Blood Infernal: The Order of the Sanguines Series (19 page)

Elizabeth stood again in the silver chapel where she had died and been born again. Someone had cleaned her blood from the floor and walls. The room smelled of incense and stone and lemons. Fresh beeswax candles had been lit on the altar.

It was as if nothing had ever happened.

She stared up at the bright mosaic of Lazarus overhead. He had done what she would soon attempt, and he had survived. But he had loved Christ.

She did not.

She ran her palm over her black garments, the uniform of a lowly nun. A silver rosary had been tied around her waist, and a pectoral cross hung from her neck. Both objects burned even through the thick cloth. She felt like she had donned a costume, one she might wear to a ball.

But that wasn’t her only masquerade.

Keeping still so that no one would know how she truly felt, Elizabeth reveled at the strength inside. The cardinal had fed deeply on her and had offered little of his own blood in return, not enough to sustain her. Even worse, her sensible shoes stood on holy ground, a place that should have weakened her even further.

But she felt strong—stronger, perhaps, than she ever had.

Something has changed in the world
.

Eight Sanguinists shared the chapel with her, watching her, judging her. But she only noted one. Rhun had come to participate in this rite, standing next to her. She was surprised how deeply this gesture struck her.

He stepped closer, his words a faint whisper. “Do you have faith, Elisabeta? Faith enough to survive this.”

Elizabeth looked up into Rhun’s concerned eyes. For centuries, he wanted nothing more than for her to battle the evil inside her, to devote herself to a joyless existence serving a church she had never trusted. She wanted to comfort him, to reassure him, but she would not lie to him, not when this might be their last moment together.

The Sanguinists behind him chanted a prayer. If she tried to escape, they would kill her—and if she died, then Tommy would die along with her. Down this burning path lay the only chance to save the boy’s life and her own.

“I do have faith,” she told Rhun, which was the truth. It just wasn’t the faith he wanted her to possess. She had faith in herself, in her ability to survive this and save Tommy.

“If you don’t believe,” Rhun warned, “if you don’t believe Christ can save your damned soul, you will die with the first sip of His blood. It has ever been so.”

Has it?

Rasputin had been excommunicated from the Church, yet she had seen with her own eyes that he still lived outside of the realm of the Church. Likewise, the German monk, Brother Leopold, had betrayed the Church for fifty years, yet he had drunk the wine countless times and never been burned.

Was it the monk’s belief in his purpose, in the one he served, that had sustained him?

She hoped it was so. For her sake, and for Tommy’s. She had to trust that there were other pathways to the salvation offered by that holy blood. While her heart was not pure, surely helping Tommy was a noble enough goal.

But if I am wrong . . .

She reached to Rhun’s bare wrist, touching it with a finger. “I want you to give me the wine. No one else.”

If I’m to die, let it be by the hands of someone who loves me
.

Rhun swallowed, fear darkening his face, but he didn’t refuse her. “Your heart must be pure,” he warned. “You must come to Him with openness and love. Can you do that?”

“We will see,” she said, shying from his question.

Satisfied but reluctant, Rhun gestured to the silver chalice resting on the altar. The sharp smell of wine rose from it, cutting through the incense. It was difficult to fathom that such a simple substance, a fermentation of grapes, could hold the secret of life. Or that it might destroy her newfound immortal power and her along with it.

Rhun stood before the altar, facing her. “First, you must publicly repent your sins,
all
of your sins. Then you may partake of His holy Blood.”

With no other choice, she listed sin after sin, seeing how each one fell onto Rhun’s shoulders, how he took the blame for her acts onto himself. He bore it in front of her, and she recognized pain and regret in his eyes. In spite of everything, she would have spared him that if she could.

By the time she had finished, her throat was hoarse. Many hours had passed. Her
strigoi
body sensed that daylight was not far away.

“That is all?” Rhun asked.

“Is it not enough?”

He turned, picked up the silver chalice from the altar, and held it above his head. He chanted prayers necessary to transform the wine into the blood of Christ.

All the while, Elizabeth searched her conscience. Did she feel fear that these were her last moments? That she might soon be burned to ash and scattered across the clean floor? She came to only one conclusion.

Whatever must come would come
.

She knelt before Rhun.

He bent down and brought the chalice to her lips.

March 18, 5:41
A
.
M
.
CET

Venice, Italy

Jordan stretched a knot out of his back. He had fallen asleep, sprawled across one of the wooden pews of the basilica. He stood now and twisted his spine to and fro, forcing circulation back through his body. He bent down and massaged a spasm in his calf.

I can miraculously heal a mortal wound, but I got nothing for a charley horse
.

He hobbled toward Erin, who studied a piece of artwork a few yards away. She stood with Christian, who had kept them company during this long vigil, all of them waiting for word about Elizabeth. From the slight hunch in Erin’s shoulders and the puffiness of her red eyes, he doubted she had gotten any sleep.

Christian could have joined his fellow Sanguinists and participated in the rite, but he remained here, either to guard them from some kind of threat or to keep them from interfering with what was happening down below. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to watch the countess burn to death any more than Rhun did.

All night long, Christian had been straightforward with them, answering Erin’s questions about what was likely going on below. And more important, he also fetched Jordan more beer.

“What are we looking at anyway?” Jordan asked as he joined them.

Erin pointed to the mosaic straight above their head.

He craned his neck. “Is that Jesus sitting on a rainbow?”

She smiled. “Actually, it is. He’s ascending to heaven. Giving this section of the basilica its name: the Ascension Cupola.”

The three of them continued along the nave. Erin questioned Christian about various pieces of art, but clearly there was a greater question hanging above all three of their heads.

Jordan finally asked it. “Do you think she’ll survive the wine?”

Christian stopped, sighing loudly. “She will survive if she truly repents of her sins and accepts Him into her heart.”

“That’s not likely to happen,” Erin said.

Jordan agreed.

Christian had a more compassionate response. “We can never know the heart of another. No matter how much we think that we might.” He turned to Jordan. “Leopold had us all fooled, serving as agent of the Belial within our own folds for decades.”

Erin nodded. “And he was able to drink holy wine without burning to ash.”

Jordan frowned, realizing there was one subject he’d never had the time to address. He had told everyone about Leopold’s body missing from that subterranean temple, but he never elaborated on the stranger aspect of that story.

“Erin,” he said, “there is something I never mentioned about that attack in Cumae. That
strigoi
who . . . who wounded me . . . just before he died, he said he was sorry. He knew my name.”

“What?”

Christian turned sharply to him. Apparently Baako and Sophia had also failed to share this detail with the Sanguinists. Perhaps all of them had been ready to simply dismiss it as a coincidence. Maybe the dead
strigoi
was German, which would explain the accent. Maybe he knew Jordan’s name because whoever sent that monster down there knew the Warrior of Man was in that buried temple.

Still, he wasn’t buying it.

Jordan, mein Freund . . .

“I swear the voice that came out of the
strigoi
was Leopold’s,” he said.

“That’s impossible,” Erin muttered, but she had witnessed enough of the impossible to be unsure now.

“I know how it sounds,” he said. “But I think Leopold was using that body like a mouthpiece.”

Erin remained silent, her gaze distant as she digested this information. “What sort of connection could there be between them to allow that to happen?”

Christian offered one theory. “Maybe when Leopold died, his spirit leaped into this other
strigoi
.”

Erin turned to him. “Has that ever happened before?”

Christian shrugged. “Not that I know, but since meeting the two of you, I’ve witnessed many things I thought would have been impossible.”

Erin nodded at the truth of his words. She eyed Jordan. “Was there anything else unusual about that
strigoi
, anything that might explain such a psychic link?”

“Besides being supersized in strength and speed?” he asked.

“Besides that.”

Jordan remembered one last detail. “Actually there was one other odd thing. He had a black mark on his chest.” He mimicked with his own palm. “It was shaped like a hand.”

Erin’s hunched shoulders grew straighter. “Like Bathory Darabont had?”

“That’s exactly like I thought. Some mark of ownership.”

“Or possession,” Erin added.

Christian looked concerned. “They must have finished with the autopsy on that body back in Vatican City. Perhaps by the time we’re back there, they’ll have some better explanation. Cardinal Bernard will likely know what to—”

Christian’s voice died away. Plainly he had momentarily forgotten that the cardinal was no longer in charge of the Sanguinists. He was now a prisoner.

Jordan shook his head. This was the worst time for the order to have a shake-up in leadership. “What will happen to Bernard?” he asked.

Christian sighed. “He will be taken back to Castel Gandolfo and placed on house arrest until he is ready to stand trial. Because he is a cardinal, a conclave of twelve other cardinals must be gathered to pass sentence. It might take a couple of weeks, especially with the increased
strigoi
attacks.”

“What are they likely to decide?” Erin asked.

“Cardinal Bernard is powerful,” Christian said. “Few will want to speak against him. Because of that—and the fact that there are mitigating circumstances—penance will likely be assigned.”

“What kind of penance?” Jordan asked.

“He committed a grievous sin. Normally a death sentence would be warranted. But the order can also choose to forgive him. Sophia told me that the cardinal has broken our laws in the past, feeding on human enemies during the Crusades.”

“The Crusades?” Erin’s voice rose in pitch. “That was over a
thousand
years ago.”

“You guys have pretty long memories,” Jordan said.

“It is a difficult calling.” Christian fingered his rosary beads. “And if Countess Bathory has information that can aid you in the quest to reshackle Lucifer, the court may go easy on the cardinal.”

Erin looked down the length of the nave. “So Bernard’s life might depend on the countess surviving her transformation?”

“Seems fitting,” said Jordan.

“Fitting or not,” Christian said, “I’m sure we’ll know her fate soon enough.”

Jordan imagined Bernard was resting no easier this night.

Serves him right
.

5:58
A
.
M
.

With both arms shackled in front of him, Bernard braced his legs as best he could against the roll of the boat. The silver manacles seared his wrists each time he moved, filling the dark hold with the smell of his own charred flesh.

I have been imprisoned like a common thief
.

And he knew whom to blame for his current state: Cardinal Mario. The cardinal of Venice had always loathed Bernard, mostly because Bernard thwarted his centuries-long campaign to move the center of the Sanguinist order to this decadent city of canals. This harsh trip in the dark hold was the payment for that sin.

Still, this was but an annoyance. Bernard had no illusions of what was to come. While he didn’t know what his exact punishment would be for this greater sin, he would be toppled from his lofty post, falling so far that he could not even guess where the bottom might land. He would certainly be stripped of his title.

Death would be a simpler option.

He bowed his head. He had served the Order of the Sanguines for nearly a thousand years. Few Sanguinists of his age remained. In all that time, he had never been tempted to retreat to the Sanctuary, to become one of the Cloistered Ones. That was not a path for him or his ambitions.