Blood Infernal: The Order of the Sanguines Series (11 page)

Marie hobbled over to greet the messenger, while Elizabeth strained to overhear their conversation. Her Italian was passable now, as she’d had little to do beyond work in the garden and study. She studied far into the night. Everything she learned was a weapon that she would one day wield against her captors.

A honeybee lit on her hand, and she lifted it to her face.

“Be careful,” warned a voice behind her, startling her. That would never have happened when she was a
strigoi
. Then she had been able to pick out a heartbeat from fields away.

She turned to discover Berndt standing there. He must have circled the courtyard to approach her so discreetly. He stood close enough that she could smell his musky aftershave.

She glanced down to the bee. “I should be fearful of this small creature?”

“Many people are allergic to bees,” Berndt explained. “If it were to sting
me
, it might even kill me.”

Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow. Modern man was so weak. No one perished from bee stings in her time. Or perhaps many had, and one simply had not known.

“We cannot allow such a thing to happen.” She moved her hand away from Berndt and blew on the bee to make it fly.

As she did so, a figure stepped out of the shadows of the courtyard wall and headed toward them.

Sister Abigail, of course.

Her Sanguinist minder looked like a harmless old British nun—her limbs thin and weak, her blue eyes faded with age. As she reached them, she tucked in a wisp of gray hair that had escaped the side of her wimple.

“Good evening, Herr Niedermann,” Abigail greeted him. “Dinner is soon to be served. If you’ll head to the hall, I’m sure—”

Berndt interrupted her. “Perhaps Elizabeth would care to join me.”

Abigail grabbed Elizabeth’s arm with a grip that would leave a bruise. She did not resist. Bruises might engender sympathy from Berndt in the right circumstances.

“I’m afraid that Elizabeth cannot go with you,” Abigail said in an irritated tone that brooked no argument.

“Of course I may, Sister,” Elizabeth said. “I’m not a prisoner, am I?”

Abigail’s square face flushed hotly.

“Then it’s settled,” Berndt said. “And perhaps afterward we could go for a short boat ride?”

Elizabeth forced herself not to react, fearing Abigail would hear the sudden spike of her heartbeat.
Would the missing key be noted?

“Elizabeth has been ill,” Abigail said, clearly struggling for any explanation to keep Elizabeth within the convent’s walls. “She mustn’t overtire herself.”

“Perhaps the sea air will do me good,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

“I can’t allow it,” Abigail countered. “Your . . . your father would be very mad. You certainly don’t want me to call Bernard, do you?”

Elizabeth gave up toying with the woman, as much as it delighted her. She certainly didn’t want Cardinal Bernard’s attention drawn this way.

“That’s unfortunate,” Berndt said. “Especially as I must leave tomorrow.”

Elizabeth looked sharply toward him. “I thought you were staying another week.”

He smiled at her concern, clearly mistaking it for affection. “I’m afraid business calls me back to Frankfurt earlier that I was expecting.”

That presented a problem. If she intended to use his boat to make her escape, it would have to be this night. She thought quickly, knowing this was still her best chance—not just of escape, but so much more.

She had grander plans, to be more than just free.

While Elizabeth could walk under the sun again, she had lost so much more. As a mortal human, she could no longer hear the softest sounds, smell the faintest wisps of scent, or witness the glowing colors of the night. It was as if she had been wrapped in a thick blanket.

She hated it.

She wanted her
strigoi
senses back, to feel that unnatural strength flowing through her limbs again, but most of all, she desired to be immortal—to be unfettered not just from these convent’s walls, but from the march of years.

I will let nothing stop me
.

Before she could move, the cell phone hidden in the pocket of her skirts vibrated.

Only one person had that number.

Tommy
.

She moved back from the German. “Thank you, Berndt, but Sister Abigail is correct.” She gave him a quick curtsy, realizing too late that no one did such things anymore. “I am feeling a touch faint from working the gardens. Perhaps I should take my meal in my room after all.”

Abigail’s lips tightened into a hard line. “I think that is wise.”

“A shame,” he said, disappointment ringing in his voice.

Abigail took her by the arm, the nun’s fingers even tighter now, and led her to her room. “You are to stay here,” she commanded once they reached her small cell. “I will bring your dinner to you.”

Abigail locked the door behind her. Elizabeth waited until her footsteps faded, then crossed to the barred window. Alone now, she retrieved the telephone and returned the call.

When she heard Tommy, she immediately knew something was wrong. Tears frosted his voice.

“My cancer’s back,” he said. “I don’t know what to do, who to tell.”

She gripped the phone harder, as if she could reach through the ethers to a boy she had grown to love as much as her own son. “Explain what has happened.”

She knew Tommy’s history, knew that he had been sick before an infusion of angelic blood had cured him, granting him immortality. Now he was an ordinary mortal, like her—afflicted as he had been before. Though she had heard him use the word
cancer
, she never truly comprehended the nature of his sickness.

Wanting to understand more, she pressed him. “Tell me of this cancer.”

“It’s a disease that eats you up from inside.” His words grew soft, forlorn, and lost. “It’s in my skin and bones.”

Her heart ached for the boy. She wanted to comfort him, as she often did with her own son. “Surely doctors can cure you of this affliction in this modern age.”

There was a long pause, then a tired sigh. “Not my cancer. I spent years in chemotherapy, throwing up all the time. I lost my hair. Even my bones hurt. The doctors couldn’t stop it.”

She leaned against the cold plaster wall and studied the dark waters of the canal outside her window. “Can you not try this chemotherapy again?”

“I won’t.” He sounded firm, more like a man. “I should have died back then. I think I’m supposed to. I won’t go through that misery again.”

“What about your aunt and uncle? What do they say you should do?”

“I haven’t told them, and I’m not going to. They would make me go through those medical procedures again, and it won’t help. I know it. This is how things are supposed to be.”

Anger built inside her, hearing the defeat in his voice.

You may not wish to fight, but I will
.

“Listen,” he said, “no one can save me. I just called to talk, to get this off my chest . . . with someone I can trust.”

His honesty touched her. He, alone in the world, trusted her. And he alone was the only one whom she trusted in return. Determination grew inside her. Her own son had died because she had failed to protect him. She would not let that happen to this boy.

He talked for a few minutes more, mostly about his dead parents. As he did, a new purpose grew in her heart.

I will break free of these walls . . . and I will save you
.

March 17, 6:38
P
.
M
.
CET

Vatican City

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire . . .

After safely escaping the Sanguinist library undetected, Erin had met up with Christian and Sister Margaret before being summoned to Cardinal Bernard’s offices in the Apostolic Palace. She followed a black-robed priest down a long paneled hall, passing through the papal apartments on her way to the Sanguinists’ private wing.

She wondered why this sudden summons.

Has Bernard learned about my trespass?

She tried to keep the tension out of her stride. She had already attempted to question the priest ahead of her. His name was Father Gregory. He was Bernard’s new assistant, but the man remained close-mouthed, an attribute necessary for anyone serving the cardinal.

She studied this newly recruited priest. He had milky white skin, thick dark eyebrows, and collar-length black hair. Unlike the cardinal’s previous assistant, he wasn’t human—he was a Sanguinist. He looked to be in his early thirties, but he could be centuries older than that.

They reached Bernard’s office door, and Father Gregory opened it for her. “Here we are, Dr. Granger.”

She noted the Irish lilt to his words. “Thank you, Father.”

He followed her inside, slipping free an old-fashioned watch fob on a chain and glancing down at it. “We’re a touch early, I’m afraid. The cardinal should be here momentarily.”

Erin suspected this was some ploy of Bernard’s, to leave her waiting as a petty show of superiority. The cardinal still bristled that the Blood Gospel had been bound to her.

Father Gregory pulled out a chair for her before the cardinal’s wide mahogany desk. She placed her backpack next to her seat.

As she waited, she took in the room, always finding new surprises. Ancient leather-bound volumes filled floor-to-ceiling bookcases, an antique jeweled globe from the sixteenth century gleamed on the desk, and a sword from the time of the Crusades hung above the door.

Cardinal Bernard had wielded that very sword to take Jerusalem from the Saracens a thousand years before, and she had personally witnessed his skill with it a few months back. While he seemed to prefer to work behind the scenes, he remained a fierce warrior.

Something to keep in mind.

“You must be worn out after your long day of study,” Father Gregory said, returning to the door. “I’ll fetch you some coffee while you wait.”

As soon as he closed the door, she crossed around to the other side of the cardinal’s desk. She studied the papers strewn across the surface, reading rapidly through them. A few months ago she would have balked at invading the cardinal’s privacy, but she had seen enough people die to preserve Bernard’s secrets.

Knowledge was power, and she would not let him hoard it.

The topmost sheet was written in Latin. She skimmed the words, translating as she went. It seemed two
strigoi
had attacked a nightclub in Rome, killing thirty-four people. Such open attacks were unusual, almost unheard of in modern times. Over the passing centuries, even the
strigoi
had learned to conceal themselves and hide the bodies of their prey.

But apparently that wasn’t true any longer.

She read through the private report on the massacre and discovered an even more disturbing detail. Among the dead was a trio of Sanguinists. She swallowed at the seeming impossibility of that.

Two
strigoi
had killed three trained Sanguinists?

She moved the sheet aside and read the next report, this one in English. It described a similar attack on a military base outside of London, twenty-seven armed soldiers killed at their evening mess hall.

Erin shuffled through the remainder of the pages. They documented strange and ferocious attacks across Italy, Austria, and Germany. She became so lost in the horrors of these accounts that she barely noted the office door swinging open.

She raised her head.

Cardinal Bernard entered, dressed in the scarlet robes of his station. With his white hair and calm demeanor, he could easily be mistaken for someone’s kindly grandfather.

He sighed, nodding to his desk. “I see you’ve read my intelligence reports.”

She didn’t bother trying to deny her actions. “They’re light on specifics. Have you learned anything more about these attackers?”

“No,” he said as they exchanged places. He took his desk chair, and she returned to her seat. “We know their tactics are savage, undisciplined, and unpredictable.”

“How about witnesses?”

“So far, they’ve left no survivors. But from this latest attack, at the discotheque, we were able to obtain surveillance footage.”

Erin sat straighter.

“It is quite gruesome,” he warned, tilting his computer monitor toward her.

She leaned forward. “Show me.”

He opened a file, and soon grainy footage showed a handful of dancers moving around on a dark floor. Lights strobed, and though the footage had no audio, she could imagine the heavy bass beat of that music.

“Watch these two,” Bernard said, pointing.

He indicated two men, both dressed in dark clothing, at the edge of the screen. They moved slowly out onto the dance floor. One had white skin, one black. She squinted closer, studying the dark figure. The video quality was too poor to pick out features, but it seemed as if his skin drank in the light. His face looked unnatural somehow, more like a mask than human skin.

As if the dancers sensed the hunters in their midst, the small crowd parted, keeping a ragged circle of free space around the two creatures. They were right to be wary. A moment later, the two
strigoi
lashed out, moving so quickly that their images blurred on the screen. She had never seen
strigoi
move at such speeds.