Blood Infernal: The Order of the Sanguines Series (22 page)

As he kept vigil, rooted inside Leopold, he searched out other eyes, those whom he had enslaved with the touch of his hand. Through those distant branches, those other eyes, he saw a hundred other views, from places that were yet in darkness:

. . . a torn throat of a young girl, pouring crimson over black tar streets . . .

. . . the wet terrified eyes of a man in a metal box anticipating his death at the sharp teeth of a beast of the night . . .

. . . another stalks a dark wood, circling a couple entangled together and oblivious to all but their own lusts . . .

At any moment, he could do more than just see. He could pull his awareness fully into one of those slaves, taking possession of its limbs and body. But he remained where he was, planted firmly in this vessel, his foothold in his world. He searched yet again through the memories cast out by that small flame flickering in the enormity of his darkness.

Leopold had recognized the sanctified stronghold across the square.

And now I know it, too
.

St. Mark’s Basilica.

Legion had come here from Rome, brought by a trembling Sanguinist priest who listened behind the door of one called Cardinal Bernard. From those ears, he had learned that the trio of prophecy would gather here. Though he wanted to know what transpired within those holy walls, he dared not trespass himself.

Not only was that ground sacred, but the day’s fierce sun threatened to burn him to ash. He had brought nothing with which to cloak himself. Even in the shadows, the sunlight tingled against his skin. The sun would soon chase him into a nearby house or perhaps deep below the sea that fed the canals.

I can rest under the cool green water during the heat of the day
.

The temptation called to him, to experience that beauty: the sparkle of flitting fish, the dance of emerald veils of seaweed. He wanted to revel within it, to be part of it.

But not yet.

Instead, he must linger in this city of foul canals, a patchwork of human depravity and holiness. The trio he hunted had sought sanctuary here. And despite Leopold’s attempts to hide knowledge of them, Legion had slowly gleaned more.

Two of the trio were, of course, mortal.

The
Warrior
and the
Woman
.

But the third—the
Knight
named Rhun Korza—had arrived later than the others. He was a Sanguinist, like Leopold, which meant he was corruptible. Legion was capable of touching that darkness inside the Knight with his own shadows.

Marking him, binding him to my will.

Sadly, it was something he could not do with the Warrior or the Woman, who held no such darkness inside, but Legion only needed the Knight.

Korza would be his way into the trio, his way to destroy the prophecy from within.

A heavy door slammed across the square, drawing his attention.

A troop of silent-hearted Sanguinists poured out of that holiness and into the open square. Legion searched their faces, breathing deeply of the smoke cast out by Leopold’s flame. Leopold knew many of them by name and habit.

But his gaze fixed to one in the center, standing with the Warrior and the Woman.

Rhun Korza.

Once he bows to me, we will purge his world, returning it to a paradise
.

But his prey stayed ever in the light, frustratingly so. With no other recourse, Legion followed them along the narrow streets of Venice, keeping to the shadows. Through passing doors, he heard the heartbeats of those going about their dreary human lives—but one heart drew his attention more fully.

The Warrior should already be dead. Legion remembered possessing the
strigoi
who had attacked the man: the thrust of the blade into this one’s soft belly, the heavy pour of hot blood against his cold hands.

But the Warrior’s heart still beat.

Closer now, Legion recognized a foreign note to its rhythm, as if the trumpeting of a great horn echoed behind those stolid beats.

It was a mystery, but one that would have to wait.

The others had reached their destination, hurrying during this last stretch under the merciless sun.

I have no more time
.

The others rushed into a building, one smelling of oil, as much of this world does now. A bladed machine rested on the roof. Leopold knew this device.

. . . a helicopter, for flying like a bumble bee . . .

A trickle of awe filled Legion at the mastery of these mortals over their limited world. Man had conquered much in the centuries that Legion had been imprisoned.

Even the skies.

Knowing this, Legion struggled with how he could continue his hunt. The helicopter would soon fly into the sun of a new day, bearing away the trio. He must know where they were headed.

Already those blades had begun to turn.

From the building below, a smaller group of Sanguinists exited. It was the escort who had guarded the trio’s passage through the city, preparing to return to their holy roosts. Most headed back from whence they had come, back toward the basilica, but one figure split away, heading another direction.

Her path took her along a canal, whose closest bank still lay in deep shadows.

He quickly circled through other patches of darkness to trail her.

As he ran, he listened to the city, to its shouts and laughter, the growl of its engines, the hammering of its construction. He heard little of the natural world here. No birdsong, no brush of wind through leaves. Mankind had taken over this island—as they had much of this modern world—and tamed it for their uses, destroying the wild gardens, killing the creatures that lived in harmony there.

While God might tolerate such ruin to his creation, I will not
.

To that end, he closed in on the swish of cloth as his target continued along the canal, oblivious to the hunter behind her.

He pulled her name from Leopold and spoke it aloud.

“Sister Abigail . . .”

The Sanguinist turned toward him. Her hair was as gray as stone, pulled away from a fretful face. She was plainly irritated, and her anger made her react too slowly. As horror widened her eyes, reflecting back his dark countenance, he was upon her.

He lunged out and touched her cheek, branding his mark into her flesh.

She immediately sagged against him. He caught her, embraced her. As he held her, he flipped through her memories like a book.

. . . walking the wet streets of London holding a hand above her head. Mother . . .

. . . standing before a simple white gravestone. Father . . .

. . . joyful people dancing in the streets. The Great War has ended, but so many lost. So many wild fields bombed into stripes of death . . .

. . . giant stones falling from the sky. Bombs. Another war, greater even than the last. Weapons that can annihilate everything that man was given . . .

. . . a man with eyes the color of thunderclouds and cold skin. He takes her blood and offers his in return . . .

. . . a battlefield of mud. Brown eyes, slanted at the corners. Bombs falling, destroying good and evil alike. Another war, Korea, and she hunts with the man with the storm-cloud eyes . . .

. . . a choice given by a woman wearing a cross. Repent or die. Wine burning against her lips . . .

Legion took in the nun’s life, breathing it all in, but her past held little interest. He pushed aside those memories and searched for fresher ones.

. . . The face of a woman appears. She has curls of black, eyes of silver gray. She is beautiful, and the cold form of Abigail hates her . . .

Legion extracted her name.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory
.

She was of no use to Legion. Losing patience, he concentrated instead on a single purpose, focusing it into the woman he embraced.

Where are they going?

Abigail’s lips moved, already close to his ear. “They head to Prague.”

Legion shivered at that name, a place tied to his own history, where he had been first imprisoned. It seemed as much as he hunted the trio, they were closing in on his past.

He drew his intention into a single word.

Why?

Quiet words reached his ear. “They search for the journals of John Dee.”

This time, his own memories overwhelmed him.

. . . The man with a beard as white as milk and clever dark eyes . . .

. . . those eyes smile at me on the other side of the green flame. He is my jailer . . .

. . . I burn with pain and hatred . . .

He shoved Abigail away from him, holding her at arm’s length, his mark emblazoned on her cheek. He now knew where he must go.

To Prague.

He already had slaves nearby and would gather them toward that old city, but he intended to go there himself. Abigail could travel in the daylight, and she could help him do the same.

In that city, he would avenge his past, protect his future
. . . and destroy the hopes of all mankind
.

THIRD

For wickedness burneth as the fire: it shall devour the briers and thorns, and shall kindle in the thickets of the forest, and they shall mount up like the lifting up of smoke.

—Isaiah 9:18

March 18, 2:40
P
.
M
.
CET

Airborne over the Czech Republic

Seated at the back of the helicopter, Elizabeth held on to her safety harness with both hands. Rivers, trees, and towns had passed under their tiny aircraft with dizzying speed. Her window showed a toy world, and she was the child who looked down upon it, ready to play.

Within her blood, burning wine pushed against the dark strength. Still, she felt whole again,
right
for the first time in months.

This is who I am, who I am supposed to be
.

Perhaps she could even forgive Rhun for all that he had cost her, because he had showed her the way here, led her to this moment.

Throughout the flight from Venice, Rhun cast long looks at her, as if he expected her to disappear. Across the cabin, Erin and Jordan had drifted off to sleep quickly, while Sophia and Christian sat together in the cockpit, piloting their craft along never-ending rivers of air.

This was an amazing time to be alive.

And I will drink it all in
.

She searched the lands rolling ahead, knowing they would soon be in Prague. She wondered if she would recognize it or if it would be foreign to her, as so much of Rome had been. In truth, she did not care. She would learn and adapt, flow through the changes to come for all eternity.

But not alone.

She pictured Tommy’s small face. In the past, he had taught her much about these modern times. In turn, she would teach him the wonders of the night, of the pleasures of blood, of the march of years that would never touch them again.

She smiled.

Who needs the sun with a future so bright?

The radio crackled in the headphones she wore. Christian’s voice woke the others, stirring Rhun straighter. “We’re coming into Prague.”

Rhun noted the smile still on her face and matched it with one of his own. “You look well.”

“I am well . . . so very well.”

Rhun’s dark eyes were happy and kind. It would pain him when she abandoned the order. She was surprised to discover how much that thought bothered her.

She turned her eyes back to the window. Their helicopter skated over modern structures of glass and ugly buildings, but farther ahead, she recognized an older section of the city with red tile roofs and twisted narrow streets.

As the helicopter followed the flow of the wide Vltava River, she recognized the brick bridge that forded it, spanning the water in a row of majestic arches. She was happy to see not all had changed. It seemed Prague still retained many of its towers and landmarks.