Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  She looked down at her hands. “I kept my knowledge of Lucifer’s pride hidden in my heart. I foresaw his coming rebellion, yet stayed silent.”

  Judas tried to fathom such an event. She had kept a prophecy concerning the War of the Heavens from God, and for that she was cast down.

  Arella raised her head and spoke again. “It was a just punishment. But unlike the Morning Star, I did not wish ill of mankind. I chose to use my exile to watch over God’s flock here, to continue to serve Heaven as I could.”

  “How do you serve Heaven?”

  “However I can.” She brushed a speck from her skirt. “My greatest act was during your age, when I protected the Christ child from harm, watching over him while he was but a babe, defenseless in this hard world.”

  Judas bowed his head in shame, reminded how he had failed to do the same when Jesus was older. Judas had betrayed not only the Son of God—but also his dearest friend. He felt again the weight of the leather bag of silver coins that the priests had given him, the warmth of Christ’s cheek under his lips when he kissed him to mark him to his executioner.

  Unable to keep the envy from his voice, he asked, “But how did you protect Christ? I do not understand.”

  “I came before Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem, shortly after Christ was born. I told them what I foresaw, of the coming slaughter of innocents by King Herod.”

  Judas gulped, knowing this story, recognizing anew who shared his boat.

  “You were the angel who told them to flee to Egypt.”

  “I also led them there, taking them to where their son could grow up sheltered from harm.”

  Judas now understood how very different she was from him.

  She had saved Jesus.

  Judas had killed him.

  His breathing grew heavier. He had to stand again, to move. He returned to slowly poling the gondola down the canal, trying to picture her life here on Earth, a stretch of time far longer than his brief span.

  He finally asked another question, one just as important to him. “How do you stand the time?”

  “I pass through it, just as you do.” Again, she touched the shard on her neck. “For time beyond measure, I have served mankind as a seer, a prophetess, an oracle.”

  He imagined her in this role, wearing the simple robes of a Delphic priestess, sharing words of prophecy. “Yet you do this no more?”

  She stared out across the dark waters. “I still see occasional glimpses of what is to come, of time rolling ahead of me as surely as it trails behind me. I cannot stand against these visions.” A line of sorrow appeared between her brows. “But I no longer share them. To know my prophecies has brought more suffering to mankind than pleasure, and so I keep such futures a secret.”

  The inn appeared through the mists. He steered his gondola toward the stone dock. Once he drew abreast of it, two men in livery hurried to secure the boat. One held out a gloved hand to the beautiful lady. Judas steadied her with a palm held against the small of her back.

  Then shadows fell out of the darkness above and landed on the dock, forming the shapes of men—but they were not men. He saw the sharp teeth, the pale, feral faces.

  Many times he had fought such creatures, and many times he had lost. Still, with his immortality, he always healed, and his tainted blood always destroyed them.

  He pulled Arella behind him in the boat, letting the beasts take the men from the hotel. He could not save them, but perhaps he might save her.

  He swung his pole like a club, while her beautiful hands fumbled with the ropes that secured them to the dock. Once free, he pushed the gondola away. It heeled to one side, then righted itself.

  But they were not fast enough.

  The creatures sprang across the water. It was an impossible leap for a man, but a simple one for such beasts.

  He yanked a dagger from the sheath in his boot and thrust it deep into the chest of the larger of the two. Cold blood washed across his hand, down his arm, and soaked into his fine white shirt.

  No man would have survived the blow, but this creature barely slowed, knocking his arm aside and pulling out the dagger from its own belly.

  Behind him, the second beast had Arella on her back and crawled across her soft body.

  “No,” she whispered. “Leave us be.”

  She pulled the silver shard from her throat and slashed its sharp edge across the creature’s neck.

  A scream ripped from its severed throat, followed by flames that quickly swept its cursed form. Entirely on fire, it leaped for the cool darkness of the canal, but only ash fell to the water, the body already completely consumed.

  Seeing this, the larger beast vaulted high, hit the neighboring bank, and bounded into the darkness of the city.

  Arella dipped the shard into the canal and dried it on her skirt.

  He scrutinized the sliver in her hands. “How?”

  “This is a piece of a sacred blade,” she explained and hung it around her neck again. “It kills any creature it pierces.”

  Judas’s heart quickened.

  Could it kill the unkillable—like him?

  Or her?

  Sorrow crossed her face as if she knew his thoughts, confirming what he had just imagined. She wore the instrument of her own destruction around her slender neck, a way to escape this prison of endless years. And from her expression, she must have been sorely tempted occasionally to use it.

  He understood that desire. For years uncounted, he had sought to end his life, enduring unspeakable pain in the attempts. And still he lived. The simple right of death was granted to all other creatures. Even the beasts they had fought here could simply walk into the sunlight and end their unholy existence.

  His gaze fell again on the silver shining between her breasts, knowing that the death he had sought for so long was close. He only had to take it.

  He reached out—and took her hand instead, drawing her up to him, to his lips.

  He kissed her, so very glad to be alive.

  Upon the Tiber, in the brightness of the midday sun, Judas thought back to that moment, to that kiss in the dark. Regret swelled inside him, knowing what would follow, that their relationship would end so badly.

  Perhaps I should have grabbed that shard and not her hand.

  He had never learned where she had obtained it, nor anything else about that sacred blade. But in the end, they each had their secrets to keep.

  He touched his breast pocket and removed an ice-cold stone roughly the size and shape of a deck of cards. It was made of a clear green crystal, like an emerald, but deep in its heart was a flaw, a vein of ebony black. He lifted the stone toward the sun, turning it this way and that. The black flaw shivered in the brightness, waning to a pinpoint, but still there. Once he returned the crystal to the shadows of his pocket, the flaw would grow again.

  Like a living thing.

  Only this mystery thrived in darkness, not light.

  He had found the stone during the years that followed after Arella, after he had discovered why he walked this long path on Earth. During that dark time of his life, he had lost himself to the study of alchemy, taught by the likes of Isaac Newton and Roger Bacon. He had learned much, including how to animate his clockwork creatures, how to manipulate the power found inside his blood.

  He had come upon the crystal while searching for the mythical philosopher’s stone, a substance said to grant eternal life. He had hoped it would offer a clue to his own immortality. He had unearthed the crystal from under the cornerstone of a ruined church.

  In the end, it wasn’t the philosopher’s stone—but something far more powerful, tied to death not immortal life. He rubbed his thumb across the mark carved on the underside of the stone. After years studying both this symbol and the stone, he knew many of its secrets—but not all.

  Still, he knew in the right hands this simple green stone could upset the balance of life on Earth. For centuries, he had waited for the right time to release its evil into the world, to accomplish
what he had been put on Earth to do.

  He pocketed the stone and stared up at the sun.

  At last, it was now time.

  But first he needed to secure two angels.

  One from the past, one from the present.

  21

  December 19, 1:48 P.M.

  The Arctic Ocean

  Far above the deck of the icebreaker, Tommy gripped the metal cross braces of a red crane, holding tightly with his thick gloves. He had no fear of death, knowing a plunge to the hard steel below wouldn’t kill him—but he could do without the pain of a shattered back, pelvis, and skull.

  Instead, he carefully pulled himself higher.

  His captors let him climb whenever he wanted.

  They also had no fear of Tommy’s death—or escape.

  He worked his way around to the back of the crane. Even with the biting wind, he loved being up here. He felt free, leaving his fears and concerns below.

  As the Arctic sun sat leadenly on the horizon, refusing to fully rise this time of year, Tommy stared at the endless spread of sea ice, at the dark trail of open water forged by the bow of the ship. The only living things for miles around were the crew of the icebreaker. He wasn’t sure if Alyosha or the kid’s master counted as living things.

  A creak of a door drew his gaze from the horizon back to the deck. A dark shape stepped through a hatch, having to bend his tall form to exit. He held the edges of his robe against the fierce wind—not because he was cold, but simply to restrain the wool from whipping about his body. It was easy to spot the thick beard, the dour expression.

  It was Alyosha’s master.

  Grigori Rasputin.

  The Russian monk held a satellite phone in one hand.

  Curious, Tommy climbed toward him, intending to eavesdrop from above.

  Aboard the ship, everyone went dead silent whenever Tommy entered a cabin. They looked at him as if he were an alien creature—and maybe he was now. But from up here, unseen, he could hear and watch ordinary life pass below. It was another reason he liked climbing up here. It comforted him to watch somebody smoke or whistle or joke, even if he couldn’t understand the Russian.

  Quietly, he worked his way down until he reached a perch close enough to listen, while keeping out of direct view of Rasputin.

  The monk paced below him, muttering in Russian and glaring out at the ice. He kept checking his phone, as if expecting a call. Something clearly had the guy agitated.

  Finally, the phone rang.

  Rasputin snapped the phone to his ear. “Da?”

  Tommy kept very still on his braced perch. He prayed the person on the other line spoke English. Maybe he could learn something.

  Please . . .

  Rasputin cleared his throat after listening for a full minute and spoke with a heavy accent. “Before we negotiate for the boy,” he said, “I want a photograph of the Gospel.”

  Tommy was relieved to hear English, but what did Rasputin mean by negotiate for the boy? Was someone trying to buy him? Was this call about his freedom or another prison?

  If only I could hear the other end of the conversation.

  Unfortunately that wish wasn’t granted.

  “I know what the Gospel revealed, Cardinal,” Rasputin growled. “And I won’t negotiate unless I can verify that it remains in your possession.”

  Questions popped like firecrackers in Tommy’s head: What gospel? What cardinal? Was he talking to someone in the Catholic Church? Why?

  Tommy pictured the eyes of the priest who had comforted him after the death of his parents atop Masada. He remembered the man’s concern. The priest had even offered a prayer for his mother and father, though he knew they were both Jewish.

  Angry sounds erupted from the other end of the phone, loud enough to reach Tommy’s perch.

  Rasputin said something again, switching from English to what sounded like Latin.

  He recalled the priest’s prayer had also been in Latin.

  Was there some connection?

  “Those are my terms,” Rasputin spat out and ended the call.

  His pacing resumed again, until his phone beeped with an incoming text.

  Rasputin looked at the screen and sank to his knees on the icy deck. His face looked rapturous as he scanned the ice, clutching the phone between his palms as if it were a prayer book.

  Tommy quietly leaned out from the crane to stare down at the screen. He couldn’t make anything out, but he guessed it was the photo of the gospel that Rasputin had demanded to see.

  The phone pealed again.

  Rasputin answered it, on his knees, plainly unable to keep the delight from his voice. “Da?”

  A long pause followed while the monk listened.

  “Very satisfactory,” he said, touching his cross with a thick finger. “But, Cardinal Bernard, we could always meet in St. Petersburg for the exchange? I would love to give you a demonstration of Russian hospitality. Father Korza enjoyed it very much when he visited me last time.”

  Tommy jolted, almost falling off his perch.

  He had forgotten the priest’s name, but he recognized it upon hearing it now.

  Korza.

  Before he could ponder this new mystery, Rasputin bared his teeth, exposing his sharp fangs. “So then, neutral ground,” he said with a chuckle. “How about Stockholm?”

  Rasputin listened for a stretch, then said his good-byes and hung up the phone. The monk climbed back to his feet and stared out at the ice for a long time.

  Tommy was afraid to move, so he watched and waited.

  The monk tilted his head and looked up at Tommy, his smile colder than the ice surrounding the ship. Rasputin must have known Tommy had been there the entire time. He suspected the monk might have purposefully switched to English, to make sure Tommy understood the gist of the conversation.

  But why?

  Rasputin wagged a finger at him. “Be careful up there. You may be an angel, but you haven’t got your wings yet. I’ll have to see about getting you a pair before we leave.”

  Harsh laughter echoed across the deck.

  What did he mean by that?

  Tommy suddenly sensed he was in much more danger than a moment ago. He prayed for someone to rescue him, picturing the face of Father Korza.

  But was that priest good or bad?

  22

  December 19, 1:51 P.M. CET

  Castel Gandolfo, Italy

  Lost in blood and fire, Rhun pulled his lips from Elisabeta’s mouth and brought them to her throat. His tongue slid along veins that had once throbbed with her heartbeats.

  She groaned under him. “Yes, yes, my love . . .”

  His fangs grew, ready to pierce her tender flesh and drink what she offered.

  Her alabaster throat beckoned.

  At last, he would be joined with her. Her blood would flow in his veins, as his had flowed through hers. He dropped his eager lips to her welcoming throat.

  He opened his mouth, baring hard teeth to soft flesh.

  Before he could bite down, hands suddenly grabbed him. He was yanked off Elisabeta and slammed against the stone wall. He snarled and fought, but his captor hung on like a wolf to an elk.

  He heard two clicks.

  Then another pair of hands joined the first.

  As crimson fire slowly dimmed from his vision, he saw Elisabeta handcuffed to the bed, fighting to get free. The burn of silver blistered her delicate wrists, marring what he had just healed, just kissed.

  Nadia and Christian held him pinioned to the wall. At full strength, he might have been able to break free, but he was still weak. Their words penetrated his fog, revealing themselves to be prayers, reminding him who he was.

  Spent, he sagged in their grasps.

  “Rhun.” Nadia’s grip did not loosen. “Pray with us.”

  Obeying the command in her voice, he moved his lips, forced out words. His bloodlust slowly waned, but comfort did not return in its place, only emptiness, leaving him weary, consumed.

&nb
sp; The two Sanguinists bore him from the cell, and Nadia locked the door.

  Carried a few cells down, Christian laid him atop a bed there.

  Am I a prisoner now, too?

  “Heal thyself.” Nadia pressed a flask of wine into his palm.

  She and Christian closed and locked the cell door.

  He lay on his back on the musty pallet. The mildewed scent of old straw and stone dust filled the room. He longed to return to Elisabeta’s cell, to lose himself in the scent of blood. With both hands, he gripped his pectoral cross and let the silver sear his palms, but it failed to center his mind.

  He knew what he must do.

  He reached to the flask, opened it, and drained its entire contents in one long swallow. The fire of Christ’s blood would leave no room for doubt. The holiness blazed down his throat and exploded inside him, hollowing him out, burning away even the emptiness from a moment ago.

  Clutching his cross again, he closed his eyes and waited for his penance to wash over him. The price of Christ’s blessing was to relive one’s worst sins.

  But what would the consecrated blood show him now?

  What could be strong enough to match the sin in his soul?

  With the moon high, Rhun crossed himself and stepped across the tavern’s threshold. It was the only gathering place in a small hamlet known for the quality of its honey. As he entered, the stench of mead mingled with the iron smell of spilled blood.

  A strigoi had been here. A strigoi had killed here.

  A barmaid, thin and riddled with sores, lay sprawled next to the corpulent innkeeper on the filthy floor. No heartbeats echoed from their chests. They were dead and would remain so.

  Broken crockery crunched under his boots.

  Firelight gleamed on his silver blade.

  Bernard had trained Rhun with this weapon, along with many others, readying him for his first mission as a Sanguinist. It had been a year ago to this very day that Rhun had lost his own soul to a strigoi attack, taken down beside his sister’s grave.

  Today he must begin to redeem himself.