Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  She thrashed under his hands, but in her weakened state, she was no match for his strength. Wine splashed over the sides. He forced her against the stone bottom, ignoring the fiery burn of the wine. He was glad he could not see her face, drowned under that red tide.

  He held her there—until at last, she lay quiet.

  She would now sleep until such a time as he could find a way to reverse what he had done, to return life to her dead heart.

  With tears in his eyes, he fitted the heavy stone lid in place and secured it with silver straps. Once done, he rested his cold palms against the marble and prayed for her soul.

  And his own.

  Slowly Rhun returned to himself. He remembered fully how he had come to be here, imprisoned in the same sarcophagus he had used to trap the countess centuries ago. He recalled returning to his sarcophagus, to where he had entombed the coffin inside a bricked-up vault far beneath Vatican City, hiding his secret from all eyes.

  He had come here upon the words of a prophecy.

  It seemed the countess still had a role to play in this world.

  Following the battle for the Blood Gospel, he had ventured alone to where he had buried his greatest sin. He had hammered through the bricks, broken the seals of the sarcophagus, and decanted her from this bath of ancient wine. He pictured her silver eyes opening for the first time in centuries, gazing into his. For that brief moment, he allowed his defenses to fall, slipping back to long-ago summers, to a time when he dared to believe that he could become more than what he was, that one such as he could love without destruction.

  In that lapse, he had failed to see the shattered brick clutched in her hand. He moved too slowly as she swung the hard rock with a hatred that spanned centuries—or perhaps he simply knew he deserved it.

  Then he awoke here, and now he finally knew the truth.

  She sentenced me to this same prison.

  While a part of him knew he deserved this fate, he knew he must escape.

  If for no other reason than that he had loosed this monster once again upon the unsuspecting world.

  Still, he pictured her as he once knew her, so full of life, always in sunlight. He had always called her Elisabeta, but history now christened her by another name, a darker epitaph.

  Elizabeth Bathory—the Blood Countess.

  2:22 A.M. CET

  Rome, Italy

  As befit her noble station, the apartment Elisabeta had chosen was luxurious. Thick red velvet drapes cloaked tall arched windows. The oak floor beneath her cold feet glowed a soft gold and breathed warmth. She settled into a leather chair, the hide finely tanned, with the comforting scent of the long dead animal under the chemical smell.

  On the mahogany table in front of her, a white taper sputtered, near to expiring. She held a fresh candle to its dying flame. Once the wick caught fire, she pressed the tall taper into the soft wax of the old one. She leaned close to the small flame, preferring firelight to the harsh glare that blazed in modern Rome.

  She had claimed these rooms after killing the former tenants. Afterward, she had ransacked drawers full of unfamiliar objects, trying to fathom this strange century, attempting to piece together a lost civilization by studying its artifacts.

  But her clues to this age were not all to be found in drawers.

  Across the table, candlelight flickered over uneven piles, each gathered from the pockets and bodies of her past kills. She turned her attention to a stack crowned by a silver cross. She reached toward it but kept her fingers from the fiery heat of the metal and the blessing it carried.

  She let a single fingertip caress the silver. It burned her, but she did not care—for another suffered far more because of its loss.

  She smiled, the pain drawing her into memory.

  Strong arms had lifted her from the coffin of wine, pulling her from her slumber, awakening her. Like any threatened beast, she had stayed limp, knowing stealth to be her best advantage.

  As her eyes opened, she recognized her benefactor as much from his white Roman collar as from his dark eyes and hard face.

  Father Rhun Korza.

  It was the same man who had tricked her into this coffin.

  But how long ago?

  As he held her, she let her arm fall to the ground. The back of her hand came to rest against a loose stone.

  She smiled up at him. He smiled back, love in his shining eyes.

  With unearthly speed, she smashed the stone against his temple. Her other hand slipped up his sleeve, where he always kept his silver knife. She palmed it before he dropped her. Another blow, and he fell.

  She quickly rolled atop him, her teeth seeking the cold flesh of his white throat. Once she pierced his skin, his fate lay at her mercy. It took strength to stop drinking before she killed him, patience to empty half the wine from the coffin before she sealed him inside it. But she must. Fully immersed in wine, he would merely sleep until rescued, as she had done.

  Instead, she had left only a little wine, knowing he would soon wake in his lonely tomb and slowly starve, as she had while imprisoned in her castle tower.

  Lifting her finger from his stolen cross, she allowed herself a moment of cold satisfaction. As she moved her arm, her fingers dragged over a battered shoe atop another pile.

  This tiny bit of leather marked her first kill in this new age.

  She savored that moment.

  As she fled the dark catacombs—blind to where she was, when she was—rough stones cut through the thin leather soles of her shoes and sliced her feet. She paid them no heed. She had this one chance of escape.

  She knew not where she ran to, but she recognized the feel of holy ground underfoot. It weakened her muscles and slowed her steps. Still, she felt more powerful than she ever had. Her time in the wine had strengthened her, how much she only dared to guess.

  Then the sound of a heartbeat had stopped her headlong flight through the dark tunnels.

  Human.

  The heart thrummed steady and calm. It had not yet sensed her presence. Faint with hunger, she rested her back against the tunnel wall. She licked her lips, tasting the Sanguinist’s bitter blood. She lusted to savor something sweeter, hotter.

  The flicker of a faraway candle lightened the darkness. She heard the pad of shoes drawing nearer.

  Then a name was called. “Rhun?”

  She flattened against the cold stone. So someone was searching for the priest.

  She crept forward and spotted a shadowy figure stepping around a far corner toward her. In one raised hand, he carried a candle in a holder, revealing the brown robes of a monk.

  Failing to see her, he continued forward, oblivious of the danger.

  Once close enough, she sprang forward and bore his warm body to the floor. Before the man could even gasp, her teeth found his luscious throat. Blood surged through her in wave after wave, strengthening her even more. She reveled in bliss, as she had every time since the first. She wanted to laugh amid this joy.

  Rhun would have her trade this power for scalding wine, for a life of servitude to his Church.

  Never.

  Spent, she released the human shell, her curious fingers lingering on the fabric of the robes. It did not feel like linen. She detected a slipperiness to it, like silk, but not like silk.

  A trickle of unease wormed through her.

  The candle had snuffed when the man fell, but the ember at the wick’s tip glowed dull red. She blew on it, brightening its color to a feeble orange.

  Under the dim light, she patted down the cooling body, repulsed again by the slippery feel of the fabric. She discovered a silver pectoral cross but abandoned its searing touch.

  She reached down his legs and pulled a shoe from one lifeless foot, sensing strangeness here, too. She held it near the light. The top was leather, scuffed and unremarkable, but the sole was made of a thick spongy substance. She had never seen its like. She pinched the material between her thumb and forefinger. It gave, then sprang back, like a young tree.
<
br />   She sat back on her haunches, thinking. Such a peculiar substance had not existed when Rhun had tricked her into the coffin of wine, but now it must be commonplace enough for a lowly monk to wear.

  She suddenly felt like screaming, sensing the breadth of the gulf that separated her from her past. She knew she had not slumbered for days, weeks, nor even months.

  But years, decades, perhaps centuries.

  She accepted this brutal truth, knowing one other.

  She must take extra care in this strange new world.

  And she had. Moving from the shoe, she picked up a white ball with a red star on it from the tabletop. Its surface felt like human skin, but smoother. It repulsed her, but she forced herself to hold it, to toss it in the air and catch it again.

  Upon leaving the catacombs, she had been so frightened.

  But soon others became frightened of her.

  She had crept through the tunnels, expecting more monks. But she had encountered none as she followed the whisper of distant heartbeats ever higher.

  Eventually she reached a thick wooden door and broke through it with ease—and stepped into unfettered air. It caressed her body, dried the wine on her dress, and carried with it the familiar smells of humans, of perfumes, of stone, of river. But also odors she had never scented before—acrid stinks she imagined only existed in an alchemist’s workshop. The stench drove her against the door, almost back across the threshold and into the shelter of the dark tunnels.

  The foreignness terrified her.

  But a countess never cowers, never shows fear.

  She straightened her back and stepped forward as a lady must, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes and ears alert to danger.

  As she moved away from the door, she immediately recognized the columns to either side, the massive dome rising to the left, even the obelisk in the plaza ahead. The Egyptian spire had been erected in the piazza the same year that her daughter Anna was born.

  She relaxed upon seeing all this, knowing where she was.

  St. Peter’s Square.

  Sardonic amusement warmed her.

  Rhun had hidden her under the Holy City.

  She kept to the edge of the piazza. Tall poles illuminated the square with a harsh, unnatural flame. The light hurt her eyes, so she shied away from it, staying near the colonnade that framed the plaza.

  A couple strolled past her.

  Ill at ease, she slipped behind a marble column. The woman wore breeches, like a man. Her short hair brushed the top of her shoulders, and her partner held her hand as they talked together.

  She had never seen a woman so tall.

  Hidden by the column, she studied other figures shifting out on the square. All brightly dressed, bundled in thick coats that looked finely made. Out on a neighboring street, strange wagons glided along, led by unnatural beams of light, pulled by no beasts.

  Shivering, she leaned against the column. This new world threatened to overwhelm her, to freeze her in place. She hung her head and forced herself to breathe. She must shut it all out and find one simple task . . . and perform that task.

  The reek of wine struck her nose. She touched her sodden garment. It would not do. She looked again out at the plaza, at the women in such strange garb. To escape from here, she must become a wolf in sheep’s clothing, for if they guessed what she was, her death would follow.

  No matter how many years had passed, that certainty had not changed.

  Her nails dug deep into her palms. She did not want to leave the familiar. She sensed that whatever lay beyond the plaza would be even more foreign to her than what lay inside.

  But she must go.

  A countess never shirked from her duty.

  And her duty was to survive.

  Sensing she had hours before dawn, she lowered herself into the shadows of the colonnade. She sat not breathing, not moving, as motionless as a statue, listening to chaotic human heartbeats, the words from many tongues, the frequent laughter.

  These people were so very different from the men and women of her time.

  Taller, louder, stronger, and well fed.

  The women fascinated her the most. They wore men’s clothing: pants and shirts. They walked unafraid. They spoke sharply to men without reprimand and acted as if they were their equals—not in the calculated way she had been forced to use in her time, but with an easy manner, as if this was commonplace and accepted.

  This era held promise.

  A young mother approached carelessly with a small child in tow. The woman hunched in a burgundy-colored woolen coat and wore riding boots, although by the smell of them they had never been near a horse.

  Small for a woman of this time, she was close to Elisabeta’s own size.

  The child dropped a white ball with a red star on it, and it rolled into the shadows, stopping a handsbreadth from Elisabeta’s tattered shoes. The ball smelled like the bottom of the priest’s shoes. The child refused to go after the plaything, as if sensing the beast hiding in the shadows.

  Her mother coaxed her in queer-sounding Italian, waving toward the forest of columns. Still, the little girl shook her head.

  Elisabeta ran her tongue across her sharp teeth, willing the mother to come in after the toy. She could take the woman’s life, steal her finery, and be gone before the motherless child could cry for help.

  From the shadows, she savored the child’s terrified heartbeats, listening as the mother’s tones grew more impatient.

  She waited for the proper moment in this strange time.

  Then sprang.

  Elisabeta lowered the ball to the table, sighing, losing interest in her trophies.

  Standing, she crossed over to the vast wardrobes in the bedroom, stuffed with silks, velvets, furs, all stolen from her victims these many weeks. Each night, she preened before the perfect silver mirrors and selected a new set of clothes to wear. Some of the garments were almost familiar, others as outlandish as a minstrel’s garb.

  Tonight she chose soft blue pants, a silk shirt that matched her silver eyes, and a pair of thin leather boots. She ran a comb through her thick black hair. She had cropped it to her shoulders, matching the style of a woman whom she had killed under a bridge.

  How very different she looked now. What would Anna, Katalin, and Paul say if they saw her? Her own children would not recognize her.

  Still, she reminded herself, I am Countess Elisabeta de Ecsed.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  No.

  “Elizabeth . . .” she whispered to her reflection, reminding herself that this was a new time and, to survive it, she must abide by its ways. So she would take on this more modern name, wear it like she wore her new hair and clothing. It was who she would become. She had played many roles since she had been betrothed to Ferenc at age eleven—an impulsive girl, a lonely wife, a scholar of languages, a skilled healer, a devoted mother—more roles than she could count. This was but another one.

  She turned slightly to judge her new self in the mirror. With short hair and wearing pants, she looked like a man. But she was no man, and she no longer envied men their strength and power.

  She had her own.

  She walked to the balcony windows and drew back the soft curtains. She gazed at the blaze of glorious man-made lights of the new Rome. The strangeness still terrified her, but she had mastered it enough to eat, to rest, to learn.

  She took strength in one feature of the city, the one rhythm that survived unchanged across the centuries. She closed her eyes and listened to a thousand heartbeats, ticking like a thousand clocks, letting her know, in the end, that the march of time mattered little.

  She knew what time it was, what time it always was for a predator such as she.

  She pushed open the balcony doors upon the night.

  It was time to hunt.

  6

  December 18, 5:34 P.M. PST

  Santa Clara County, California

  As twilight swept over the hills and meadows, Erin thundered down the la
st of the trail toward the stables. With no urging, Blackjack galloped at full speed into the yard.

  She kept one hand on the reins and the other on her pistol. As her gelding skidded and stuttered to a stop in the dusty yard, she twisted in her saddle. She pointed her weapon toward the black hills.

  While racing here, she had failed to spot the creature that had spooked her horse, but she had heard it. Sounds of branches cracking, of brush being trampled, had chased them out of the hills. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadowy hunter was playing with them, waiting for full night to attack.

  She wasn’t about to give it that chance.

  She trotted Blackjack past her old Land Rover, only to discover a new car—a black Lincoln town car—on its far side, parked a distance away. She passed closer to it on the way to the stables, spotting a familiar symbol on its door: two crossed keys and a triple crown.

  The papal seal.

  The fear inside her stoked higher.

  What is someone from the Vatican doing here?

  She searched and saw no one and urged Blackjack forward toward the stables. Once at the sliding doors of the barn, she reined in the horse. Coughing from the dust, she slid from the saddle and kept hold of both Blackjack’s lead and her pistol. Seeking answers as well as shelter, she hurried to the doors and reached for the handle.

  Before her fingers could touch it, the door slid open on its own. A hand burst out, grabbed her wrist in an iron grip, and hauled her across the threshold. Startled, she lost her grip on Blackjack’s lead, fighting just to keep her footing.

  Her attacker pulled her into the darkness of the stable, and the door slammed closed behind her, leaving her horse on the outside. Gaining her feet, she twisted to the side and kicked hard, her boot striking something soft.

  “Ow. Take it easy, Erin.”

  She immediately recognized the voice, though it made no sense. “Jordan?”

  Hands released her.

  A flashlight clicked, and a white glow illuminated Jordan’s face. Past the sergeant’s shoulder, she spotted Nate, safe but looking pale, his eyes too wide.