Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  A train whistle sounded, and the doors rumbled ponderously apart, sliding into the brick wall. This gate marked the border between Vatican City and Rome.

  Passing beneath that archway under a head of steam, the train picked up speed and headed out into Rome. The train pulled through the city, like any ordinary train—only theirs had a mere three cars: the galley in front, the dining car in the middle, and a third compartment in back. The last car looked similar to the others from the outside, but its curtains had been drawn, and a solid metal door separated that car from hers.

  As she looked at that door now, she tried to ignore the tightening dread in her stomach.

  What was back there?

  “Ah,” Brother Leopold exclaimed, drawing her attention. “As promised . . . breakfast.”

  From the galley, a new figure emerged, as familiar as Leopold, if not as welcome.

  Father Ambrose—aide to Cardinal Bernard—stepped from the galley car with a tray of omelets, brioche, butter, and jam. The priest’s round face looked even redder than usual, damp with sweat or perhaps from the steam of the galley kitchen. He didn’t look happy with his role as waiter.

  “Good morning, Father Ambrose,” Erin said. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

  She did her best to make that sound genuine.

  Ambrose didn’t even bother. “Dr. Granger, Sergeant Stone,” he said perfunctorily, inclining his head fractionally toward each of them.

  The priest unloaded the food and returned to the galley car.

  Clearly, he wasn’t interested in conversation.

  She wondered if his presence indicated that Cardinal Bernard was already on board. She glanced again to that steel door leading to the neighboring compartment.

  Next to her, Jordan simply tore into his omelet, as if he might not see food again for days—which, considering their past experiences with the Sanguinists, could be true.

  Following his example, she spread jam onto a slice of brioche.

  Christian watched all the while, looking envious.

  By the time their plates were empty, the train had threaded out of Rome and appeared to be heading south of the city.

  Jordan’s hand again found hers under the table. She stroked her fingertips along his palm, liking the smile it provoked. As much as the thought of a relationship scared her, for him she was ready to take the risk.

  But a certain awkwardness remained between them. No matter how hard she tried not to, her thoughts often returned to the moment when Rhun had bitten her. No mortal man had ever made her feel like that. But the act had meant nothing, a mere necessity. She wondered if that bone-deep bliss was a trick of the strigoi to disable their victims, to turn them weak and helpless.

  Her fingers inadvertently found themselves touching the scars on her neck.

  She wanted to ask someone about it. But who? Certainly not Jordan. She considered asking Christian, to inquire what it had been like for him when he was first bitten. Back at the diner in San Francisco, he had seemed to sense her thoughts, but she had balked at discussing such an erotic experience with any man, especially a priest.

  Still, not all her hesitation was embarrassment.

  She knew a part of her didn’t want to know the truth.

  What if the feeling of connectedness that she had experienced wasn’t just a mechanism to quiet prey? What if it was something else?

  10:47 A.M.

  Rhun awoke to a feeling of dread and panic. His arms flailed up and to the side, expecting to feel stone walls enclosed around him.

  His memories filled back in.

  He was free.

  As he listened to the clack of steel wheels on tracks, he remembered the battle at the edge of the Holy City. He had suffered some minor wounds, but worst of all, the battle had drained the last dregs of his strength, returning him to a weakened state. Cardinal Bernard had insisted he rest while they waited for the arrival of Erin and Jordan.

  Even now he could hear the thump of human hearts, the timpani of their beats as familiar to his keen ears as any song. He ran his palms over his body. He wore a dry set of robes, the reek of old wine gone. He eased himself upright, testing each vertebra as he did so.

  “Careful, my son,” Bernard said out of the darkness of the train car. “You are not yet restored to your full health.”

  As Rhun’s eyes adjusted and focused, he recognized the papal sleeping car, outfitted with the double bed upon which he had slept. There was also a small desk and a pair of silk chairs flanking a couch.

  He spotted a familiar figure standing behind Bernard at his bedside. She wore tailored leather armor and a silver chain belt. Her black hair had been braided back from the stern lines of her dark face.

  “Nadia?” he croaked out.

  When had she arrived?

  “Welcome back to the living,” Nadia said with a sly smile. “Or as close to living as any Sanguinist can claim.”

  Rhun touched his brow. “How long—?”

  He was interrupted by the final figure in the room. She lounged on the couch, one leg stretched up, outfitted with a splint. He remembered her limping flight down the cobblestone street toward the Holy City.

  “Helló, az én szeretett,” Elisabeta said, speaking Hungarian, every syllable as familiar as if he had heard them only yesterday, instead of hundreds of years before.

  Hello, my beloved.

  There was no warmth in her words, only disdain.

  Elisabeta switched to Italian, though her dialect was old, too. “I trust you did not find your brief time in my prison too burdensome. But then again, you took my life, you destroyed my soul, and then you stole four hundred years from me.” Her silver eyes glared out of the darkness at him. “So I doubt you’ve been punished quite enough.”

  Every word cut him with its truth. He had done all that to her, a woman he had once loved—still loved, if perhaps only the memory of her former self. He reached for his pectoral cross, found a new one hung around his neck, and prayed for forgiveness for those sins.

  “Has Christ been much comfort to you these last hundreds of years?” she asked. “You look no happier than you did in my castle centuries ago.”

  “It is my duty to serve Him, as always.”

  One side of her mouth lifted in a half smile. “You give me the politic answer, Father Korza, yet did we not once promise to speak truth to each other? Do you not owe me at least so much?”

  He owed her much more.

  Nadia glared at Elisabeta with undisguised rage. “Do not forget that she left you in that coffin to suffer and die. Or all the women she killed on the streets of Rome.”

  “It is her nature now,” he said.

  And I made her so.

  He had perverted her from healer to killer. All her crimes rested on his conscience—both in the past and now.

  “We can control our natures,” Nadia countered, touching the delicate silver cross at her neck. “I control mine every day. So do you. She is fully capable of doing the same, but she chooses not to.”

  “I will never change,” Elisabeta promised. “You should have just killed me at my castle.”

  “So I was ordered,” he told her. “It was mercy that hid you away.”

  “I trust little in your mercy.”

  She shifted in her seat, lifting clasped hands to brush a lock of hair from her forehead before settling them again in her lap. He saw she wore handcuffs.

  “Enough.” Bernard gestured to Nadia.

  She stepped closer to the sofa and pulled Elisabeta none too gently to her feet. Nadia kept firm hold of her. She would not underestimate Elisabeta as he had when he took her from the wine.

  The countess only smiled, baring her handcuffs toward Rhun.

  “Shackled like an animal,” she said. “That is what your love has brought me.”

  10:55 A.M.

  Leopold started at one end of the dining car and worked his way to the other. He did what he was ordered to do, closing each set of curtains, pulling the pan
els tightly together until no scrap of sunlight came through.

  The car grew dark, the only illumination coming from the electric lights mounted on the ceiling. He paused outside the door to the last car.

  The two humans’ hearts beat louder. He smelled the anxiety rising from them like steam. A twinge of pity flickered through him.

  “What are you doing?” Erin asked, but she was no fool. From the way she glanced from the steel door to the closed windows, she must already sense that something dangerous was about to be brought in here.

  “You are perfectly safe,” Leopold assured her.

  “To hell with that,” Jordan swore.

  The soldier reached across Erin to the curtain next to her and yanked it back open. Sunlight poured into the room, bathing her.

  Leopold stared at Erin in the middle of the pool of sunlight, trying to decide whether to return and secure the curtain. But from Jordan’s expression, he decided against it. Instead, he rapped on the thick steel door, alerting those inside that all was ready.

  Christian stood, as if readying for battle, and placed himself between Erin and the door, standing half in shadow, half in light.

  The door opened, and Cardinal Bernard stepped first into the car, wearing his full scarlet vestments. His eyes moved from Erin to Jordan. “First, let me apologize for such clandestine measures, but after all that has occurred—both here and in California—I thought it wiser to be cautious.”

  Neither of the two humans seemed overly satisfied by this explanation, plainly suspicious, but they politely remained silent.

  That awkward tableau was interrupted as the galley door on the other side of the car opened, and Father Ambrose appeared. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and stepped inside, uninvited. He must have heard Bernard’s voice and come to offer assistance to the cardinal—and to eavesdrop on the discussion.

  Bernard strode across the car. The cardinal took Erin’s hand in both of his own, then Jordan’s. “You both look well.”

  “As do you.” Erin tried to smile, but Leopold could read the worry from her face. “Is there any news on Rhun’s whereabouts?”

  Hope rang there. She genuinely cared for Rhun.

  Leopold hardened his heart against the rising guilt inside him. He liked these two humans, cherished their vitality and intelligence, but he reminded himself for the thousandth time that his betrayal served a higher purpose. This knowledge did not make his traitorous acts any easier.

  “I’ll explain all in good time,” Bernard promised them. His eyes turned to his assistant. “That will be all, Father Ambrose.”

  With a peeved sigh, his assistant retreated back into the galley, but Leopold had no doubt that the spidery priest had an ear close to that door, hanging on their every word. He was not about to be left out in the dark.

  Then again, neither am I.

  He remembered his promise to the Damnatus, felt again the touch of the dire moth on his shoulder, the flutter of its wing against his neck.

  I must not fail him.

  13

  December 19, 11:04 A.M. CET

  South of Rome, Italy

  Once Father Ambrose was gone, Cardinal Bernard signaled to the shadows beyond the open steel door.

  Erin tensed, her fingers tightening on Jordan’s hand. She was suddenly very happy Jordan had yanked the curtains open. Still, despite the streaming sunlight, she felt chilled.

  From out of the darkness a black-clad priest stepped into the bright car. He was skeletally thin, a gaunt pale hand held the edge of his hood against the glare. He moved in halting steps, but there remained a certain grace about him, a familiarity in his movements.

  Then he dropped his hand and revealed his face. Lanky black hair hung over dark, sunken eyes. His skin was pulled tight across broad cheekbones, and his lips looked thin, bloodless.

  She remembered kissing those lips when they had been fuller.

  “Rhun . . .”

  Shock pulled her to her feet. He looked as if he had aged years.

  Jordan rose and kept to her side.

  Rhun waved them all back to their seats. He then hobbled, assisted by Bernard, and fell heavily into the vacant chair next to Christian. Erin noted he kept out of the worst of the bright light. While Sanguinists could tolerate sunlight, it weakened them, and clearly Rhun had few reserves to spare.

  From across the table, familiar eyes locked onto hers. She read exhaustion there, along with a measure of regret.

  Rhun spoke softly. “I understand from Cardinal Bernard that we have come to share a blood bond. I apologize for any suffering that might have caused you.”

  “It’s fine, Rhun,” she said. “I’m fine. But you . . .”

  His pale lips lifted into a ghostly attempt at a smile. “I have felt more vigorous than I do now, but with Christ’s help, I will recover my full strength soon.”

  Jordan took her hand atop the table, making his claim on her clear. He glared at Rhun, showing no sympathy. Instead, he turned to Bernard, who stood beside the table.

  “Cardinal, if you knew Rhun was missing for so many weeks, why did you wait so long before reaching out to us? You could have called before he got into this sorry state.”

  The cardinal folded his gloved fingers together. “Until a few hours ago, I did not know of the dark act committed against Dr. Granger in the tunnels below St. Peter’s. I could not know of any bond between him and Erin. But Rhun’s actions have offered hope for the world.”

  Rhun dropped his gaze to the table, looking mortified.

  What was the cardinal talking about?

  Bernard lifted his arms to encompass the train. “With all who are gathered here—the prophesied trio—we can now seek the First Angel.”

  Jordan glanced around the table. “In other words, the band’s back together again. The Knight of Christ, the Warrior of Man, and the Woman of Learning.”

  At the mention of the last of that trio, he squeezed Erin’s fingers.

  She slipped her hand free. “Not necessarily,” she reminded everyone.

  She heard that pistol blast again in her head, pictured Bathory Darabont collapsing in that tunnel. I murdered the last of the Bathory line.

  Rhun stared at her. “The three of us have accomplished much.”

  In this, Jordan seemed to agree. “Damned straight.”

  They might be right, but it was the damned part that worried her.

  11:15 A.M.

  The train slowed and changed tracks, continuing its journey south.

  Jordan glanced out the window, trying to guess their destination. Bernard had still not told them. Instead, the cardinal had vanished again into the rear car, leaving them to their own thoughts, to digest all that had happened.

  It was a big meal.

  A clink of metal drew his attention back to that dark doorway. Bernard emerged again, with two women in tow.

  The first was tall, a dark-haired and dark-eyed Sanguinist. He immediately recognized Nadia. He eyeballed her leather armor and the length of silver belted at her waist. The latter was a chain whip, a weapon the woman was extremely skilled at wielding. She also had a long blade strapped to her side.

  The phrase dressed to kill came to mind.

  Nadia’s attention stayed focused on the second woman.

  Not a good sign.

  The stranger was shorter than Erin, with short curly ebony hair. She wore jeans and boots, the right one torn, exposing a splint on that leg, plainly a recent injury. Over her clothes, she shouldered an old-fashioned heavy cloak that seemed to weigh her down. Her tiny hands were folded demurely in front of her, and it took Jordan a second more to see that she wore handcuffs.

  In one gloved hand, Nadia held a thick chain tethered to those handcuffs.

  They weren’t taking any chances with this one.

  Why was this woman so dangerous?

  As the prisoner limped closer, Jordan saw her face. His jaw clenched to keep from gasping in surprise.

  Silvery eyes met his. He studied
the shape of those perfectly formed lips, the high cheekbones, the curly fall of her locks. If he changed the hue of her hair to a fiery red, she would be the spitting image of Bathory Darabont, the woman Erin had killed in the tunnel below Rome.

  Erin had stiffened next to him, also recognizing the obvious family resemblance.

  “You found another from the line of Bathory,” Erin said.

  “Yes,” the cardinal said.

  Jordan inwardly groaned. Like the last one hadn’t been trouble enough.

  “And she is strigoi,” Erin added.

  Jordan flinched in surprise, suddenly understanding the need for the heavy guard, the drawn shades. He should have recognized this fact himself.

  The woman fixed Erin with a cold, dismissive stare, then turned to the cardinal. She spoke to him in Latin, but her accent sounded Slavic, very much like Rhun’s when he got angry.

  Jordan looked at the prisoner with new eyes, appraising the threat level, calculating contingencies if this monster broke free from her handlers.

  Once the woman had finished, Bernard said, “It’s better if you speak English. Matters will go much more smoothly.”

  She shrugged, turned to Rhun, and spoke in English. “You already look much refreshed, my love.”

  My love? What did that mean?

  As a priest, Rhun wasn’t supposed to take lovers.

  She sniffed curtly at Erin and Jordan, as if they had both crawled out of some gutter. “It seems such low company suits you well.”

  Rhun gave no indication that he had heard her.

  Cardinal Bernard stepped forward and made a formal introduction. “This is Countess Elizabeth Bathory de Ecsed, widow of the Count Ferenc Nádasdy Bathory de Nádasd et Fogarasföld.”

  Erin gasped, drawing Jordan’s eye, but she simply kept staring at the woman.

  In turn, the cardinal introduced both of them to the countess. Fortunately their titles were much shorter. “Allow me to present Dr. Erin Granger and Sergeant Jordan Stone.”