Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  The brief smell of dry grass was quickly scorched away by the bitter, chalky smell of explosives, the scratch of charcoal, and the unmistakable odor of burnt human flesh.

  The train had exploded.

  Someone, maybe everyone, had died.

  In his arms, Erin gasped and coughed.

  She yet lived—and that made him far happier than it should.

  He ran his hands across her body, feeling for broken bones, for blood. He found scrapes, a few cuts, and bruises. Nothing more. His fingers entwined with hers, seeking to reassure her, feeling the shock draining the heat of her body.

  He pulled her tighter to him, sheltering her.

  Only then did he turn back to face the disaster spread out across the fields.

  Chunks of soot-streaked metal pierced the yellow grass, littered the railroad tracks, and scattered across the smoldering fields. Pieces of the black steam engine had been blown from the track. The boiler lay a hundred yards ahead, a hole torn in its metal belly gaping at the sky.

  Patches of fire ate the fields, as broken glass rained from the sky, like so much crystalline hail, all mixed with blood. He remembered the biblical quote from Revelation: There followed hail and fire mingled with blood, and they were cast upon the earth.

  Was he witnessing that now?

  Dust and smoke roiled up from the tracks. A chunk of steel had landed mere feet away, steam hissing where its hot surface touched wet grass.

  A high-pitched bell rang without pause in his ears. With one hand, he brushed glass from his robes and pulled pieces from his other arm. Still cradling Erin, he searched around him, but nothing moved.

  What had become of the others?

  He touched his rosary and prayed for their safety.

  He finally untangled himself from Erin. She sat in the grass, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her limbs were streaked with mud and blood. She pushed hair back from her forehead. Her face was clean, protected as it was while he held her against his body.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, knowing he spoke loudly past the ringing of his ears.

  She trembled, and he longed to take her in his arms again and quiet her, but the fragrance of blood wafted from her body, and he did not dare.

  Instead, her amber eyes met his. He looked deeply into them for the first time since he had left her on the tunnel floor to die months before.

  Her lips formed a single word.

  Jordan.

  She struggled to her feet and stumbled toward the tracks. He followed in her wake, scanning the wreckage, wanting to be near her when she found him.

  He did not see how the soldier could have survived . . . how anyone could have survived.

  12:37 P.M.

  Elizabeth burned in the field, rolling in agony.

  Sunlight seared her vision, boiling her eyes. Smoke rose from her hands, her face. She curled into a ball, ducked her chin against her chest, her arms over her head, hoping they might protect her. Her hair crackled like an aura around her.

  A moment ago, the train car had exploded, bursting open with a thunderclap. She flew like a dark angel through the burning brightness. Both her hands gripped the silver chain that bound her to a useless scrap of metal. She caught a glimpse of another’s hands also clasped to the chain—then the sunlight blinded her, withering her eyesight.

  The mighty boom also stole her hearing, leaving behind a rushing sound inside her ears, as if the sea had torn into her skull and washed back and forth inside her head.

  She tried to worm deeper into the cool mud, to escape the sunlight.

  Then hands rolled her and threw darkness atop her, protecting her from the sun.

  She smelled the heavy wool of a cloak and cowered beneath this thin protection. The burn quickly ebbed into an ache, giving her the hope that she might yet live.

  A voice shouted near her head, piercing the sea roiling in her skull.

  “Are you alive?”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

  Who had saved her?

  It could only be Rhun.

  She ached for him, wanting to be held and comforted. She needed him to lead her through this pain to a future that did not burn.

  “I must go,” yelled the voice.

  As her head cleared, she now recognized that stern tone.

  Not Rhun.

  Nadia.

  She pictured those other hands clasped to her chain, guiding her fall, covering her. Nadia had risked her life to hold on to that chain and save her. But Elizabeth knew such efforts were born not out of concern or love.

  The Church still needed her.

  Safe for now, new fears rose.

  Where is Rhun? Did he yet live?

  “Stay here,” Nadia commanded.

  She obeyed—not that she had any choice otherwise. Escape remained impossible. Beyond the edges of her cloak lay only a burning death.

  She considered for a moment casting the cloak aside, ending this interminable existence. But instead, she curled tighter, intending to survive, wrapping herself as snugly in thoughts of revenge as in heavy wool.

  12:38 P.M.

  Erin stumbled across a field scarred by metal shrapnel from the train. Coughing on the oily smoke, her mind tried to sort it out, rolling the explosion backward in her head.

  The blast must have centered on the steam engine because the locomotive was nearly obliterated. Black pieces of steel stuck out of the field like ruined trees. But it wasn’t just scorched metal that littered the fields.

  A legless body lay by the tracks. She spotted an engineer’s cap.

  She hurried and crouched beside him, her knees pressing into stubbly grass.

  Sightless brown eyes stared at the smoky sky. A black-clad arm moved past her head and closed the dead man’s eyelids. The engineer hadn’t been involved in any prophecy. He’d just shown up to do an honest day’s work.

  Another innocent life.

  When will it ever end?

  She lifted her face to Rhun. The priest touched his cross to his lips, the blessed silver searing that tender flesh as he whispered prayers over the dead man.

  When he finished, she stood and walked on, drawing Rhun with her.

  Within a few yards she came upon the second crewman, also dead. He had light brown curly hair and freckles, a smudge of soot across his cheek. He looked too young to be working on a train. She thought about his life. Did he have a girlfriend, parents who were still alive? Who knew how far the ripples of grief would reach?

  She abandoned Rhun to his prayers, propelled by the urgency to find Jordan.

  Moving down the tracks, she came upon the remains of what she suspected was the galley car. A stove had shot through the air and landed in a crater. Leopold had been in that compartment. She looked for him, too, but found no trace.

  Continuing, she reached the ruins of the dining car. Although the front had peeled away, the back was intact. It had derailed and dug a deep furrow through the rich brown soil. A gold curtain flapped through a shattered window at the back.

  She pictured the moment before the blast. Rhun must have sensed the explosion. He had yanked her from Jordan’s arms and through that window.

  Rhun’s shadow fell across the earth beside her, but she didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, she searched inside the dining car, fearing to find a body, but needing to know.

  It was empty.

  Stepping away from the dining car, she looked over to the sleeper. The last car lay on its side, one side caved and split. To its right, she spotted movement through the smoke and ran toward it.

  She quickly recognized Cardinal Bernard, covered in soot. He knelt over a figure sprawled on the ground, bent in a sigil of grief. Standing vigil behind the cardinal, Christian gripped Bernard’s shoulder.

  She struggled across the wreckage to them, fearing the worst.

  Christian must have sensed her approach, turning his head, revealing a face covered in black blood. Shocked by the sight of him, she tripped and almost fell headlong.<
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  Rhun caught her and kept her going.

  Ahead, Bernard wept, his shoulders heaving up and down.

  It could not be Jordan.

  It could not be.

  She finally reached Christian, who sadly shook his head. She hurriedly stepped around the cardinal.

  The man on the ground was unrecognizable—soot smeared his face, his clothing had been burned away. Her eyes traveled from his smudged face, to his bare shoulders, to the silver cross he wore around his chest.

  Father Ambrose.

  Not Jordan.

  Bernard held both of the priest’s burnt hands in his own and gazed upon his lifeless face. She knew Ambrose had served the cardinal for many years. Despite the priest’s sour attitude to everyone else, he and the cardinal had been close. Months ago she had watched the man kneeling in the pope’s blood, trying to save the old man after his attack without a thought to his own safety. Ambrose might have been a bitter man, but he was also a staunch protector of the Church—and now he had given his life to that service.

  The cardinal raised his face. “I’ve called for a helicopter. You must find the others before the police and rescue workers arrive.”

  “We must also be wary of whoever blew up this train,” Christian added.

  “It could have been a simple, tragic accident,” Bernard corrected, already turning back to Ambrose.

  She left Bernard to his grief, tripping over smoking debris, walking around fires, her eyes scanning the scarred field. Christian and Rhun flanked her, moving with her, their heads swiveling from side to side. She hoped their keener senses could help her to discover any clue to Jordan’s fate.

  “Over here!” Christian called and dropped to his knees.

  On the ground in front of him, a familiar blond head.

  Jordan.

  Please, no . . .

  Fear immobilized her. Her breath caught, and her eyes watered. She tried to steady herself. When Rhun took her arm, she broke free of his grip and crossed the last few feet to Jordan on her own.

  He lay flat on his back. His dress blue uniform jacket lay in tatters, his white shirt under it torn to pieces.

  She fell to her knees next to him and grabbed his hand. With trembling fingers, she searched for his pulse. It beat steady under her fingertips. With her touch, he opened his clear blue eyes.

  She wept with relief and took his warm hand in hers.

  She held him, watching his chest rise and fall, so grateful to find him alive.

  Jordan’s gaze steadied and looked at her, his eyes mirroring her relief. She stroked his cheek, his forehead, reassuring herself that he was whole.

  “Hey, babe,” he mouthed. “You look great.”

  She put her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

  12:47 P.M.

  Rhun watched Erin cling to the soldier. Her first thought had been of Jordan, as it should have been. Likewise, Rhun had responsibilities as well.

  “Where is the countess?” he asked Christian.

  He shook his head. “When the car blew, I saw her and Nadia thrown outside.”

  Into the sunlight.

  Christian pointed beyond the main wreckage. “Their trajectory would have tossed them to the far side of the tracks.”

  Rhun glanced down to Erin and Jordan.

  “Go,” Erin said. She helped Jordan sit up and start gaining his feet unsteadily. “We’ll meet you back by Cardinal Bernard.”

  Freed of this responsibility, Rhun set off with Christian. The younger Sanguinist jogged across the field, jumping holes as lightly as a colt. He seemed unaffected by the explosion, while Rhun ached everywhere.

  Once beyond the tracks, Christian suddenly sped to the left, perhaps spotting something. Rhun struggled to catch up.

  Out of the pall of smoke, a tall figure dressed in black limped toward them.

  Nadia.

  Christian reached her first and hugged her tightly. He and Nadia had often served together on prior missions for the Church.

  Rhun finally joined them. “Elisabeta?”

  “The demon countess still lives.” Nadia pointed to a mound a few hundred yards away. “But she’s badly burned.”

  He hurried toward her cloaked body.

  Christian followed with Nadia, filling her in on the status of the team.

  “And what of Leopold?” Nadia asked.

  Christian’s face grew graver. “He was in the galley car, closer to the explosion.”

  “I will continue the search for him,” Nadia said. “You two can care for her majesty. Get her ready to go.”

  As Nadia trotted off into the smoke, Rhun crossed the last of the distance to Elisabeta. Nadia had covered Elisabeta with the countess’s traveling cloak. He knelt next to the mound, smelling charred flesh.

  Rhun touched the surface of the cloak. “Elisabeta?”

  A whimper answered him. Pity filled him. Elisabeta was legendary for her ability to withstand pain. For her to be reduced to this, her agony must be terrible.

  “She will need blood to heal,” Rhun told Christian.

  “I’m not offering up mine,” Christian said. “And you have none to spare.”

  Rhun leaned down to the cloak. He didn’t dare lift it to examine the extent of her injuries. Still, he slipped his hand under the cloak and found her hand. Despite the pain it must cause, she gripped his fingers, holding to him.

  I will get you to safety, he promised.

  He stared up at the midday skies, the crisp blue smudged by smoke.

  Where could they go?

  12:52 P.M.

  The helicopter came in fast and low and landed in an undamaged part of the field. The pilot cracked a window and waved to the group gathered at the edge of the wreckage.

  “That must be our ride,” Jordan said, recognizing the expensive helicopter, a twin to the one that had rescued them out of the desert of Masada all those months ago.

  Jordan took Erin’s hand, and together they navigated through the last of the rubble to the helicopter. He was shaky on his feet, but Erin seemed mostly fine. He recalled the blur as Rhun had torn Erin from his grasp and crashed through the window when the train exploded.

  Rhun’s quick reaction had likely saved her life.

  Perhaps he should forgive the Sanguinist priest for his prior actions, for feeding and leaving Erin to die in the tunnels under Rome, but he still couldn’t muster up enough goodwill to do so.

  Ahead, the rotors kicked up dust and pieces of grass. The pilot wore the familiar midnight-blue uniform of the Swiss Guard and gestured to the back, indicating they should climb in.

  Erin clambered aboard first and reached a hand down to Jordan.

  Forgoing pride, he took it and allowed her to help him inside.

  Once buckled in, he glanced out the open door toward the other Sanguinists. Swirling dust obscured all but the approaching forms of Christian and Rhun. Slung between them, they hauled a ragged black bundle, fully covered in a cloak.

  The countess.

  Bernard followed next out of the dust behind them. He carried Father Ambrose’s body. Behind him, Nadia trailed.

  Christian and Rhun climbed inside. Once seated, Rhun took possession of Bathory’s form, cradling her on his lap, her draped head resting on his shoulder.

  “No sign of Leopold?” Jordan asked Christian.

  The young Sanguinist shook his head.

  Bernard arrived and held out his bundle. Christian took it, and together the two strapped Ambrose’s body to a stretcher, their movements quick and efficient, as if they had done this a thousand times before.

  And they probably had.

  The cardinal stepped back from the helicopter, allowing Nadia to board. She tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed her thumb up to indicate that he should take off.

  As planned, Bernard would remain behind to explain everything to the police, to put a public face on this tragedy. It would be a tough job, especially as he was clearly still grieving.

  The r
otors sped up with a roar of the engine, and the helicopter lifted.

  Once high enough, it swept over the carnage.

  Faces pressed to the windows, everyone searched below and came to the sad and inevitable conclusion.

  Brother Leopold was gone.

  17

  December 19, 1:04 P.M. CET

  Castel Gandolfo, Italy

  Erin gripped Jordan’s arm as the helicopter sped toward a quaint stone village nestled among pines and olive groves next to a large lake. Its cobalt waters reminded her of Lake Tahoe, stirring a longing to be back in California—protected from all this death and chaos.

  Not that trouble couldn’t find me there, too.

  She remembered Blackjack, heard the screams of the blasphemare cat.

  She knew any lasting peace would escape her until this was over.

  But would it ever be truly over?

  The pilot aimed for the edge of the lush volcanic crater that overlooked the lake and the village square. Surmounting its stony crest like a crown sat a massive castle with red tile roofs, two leaden domes, and massive balconies. The grounds themselves were just as impressive, divided into private manicured gardens, contemplative fishponds, and tinkling fountains. Avenues were lined by pine trees or dotted with giant holm oaks. She even spotted the ruins of a Roman emperor’s villa.

  She had no trouble recognizing the pope’s summer residence.

  Castel Gandolfo.

  As their aircraft descended toward a neighboring helipad, she wondered about this destination. Had the residence always been their goal or was this simply a quick and convenient hideout after the explosion?

  Ultimately she didn’t care. They needed rest and a place to recuperate.

  Any port in a storm . . .

  She glanced at her fellow passengers, recognizing this truth. Jordan looked haggard under a mask of soot and grime. Nadia’s stern countenance was set, but shadowed with sadness. Christian still had traces of blood streaked in the creases of his face, making him look much older, or maybe it was just exhaustion.

  Across from her, Rhun hadn’t taken his eyes off the bundle in his arms, looking stricken and worried. He cradled Bathory’s cloaked head against his shoulder with one hand. The countess lay still as death in his arms.