Innocent Blood (8 page)

9

December 19, 6:32
A.M.

The Arctic Ocean

Tommy Bolar’s teeth ached from the cold. He hadn’t known that was possible. Standing at the ship’s rail in the darkness of the early Arctic morning, a rigid wind burned his exposed cheeks. White ice stretched to the horizon ahead. Behind the ship, a crushed wake of blue ice and black water marked the passage of the icebreaker through the frozen landscape.

He stared out, despairing. He had no idea where he was.

Or for that matter,
what
he was.

All he knew was that he was no longer the same fourteen-year-old boy who had watched his parents die in his arms atop the ruins of Masada, victims of a poison gas that killed them and healed him. He glanced at the bit of bare skin showing between his deerskin gloves and the sleeves of his high-tech down parka. Once, a brown patch of melanoma had stuck out on his pale wrist, showing his terminal condition—now it was gone, along with the rest of his cancer. Even his hair, lost to chemo, had begun to grow back.

He had been cured.

Or cursed
.
Depending on how you looked at it.

He wished he had died on that mountaintop with his parents. Instead, he had been kidnapped from an Israeli military hospital, stolen from the faceless doctors who had been trying to understand his miraculous survival. His latest jailers claimed he had more than
survived
the tragedy at Masada, insisted he had been more than
cured
of his cancer.

They said he could never die.

And worst of all, he had begun to believe them.

A tear rolled from his cheek, leaving a hot trail across his frozen skin.

He wiped it away with the back of his glove, growing angry, frustrated, wanting to scream at the endless expanse—not for
help,
but for
release,
to see his mother and father again.

Two months ago, someone had drugged him, and he woke up here, on this giant icebreaker in the middle of a frozen ocean. The ship was newly painted, mostly black, the cabins stacked on top like red LEGO bricks. So far he had counted roughly a hundred crewmembers aboard, memorizing faces, learning the ship’s routine.

For now, escape was impossible—but knowledge was power.

It was one of the reasons he spent so much time in the ship’s library, sifting through the few books in English, trying to learn as much as he could.

Any other inquiries fell on deaf ears. The crew spoke Russian, and none of them would talk to him. Only two people aboard the icebreaker ever spoke to him—and they terrified him, though he did his best to hide it.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Alyosha joined him at the rail. He carried two rapiers and passed one over. The Russian boy looked the same age as Tommy, but that face was a lie. Alyosha was lots older, decades older. Proving his inhumanity, Alyosha wore a pair of gray flannel pants and a perfectly pressed white shirt, open at the collar, exposing his pale throat to the frigid wind that raked across this empty corner of the icy deck. A real person would freeze to death in that outfit.

Tommy accepted the rapier, knowing that if he touched Alyosha’s bare hand, he would find it as cold as the ice crusting the ship’s rail.

Alyosha was an undying creature called a
strigoi
.

Immortal, like Tommy, but also very different from himself.

Shortly after Tommy’s kidnapping, Alyosha had pressed Tommy’s hand to his cold chest, revealing the creature’s lack of a heartbeat. He had shown Tommy his fangs, how his canine teeth could push into and out of his gums at will. But the biggest difference between them was that Alyosha fed on human blood.

Tommy was nothing like him.

He still ate regular food, still had a heartbeat, still had his same teeth.

So what am I?

It seemed even his captor—Alyosha’s master—didn’t know. Or at least, never shared this knowledge.

Alyosha clouted him on the head with the hilt of his rapier to gain his attention. “You must attend to what I am saying. We must practice.”

Tommy followed him out onto the makeshift fencing strip on the ship’s deck and took his position.

“No!” his competitor scolded. “Widen your stance! And keep the rapier
up
to cover yourself.”

Alyosha, apparently bored on the giant ship, was teaching him the manners of a Russian nobleman. Besides these fencing lessons, the boy taught him a lot of terms for horses, horse tack, and cavalry formations.

Tommy understood the other’s obsession. He had been told Alyosha’s real name: Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov. In the library, he had found a text on Russian history, discovered more about this “boy.” A hundred years ago he had been the son of Czar Nicholas II, a royal prince of the Russian Empire. As a kid, Alyosha had suffered from hemophilia, and according to the book, only one person could relieve him of his painful bouts of internal bleeding, the same man who would eventually become his master, turning the prince into a monster.

He pictured Alyosha’s master, with his thick beard and dark face, hidden elsewhere aboard the ship, like a black spider in a web. He was known in the early 1900s as the Mad Monk of Russia, but his real name was Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin. The history texts detailed how the monk had made friends with the Romanovs, becoming an invaluable counselor to the czar. But other sections hinted at Rasputin’s sexual weirdness and political intrigues, which eventually led to an assassination attempt by a group of nobles.

The monk had been poisoned, shot in the head, beaten with a club, and dumped in a frozen river—only to come back up sputtering, still alive. The books said he eventually drowned in that river, but Tommy knew the truth.

It wasn’t so easy to kill a monster.

Like the boy-prince, Rasputin was a
strigoi
.

Quick as a cobra strike, Alyosha lunged across the fencing strip, feinting right, then moving left, almost too fast to see. The tip of his rapier landed in the center of Tommy’s chest, the point poking through his parka and piercing his skin. These were not practice swords with blunted ends. Tommy knew Alyosha could have skewered his heart if he had wanted to.

Not that it would have killed Tommy.

It would have hurt, likely left him bedridden and weak for a day or two, but he would have healed, cursed as he was atop Masada with an immortal life.

Alyosha smiled and stepped back, sweeping his rapier with a triumphant wave. He was close to Tommy’s height, with wiry arms and legs. But he was far stronger and faster.

Tommy’s curse offered him no such advantages of strength and speed.

Still, he did his best to parry the next few attacks. They danced back and forth along the fencing strip. Tommy quickly grew exhausted, sapped by the cold.

As they paused for a breath, a loud
crack
drew Tommy’s attention past the starboard rail. The deck canted underfoot. The bow of the ship rose slightly, then crashed down onto thick plates of ice. Its giant engines ground the ship forward, continuing its slow passage through the Arctic sea.

He watched great sheets of ice shear away and scrape along the hull and wondered what would happen if he jumped.

Would I die?

Fear kept him from testing it. While he might not be able to die, he could suffer. He’d wait for a better chance.

Alyosha burst forward and slapped him across the cheek with his sword.

The sting reminded him that life was pain.

“Enough!” Alyosha demanded. “Keep alert, my friend!”

Friend
 . . .

Tommy wanted to scoff at such a label, but he kept silent. He knew in some ways this young prince was lonely, enjoying the companionship, even if forced, of another kid.

Still, Tommy wasn’t fooled.

Alyosha was no boy.

So he returned to a defensive stance at his end of the strip. That was his only option for now. He would bide his time, learn what he could, and keep himself fit.

Until he could escape.

10

December 19, 7:13
A.M.
CET

Rome, Italy

The hunter had become the hunted.

Elizabeth sensed the pack trailing her across the dark narrow streets and alleys, growing ever larger in her wake. For now, they remained back, perhaps wanting strength in numbers. These were no human curs, no brigands or thieves seeking the soft target of a lone woman on these predawn streets. They were
strigoi,
like her.

Had she intruded upon their hunting grounds? Broken some rule of etiquette in her feeding? This age held many pitfalls for her.

She glanced to the east, sensing the winter sun was close to rising. Fear trickled through her. She wanted to return to her loft, to escape the burning day, but she dared not lead this pack to her home.

So, as the day threatened, she continued down a narrow street, her shoulder close to the cold stucco wall, ancient cobblestones uneven under the soles of her boots.

The hours before the dawn had grown to be her favorite in this modern city. At this early time, the growling automobiles fell mostly silent, their breath no longer fouling the air. She took care to study the men and women of the night, recognizing how, in many ways, little had changed from her century, easily spotting harlots, gamblers, and thieves.

She understood the night—and she had thought she owned it alone.

Until this morning.

In the corners of her eyes, shadowy wraiths shifted. They numbered more than a dozen, she knew, but how many
more
she could not say. Without heartbeats or breaths, she could not be confident until they were upon her.

Which would not be long.

The beasts circled, drawing their net ever tighter.

It seemed they believed that she had not marked them. She allowed them this belief. Deception might yet save her, as it had so often in the past. She drew them onward, toward her own choice of battleground.

Her destination was far. Fearing they might attack before she reached it, she quickened her steps, but only a little, for she did not want them to know that she had sensed their presence.

She needed an open area. Trapped in these narrow alleys, it was too easy for the pack to fall upon her, to overwhelm her.

At last, her boots drew her toward the Pantheon at the Piazza della Rotonda. The square was the closest patch of free ground. The gray light of the pearling sun lightened the shadows on the Pantheon’s rounded dome. The open eye of the
oculum
on top waited for the new day, blind in the dark.

Not like her. Not like them.

The Pantheon was once the home of many gods, but it was now a Catholic Church dedicated to only
one
. She avoided that sanctuary. The holy ground inside would weaken her—likewise those that hunted her—but after being reborn to this new strength, she refused to forsake it.

Instead, she kept to the open square in front.

On one side, a row of empty booths waited for daylight to transform them into a bustling Christmas marketplace. Their festive golden lights had been turned off, and large white canvas umbrellas dusted with frost protected empty tables. Elsewhere, restaurants stood lightless and shuttered, their diners long abed.

Behind her, shadows shifted at the edges of the square.

Knowing her time ran short, she hurried to the fountain in the center of the square. She rested her palms on the basin’s gray stone. Near at hand, a carved stone fish spat water into the pool below. In the center rose a slim obelisk. Its red granite had been quarried under the merciless Egyptian sun only to be dragged here by conquerors. Hieroglyphs had been cut in its four sides and reached to its conical tip: moons, birds, a sitting man. The language was old gibberish, as meaningless to her as the modern world. But the images, carved by long dead stonemasons, might yet save her this night.

Her gaze rose to the very top, to where the Church had mounted a cross to claim the power of these ancient gods.

Behind her came the squeak of leather, the scrape of cloth against cloth, the soft fall of hair from a turned head.

At last, the pack closed in.

Before any of them could reach her, she vaulted over the side of the basin and onto the obelisk, clinging like a cat. Her strong fingers found purchase in those ancient carvings: a palm, a moon, a feather, a falcon. She clambered upward, but as the pedestal grew thinner, the climbing grew harder. Fear pushed her to the very top.

Perched there, she braced herself against the searing pain and grabbed the cross with one hand. She spared a quick glance downward.

Shadows boiled up the obelisk like ants, befouling every inch of granite. Their clothes were tatters, their limbs skeletal, their hair matted and grimed. One beast tumbled back into the fountain with a splash, but others poured into the space it left.

Turning away, she glanced at the nearest house across the plaza and gathered her strength around her like a cloak.

Then leaped.

7:18
A.M.

Far below St. Peter’s Basilica, Rhun crawled on all fours down a dark tunnel, his head hanging so low his nose sometimes brushed the stone floor.

Still, he whispered prayers of thanks.

Erin was safe.

The urgency that had shattered him out of his agonizing prison had faded. Sheer will alone now drove him to lift each bloody hand, to drag each raw knee. Foot by foot, he crossed along the passageway, seeking light.

Taking a moment to rest, he leaned his shoulder against the stone wall. He touched his throat, remembering the wound, now healed. Elisabeta had taken so much of his blood. She had purposefully left him helpless but alive.

To suffer.

Agony had become her new art. He pictured the faces of the many young girls who died in her experiments. This dark incarnation of his bright Elisabeta had learned to sculpt pain as others did marble. All those horrible deaths remained on his conscience.

How many more deaths must he add to that toll as she ran wild in the streets of Rome?

While entombed, he caught whispers of her delight, of the elation of her feeding. She had drained him, carried his blood inside her, binding them.

He knew she had crafted that connection on purpose.

She had wanted to drag him along on her hunts, forcing him to witness her depravations and murder. Thankfully, as she fed, washing new blood over old, that bond weakened, allowing only the strongest of her emotions to still reach him.

As if stoked by these thoughts, Rhun felt the edges of his vision narrow, fraught with panicked fear—not his own, but another’s. As weak as that bond was, he could have resisted her pull, but such a fight would risk further sapping his already-drained reserves.

So he let himself be taken away.

Both to conserve his strength and for another purpose.

Where are you
,
Elisabeta?

He intended to use this fraying bond to find her, to stop this rampage once he found the light again. For now, he fell willingly into that shared darkness.

A tide of black beasts rose toward him. White fangs flashed out of that darkness, ravenous, ready to feed. He leaped away, sailing through the air.

The sky brightened to the east, promising a new day.

He must be locked away before that happened, shuttered against the blazing sun.

He landed on a roof. Terra-cotta tiles broke under his boots, his hands. Pieces skittered over the edge to shatter on the gray stone of the square below.

He ran across the roof, sure-footed. Behind him, one of the hunters attempted the jump, failed, and hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Others tried.

Many fell, but a few made it across.

He had reached the far side of the roof—and vaulted to the next. Cool night air washed across his cheeks. If he forgot his pursuers, he could appreciate the beauty here, running across the top of Rome.

But he could not forget them, and so he ran onward.

Ever west.

His goal climbed high into the blushing sky.

Rhun returned to his own skin, slumped in the tunnel. He rose on hands and knees, knowing this was not enough. Tapping into the last dregs of his waning strength, he shoved to his feet. With one palm on the wall, he shambled forward.

He must warn the others.

Elisabeta was leading a pack of
strigoi
straight to Vatican City.

7:32
A.M.

She held nothing back as she fled across the rooftops, heading west, fleeing the rising sun to the east and chased by a furious horde. The surprise of her climbing the obelisk had gained her precious seconds.

If they caught her, she was dead.

She vaulted from rooftop to rooftop, breaking tiles, bending rain gutters. She had never run like this in her natural or supernatural life. It seemed those centuries trapped in the sarcophagus had made her stronger and faster.

Exhilaration washed through her, holding her fear in check.

She spread her arms to the side like wings, loving the caress of the wind from her passage. If she lived, she must do this every night. She sensed she was older than those who pursued her, faster—certainly not enough to outdistance them forever, but perhaps long enough to reach her destination.

She hurdled onto the next roof, landed hard. A flock of pigeons startled and rose around her. Feathers surrounded her like a cloud, blinded her. Momentarily distracted, her boot caught in the crack between a row of tiles. She had to halt to pull it loose, tearing the leather.

A glance behind revealed her lead was gone.

The pack was upon her, at her heels now.

She fled away, pain lancing up from her ankle. The leg would not take her weight. She cursed its weakness, jumping more than running now, pushing off with the good leg, landing on the bad, punishing it for failing her.

To the east, the sky was the same light gray as the pigeons’ wings.

If
strigoi
did not strike her down, the sun would.

She hurled herself forward. She would not lie down and let those who followed claim her. Such beasts were not fit to end her life.

She focused on her goal ahead.

A few streets separated her from the walls of Vatican City.

The Sanguinists would never let such a pack of
strigoi
enter their holy city. They would cut them down like weeds. She ran toward that same death with one hope in her silent heart.

She bore the secret of where Rhun lay hidden.

But would that be enough to turn their swords from her neck?

She did not know.