the distance.

Vatican City

Rhun’s muscles stiffened with terror.

She’s in danger . . .

He pictured wisps of blond hair and amber eyes. The scent of lavender filled his nostrils. Pain kept her name from him, leaving him only need and desire.

Must reach her . . .

As panic thrummed through his body, he thrashed over onto his stomach in the burning wine, fighting through the agony, trying to think, to hold one thought in his head.

He could not let her die.

He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and braced his back against the stone lid of the sarcophagus. Gathering his faith, his strength, and his fear, he pushed against the marble slab.

Stone grated on stone as the lid shifted. A mere finger’s breadth, but it moved.

He gritted his teeth and pushed again, straining, tearing his robe. The silver inlaid into the marble slab above branded his exposed back. He smelled his skin burning, felt his blood flowing.

Still, he strained with every last fiber of muscle, bone, and will.

His existence became one agonizing note of desire.

To save her.

Santa Clara County, California

Jordan bowled into Erin, sweeping her legs out from under her.

As she crashed onto her back, the
blasphemare
cat sailed over them both. A back paw slammed near Jordan’s head, knocking up dust. The cougar spun around, hissing a scream of thwarted desire.

Still on the ground, Jordan rolled to a shoulder and pointed his Heckler & Koch machine pistol and fired on full automatic. He blazed a trail along its flank as it turned, stripping tufts of fur, drawing some blood, but not much.

He emptied his entire forty-round box magazine in less than three seconds.

And only succeeded in pissing off the cat.

The cougar faced them, crouched low, claws dug deep into the hard clay. It growled, hissing like a steam engine.

Jordan repositioned his empty weapon, ready to go caveman and use it as a club.

Then in a flash of blue, a small shape landed atop the creature’s head. A silver knife slashed through its ear. Dark blood oozed out. The cat yowled, rolling, twisting its head, trying to reach Christian.

But the Sanguinist was fast, sliding off the rear of the cat, dodging the tail.

“Get to the Rover!” Christian yelled, ducking as a hind paw kicked at him and slashed the air with razor claws.

Jordan hauled Erin to her feet and sprinted toward the Land Rover.

Ahead, Nate had already reached the SUV and pulled open both the driver’s door and the rear door—then climbed into the backseat.

Good man.

Jordan raced alongside Erin. Once they reached the Rover, he dove into the driver’s seat at the same time she lunged into the back to join Nate. Both doors slammed in unison.

Erin reached over the seat back and slapped cold keys into his open, waiting palm.

He grinned savagely. They made a good team—now to make sure that team stayed alive. He keyed the ignition, gunned the engine, and sped in reverse, fishtailing to the side.

As he swung around, his headlamps found the cougar. Its ghost-gray pelt glowed in the light. The cat turned toward the car like a churning storm cloud, squinting its red-gold eyes against the glare.

Christian stood a few paces behind it.

The cougar growled and bounded toward the Land Rover, drawn by the sound and motion.

Typical cat . . .

Jordan sped away in reverse, trying to keep the light in the cat’s eyes.

Momentarily free, Christian sprinted for his black sedan.

The cat gained on them, running full tilt. Jordan feared the beast could easily outrun them on these country roads. Proving this, the beast leaped and crashed its front half onto the hood. Claws tore through the metal. A heavy paw batted at the windshield. Cracks splintered across the glass.

Another blow like that, and it would be in the front seat.

Then a car horn blasted loudly, incessantly.

Howling at the sudden noise, the cougar bounded off the hood like a startled tabby. It landed, twisting to face the new challenge, its ears flattened in fury.

Past the beast’s bulk, Jordan spotted Christian. The Sanguinist crouched inside the back of his town car. He leaned over the front seat, an arm stretched to the steering wheel, and laid into the car horn, pressing it over and over again.