Innocent Blood (7 page)

“This evening, it is Anna.” Her voice sounded with the same, queer accent.

“But that is not your real name. Will you share it with me?”

“If you will.”

Her glittering brown eyes looked long into his, not flirting, instead assessing his measure. He slowly nodded his agreement, praying she would find him worthy.

“Arella
,
” she said in hushed tones.

He repeated her name, matching her voice syllable for syllable. “Arella.”

She smiled. She had probably not heard her name spoken aloud by another in many mortal lifetimes. Her eyes sought his, demanding he settle the promised price for learning her one true name.

For the first time in a thousand years, he said his aloud
,
too.

“Judas.”

“The cursed son of Simon Iscariot,” she finished, looking unsurprised, wearing only a faint smile.

She held out a hand toward him. “Would you care to dance?”

With secrets revealed, their relationship began.

But those secrets hid others, deeper and darker.

Secrets without end, to match each eternal life.

Oversize doors swung open behind him, reflected in the window, drawing him back from ancient Venice to modern-day Rome. Judas tapped his fingers against the cold ballistic glass, wondering what the medieval Venetian glassblowers would have made of it.

In the reflection, he watched Renate stand framed in the doorway. She wore a mulberry-colored business suit and a brown silk top. Even though she had grown from a young woman to middle-aged in his service, he found her attractive. He realized suddenly that it was because Renate reminded him of Arella. His receptionist had the same brown skin and black eyes, the same calm.

How have I not seen this before?

The blond monk stepped into the room behind her, wearing a face much younger than his years. Nervous, the Sanguinist pinched the edge of his small spectacles. His round face fell into lines of worry that looked out of place on one so youthful, betraying a hint of the hidden decades behind that smooth skin.

Renate left and soundlessly closed the door.

Judas waved him forward. “Come, Brother Leopold.”

The monk licked his lips, smoothed the drape of his simple hooded brown robe, and obeyed. He passed the fountain and came to a stop in front of the massive desk. He knew better than to sit without being told.

“As you ordered, I took the first train from Germany,
Damnatus
.”

Leopold bowed his head, using an ancient title that marked Judas’s past. The Latin roughly translated as the
condemned,
the
wretched,
and the
damned
. While others might take such a title as an insult, Judas wore it with pride.

Christ had given it to him.

Judas shifted a chair behind his desk, returning to his workspace, and sat. He kept the monk waiting as he focused his attention back on his earlier project. With deft and practiced skill, he unclipped the forewing he had ripped earlier and dropped it onto the floor. He opened his specimen drawer and removed another luna moth. He detached its forewing and used it to replace the one he had damaged, returning his creation to flawless perfection.

Now he must repair something else that was broken.

“I have a new mission for you, Brother Leopold.”

The monk stood silent in front of him, with the stillness that only Sanguinists could attain. “Yes?”

“As I understand it, your order is certain that Father Korza is the prophesied
Knight of Christ
and that this American soldier, Jordan Stone, is the
Warrior of Man
. But there remains doubt as to the identity of the
third
figure mentioned in the Blood Gospel’s prophecy. The
Woman of Learning
. Am I to understand that it is
not
Professor Erin Granger, as you originally surmised during the quest for Christ’s lost Gospel?”

Leopold bowed his head in apology. “I have heard such doubts, and I believe that they may be true.”

“If so, then we must find the
true
Woman of Learning.”

“It will be done.”

Judas pulled a silver razor from another drawer and sliced the tip of his finger. He held it over the moth he had constructed of metal and gossamer wings. A single shiny drop of blood fell onto the back of his creation, seeping through holes along the thorax and vanishing away.

The monk stepped back.

“You fear my blood.”

All
strigoi
did.

Centuries ago, Judas had learned that a single drop of his blood was deadly to any of these damned creatures, even those few who had converted to serve the Church as Sanguines.

“Blood holds great power, does it not, Brother Leopold?”

“It does.” The monk’s eyes darted from side to side. It must trouble him to be close to something that could put an end to his immortal life.

Judas envied him his fear. Cursed by Christ with immortality, he would have sacrificed much to have the choice to die.

“Then
why
did you not tell me that the trio is now bonded by blood?”

Judas slid careful fingers under his creation. It shook itself to life in his palm, powered by his own blood. The whirring of tiny gears vibrated, barely audible under the fountain. The wings rose up and came together on its back, then extended out straight.

The monk trembled.

“Such a beautiful creature of the night, the simple moth,” Judas said.

The automaton flapped its wings and lifted from the bed of his palm. It slowly circled his desk, its wings catching every mote of light and casting it back with every beat.

Leopold followed its path, plainly wanting to flee but knowing better.

Judas lifted his hand, and the moth came again to light atop Judas’s outstretched fingertip. Its metal legs brushed light as spider silk against his skin.

“So very delicate, yet of immense power.”

The monk’s eyes fixed on the bright wings, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I did not think it mattered that Rhun had fed upon the archaeologist. I . . . I thought that she was not the true Woman of Learning.”

“Yet, her blood flows in Rhun Korza’s veins and—thanks to your ill-advised blood transfusion—the blood of Sergeant Stone now flows in hers. Do you not find such happenstance strange? Perhaps even significant?”

Obeying his will, the moth rose again from Judas’s finger and flitted around the office. It danced across the currents of air just as Judas had once danced around the ballrooms of the world.

The monk swallowed his terror.

“Perhaps,” Judas said. “Perhaps this archaeologist
is
the Woman of Learning after all.”

“I am sorry—”

The moth descended out of the air and settled to the monk’s left shoulder, its tiny legs clinging to the rough cloth of his robe.

“I tried to kill her tonight.” Judas toyed with the tiny gears on his desk. “With a
blasphemare
cat. Do you imagine that such a simple woman could elude such a beast?”

“I do not know how.”

“Nor do I.”

With the slightest provocation, the moth would stab the monk with its sharp proboscis, releasing a single drop of blood, killing him instantly.

“Yet she survived,” Judas said. “And she is now reunited with the Warrior, but not yet the Knight. Do you know why they are not reunited with Father Rhun Korza?”

“No.” The monk dropped his eyes to his rosary. If he died now, in sin instead of in holy battle, his soul would be damned for all eternity. He must be thinking about that.

Judas gave him an extra moment to dwell on it, then explained. “Because Rhun Korza is missing.”

“Missing?” For the first time, the monk looked surprised.

“A few days after Korza fed on her, he disappeared from the view of the Church. And all others.” The moth’s wings shivered in the air currents. “Now bodies litter the streets of Rome, as a monster dares to prey along the edge of the Holy City itself. It is not a
strigoi
under my control or under theirs. They fear it might be their precious Rhun Korza, returned to a feral state.”

Brother Leopold met his eyes. “What would you have me do? Kill him?”

“As if you could. No, my dear brother, that task goes to another. Your task is to watch and report. And never again keep any detail to yourself.” He lifted his hand, and the moth took flight from the monk’s shoulder and returned to its creator’s outstretched palm. “If you fail me, you fail Christ.”

Brother Leopold stared upon him, his eyes looking both relieved and exultant. “I will not falter again.”

8

December 18, 7:45
P.M.
PST

San Francisco, California

At least the restaurant is empty.

Erin heaved a sigh of relief as she sat down with Christian and Jordan at a small battle-scarred booth in the Haight-Ashbury district. They had dumped Nate off at his campus apartment at Stanford, then whisked away into the anonymity of San Francisco, taking a circuitous path to the small diner.

She picked up the menu—not that she was hungry, just needing something to do with her hands. The weight of her Glock was again in her ankle holster. She carried Jordan’s Colt in the deep pocket of her winter jacket. Their combined weight helped ground her.

She studied the ramshackle eatery, with its black-and-white paintings of skulls and flowers. The only nods to Christmas were ragged plastic poinsettias gracing each table.

Jordan took her right hand in his left. Even in the harsh, unflattering light, he looked good. A smudge of dust ran across one cheek. She reached out with her napkin and wiped it away, her fingers lingering there.

His eyes darkened, and he gave her a suggestive smile.

Across the booth, Christian cleared his throat.

Jordan straightened but kept hold of her hand. “Nice place you picked out,” he said, craning to look around at the tie-dyed rainbows that decorated the back wall. “So were you a Deadhead in a past life or just stuck in the sixties?”

Hiding a smile behind her menu, Erin saw the fare was all vegan.

Jordan’s going to love that.

“This place is far nicer now than it was in the sixties,” Christian said, revealing a hint of his own past, of a prior life in the city. “Back then, you could barely breathe from the fog of pot smoke and patchouli in here. But one thing that hasn’t changed is the establishment’s contempt for authority. I’m willing to bet my life that there aren’t any surveillance cameras in this building or electronic monitoring devices. The fewer prying eyes, the better.”

Erin appreciated the Sanguinist’s level of paranoia, especially after the attack.

“Are you truly that worried about a mole in your order?” Jordan asked.

“Someone knew Erin would be alone at that ranch. For now, it’s best we fly under the radar. At least until we reach Rome.”

“That sounds fine to me,” Erin said. “What did you mean when you said I’m the only one who can find Rhun?”

During the ride to the restaurant, Christian had refused to talk. Even now, he glanced once around the room, then leaned forward. “I have heard from Sergeant Stone that Rhun fed on you during the battle below St. Peter’s. Is that true?”

She let go of Jordan’s hand, studying the napkin in her lap so that he couldn’t see her expression when she thought of the intimacy that she had shared with Rhun. She flashed to those sharp teeth sinking into her flesh, balancing between pain and bliss as his lips burned her skin, his tongue probing the wounds wider to drink more deeply.

“He did,” she mumbled. “But he had to. There was no other way to catch the grimwolf and Bathory Darabont. Without our actions, the Blood Gospel would have been lost.”

Jordan slipped his arm around her shoulders, and she shrugged it off. Surprise flashed across his eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she didn’t want anyone touching her right now.

“I am not here to judge Rhun,” Christian said. “The situation was extraordinary. You don’t need to explain it to me. I’m more interested in what’s happened to you
after
that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you had visions? Feelings that you cannot explain?”

She closed her eyes. Relief flooded through her. So there might be an explanation for her blackouts.

I’m not going crazy after all.

Christian must have noticed her reaction. “You have had visions. Thank God.”

“Someone want to explain this to me?” Jordan asked.

In retrospect, she should have told him about the blackouts. But she hadn’t wanted to think about them, let alone share them.

Christian explained to both of them. “When a
strigoi
feeds on someone and the victim lives—which is a rare occurrence—the blood forms a bond between them. It lasts until the
strigoi
feeds again and erases that bond with a wash of new blood.”

Jordan looked sick.

A young server came by at that moment, his hair in blond dreadlocks, with a pad in hand, a pencil behind his ear. He was waved off after a round of black coffee was ordered.

Erin waited until the kid was out of earshot, then pressed on. “But what I’ve been experiencing makes no sense. It’s dark. Totally black. I have an intense claustrophobic feeling of being trapped. It’s as if I’m encased in a sarcophagus or coffin.”

“Like back in Masada?” Jordan asked.

She took his hand again, appreciating the heat of his palm, partially apologizing for snubbing him a moment ago. “That’s what I thought. I thought it was a panic attack. I dismissed the episodes as flashbacks to that moment when we were stuck in that ancient crypt. But certain details of those visions had struck me as odd. The box was cold, but it felt like I was lying in acid. It soaked through my clothes and burned my skin. And even stranger, everything smelled like wine.”

“Wine?” Christian asked, sitting straighter.

She nodded.

“If you were channeling Rhun during those visions, a bath of consecrated wine would burn.” Christian fixed her with his sharp green eyes. “Do you have any idea where this box might be? Could you hear anything?”

She slowly shook her head, trying to think of more details, but failing. “I’m sorry.”

All she remembered was that pain, sensing that what she had felt was only the tiniest fraction of what Rhun must be experiencing. How long had he been trapped there? Christian had said Rhun had gone missing shortly after the battle. That was two months ago. She couldn’t abandon him to that.

Another insight chilled her. “Christian, with each of these visions I feel weaker, more leaden. In the last, I could barely lift my arms.”

Christian’s expression confirmed her worst fear.

It likely meant Rhun was dying.

Christian reached and touched her arm, trying to reassure her. “The best plan is to get to Rome. Cardinal Bernard has more knowledge of this kind of bond than I do. It was more common in the early days of the Church.”

They were scheduled to leave by chartered plane in another two hours.

“And if we do find Rhun,” Erin asked, “what do we do after that?”

She feared she would be tossed aside again, summarily dismissed, like before.

“Then we all go in search of the First Angel,” Christian said.

The First Angel.

She knew all too well the prophecy concerning that mythic figure. She pictured the words inscribed on the first page of the Blood Gospel, words written by Christ, a prediction of a coming war—and a way to avert it.

A great War of the Heavens looms. For the forces of goodness to prevail, a Weapon must be forged of this Gospel written in my own blood. The trio of prophecy must bring the book to the First Angel for his blessing. Only thus may they secure salvation for the world.

“The time for waiting is past,” Christian pressed. “Especially after someone moved against you, Erin. They clearly know now how valuable you are.”

“Valuable?” She couldn’t keep a scoffing, bitter tone from that word.

“The prophecy says the trio must carry the book to the First Angel. The Knight of Christ, the Warrior of Man, and the Woman of Learning. Jordan and you are the last two. Rhun the first.”

“But I thought it was clear that I am
not
the Woman of Learning.” She kept her voice steady and forced out the next sentence. “I’m pretty sure I killed her.”

Jordan squeezed her hand. She had shot Bathory Darabont in the tunnels under Rome. Not only had she taken the woman’s life, but the Bathory family was long thought to be the true line from which the Woman of Learning would emerge. Erin’s bullet had ended that line, murdering the last living descendant.

“Darabont is indeed dead and with her that cursed line.” Christian sighed, leaning back with a shrug. “So it looks like you’re the best we’ve got, Dr. Erin Granger. What’s the point in second-guessing?”

The coffee finally arrived, allowing them to collect their thoughts.

Once the server was gone, Jordan took a sip, winced at the blistering heat, and nodded to Christian. “I agree with him. Let’s go find this angel dude.”

As if it could be so easy.

No one had the faintest idea who the First Angel was.