Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  Sirens reached the square, blue and white lights flashing beyond the wall. Shouts could be heard in the distance.

  Rhun helped Jordan to his feet. “Can you stand?”

  Jordan rose with little effort, shivering and pulling on his jacket, staring down at his bloody shirt with a confused expression. “Why shouldn’t I be able to stand?”

  He clearly had no memory of getting shot.

  Rhun pointed for the exit that lay farthest from the sirens and lights. “We must go.”

  Rasputin nodded, moving forward in that direction. “I know the path out. I have a car not far.”

  Christian hiked Nadia’s body up, ready to run with her.

  Seeing her prostrate form in the young Sanguinist’s arms, Erin’s joy ebbed. Rather than succumbing to grief, she took firm hold of the anger inside her. She glared down at the broken moths in the snow. Determined to better understand her enemy, to turn grief into purpose, she bent and scooped up several of the broken moths, dumping them into the pocket of her grimwolf jacket.

  As she bent for a last moth, Erin looked with sorrow at the destruction left in Iscariot’s wake. The bodies of the strigoi were beyond recognition, a mystery that would haunt Stockholm for some time. Peering that way, she noted something discarded in the snow a yard away, something dark. She crossed to it and discovered a package wrapped in oilcloth. She scooped it up and tucked it into her inner jacket.

  As she straightened, fingers gripped her arm, as hard as iron.

  Rhun tugged her toward the exit, as shouts of the police grew louder behind her. He herded Jordan along with her. Reaching the archway of ice, he pushed them both into the maze.

  “Run!”

  10:23 P.M.

  Snow crunched under Rhun’s feet. He listened to Erin’s and Jordan’s heartbeats as they ran. Steady and strong, faster because of the exertion.

  Jordan’s heart sounded like any other. But Rhun knew he had heard it stop. He had listened to the silence of his death. He had known that stilled heart would never beat again—but it had.

  It was a true miracle.

  He pictured the boy’s face, the First Angel, imagining such grace, to bring the dead back to life. Did the boy know he held such power? Rhun knew such a miracle must ultimately come from the will of God. Was this resurrection a sign that the trio truly served His will?

  But who were the trio?

  He studied Erin’s back, while recalling Elisabeta’s departure. She had not even looked back when she walked away. Still, he knew he had earned that desertion.

  Finally, the exit loomed. They fled the massive ice palace for the dark tangle of streets beyond. Grigori led them to a blue minivan parked in a deserted alleyway. They piled through the doors from all sides.

  Grigori took the wheel and sped out into the dark city.

  Christian leaned forward from the backseat. “Take us to the Church of St. Nicholas. We should be safe there for a short time.”

  “I will drop you off there,” Grigori said, dull with the shock of his loss. “I have my own rooms.”

  In the rearview mirror, Grigori’s shadowy blue eyes met Rhun’s, apology shining there along with profound grief. Rhun wanted to lash out at the monk, for laying this trap, but his old friend had also saved him a moment ago, using the favor owed him to spare Rhun’s life. In the end, there was no worse punishment than what the monk had already suffered inside that maze.

  A few turns later, the minivan pulled to a stop in front of Stockholm’s cathedral: the Church of St. Nicholas. The structure was simpler than the churches of Rome, built in a brick gothic style. Four streetlamps cast golden light against the yellow sides. Arched windows were set deep in the stone, flanking a large rosette of stained glass in the middle.

  Rhun waited while everyone else exited. Once he was alone, he leaned forward and touched Grigori on the shoulder. “I am sorry for all you lost today. I will pray for their souls.”

  Grigori nodded his thanks, glancing to Alexei. The monk gripped the boy’s small hand as if afraid of losing him, too.

  “I did not think he would show himself,” Grigori whispered. “In person.”

  Rhun pictured Iscariot’s cold countenance.

  “I only wished to challenge God,” the monk said. “To see His hand in action by casting all into chaos by my own hand. To see if He would make it right.”

  Rhun squeezed his old friend’s shoulder, knowing there would always be a gulf between them. Grigori was too angry at God, too wounded in the past by His servants on Earth. They could never fully make amends between them, but for this night, they would part as best they could.

  Grigori watched Jordan walk away. “In the end, maybe I did see the hand of God.”

  The monk’s face turned slightly toward Rhun, his cheeks stained with tears.

  With a final squeeze of farewell, Rhun departed and slammed the door. The van took off down the street, abandoning them to the night.

  A step away, Christian held Nadia’s covered head against his shoulder as if she slept, one palm cradling the back of her neck.

  Rhun, too, had fought many battles at her side. In many ways, she had been the strongest among them, not plagued by doubt. Her dedication to her purpose was fierce and unyielding. Her loss—as both a Sanguinist and a friend—was incalculable.

  “We should get off the street,” Jordan warned.

  Rhun nodded, and Christian headed for the side of the church, passing under the skeletal limbs of winter-bare trees. Rhun tilted his head to look up at the windows of the cathedral. The church inside was ever a beautiful space, with whitewashed ceilings and redbrick archways. Their prayers for Nadia would find a proper home here.

  At the rear of the cathedral, facing a featureless wall, Rhun went through the ritual, cutting his palm and opening the secret Sanguinist door. He remembered Nadia doing the same half a day ago, neither of them knowing it would be her last time.

  Christian hurried inside and down the dark steps.

  Jordan clicked on a flashlight and followed. Erin held the soldier’s hand with an easy intimacy. Rhun remembered listening to her heart, gauging the bottomless depth of her grief. Yet, against all expectations, Jordan had been returned to her.

  Envy flashed through Rhun. Centuries ago, he had once lost his love, but when she was restored to him, she had been forever changed.

  For him, there was no going back.

  Rhun entered the secret chapel below. Like the church above, it had a vaulted ceiling, painted a serene blue centuries ago, to remind the Sanguinists of the sky, of God’s grace restored to them. To either side, red bricks lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Ahead, the simple altar contained a picture of Lazarus rising from the dead with a resplendent Christ in front of him.

  Passing ahead, Rhun smoothed the altar cloth, then Christian placed Nadia’s remains gently atop it, keeping her wrapped. They prayed over her. With her death, all unholiness had finally fled her.

  In death, she was free.

  Erin and Jordan also bowed their heads during these last prayers, their hands clasped. Grief sounded in each breath, each heartbeat, as they mourned her, too.

  Once finished, Christian stepped back from the altar. “We must go.”

  “We’re not staying here?” Jordan asked, sounding exhausted.

  “We cannot risk it,” Christian said. “If we hope to rescue the boy, we should keep moving.”

  Rhun agreed, reminding them, “Someone within the Church remains a traitor. We dare not stay in any one place too long. Especially here.”

  “What about Nadia’s body?” Erin asked.

  “The local priests will understand,” Rhun assured her. “They will see to it that she is returned to Rome.”

  Rhun bowed his head a final time to honor her, then left her cold body alone on the altar and followed the others out.

  He must look to the living now.

  31

  December 19, 11:03 P.M. CET

  Stockholm, Sweden

 
Erin walked down a well-lit street, heading away from the shelter and warmth of the cathedral. Snow fell more thickly now, shrinking the world around her. Flakes soon dusted her hair, her shoulders. A few inches had accumulated underfoot.

  A handful of cars flowed along the street at this late hour, tires rumbling over cobblestones, headlights poking holes through falling snow.

  She kept a firm grip on Jordan—both to keep from slipping on the icy pavement and to make sure she was not dreaming. As they walked, she watched the warm breath huffing from his lips, turning white in the cold air.

  Less than an hour ago, he had been dead—no breath and no heartbeat.

  She studied Jordan sidelong.

  Her logical mind struggled to understand this miracle, to put it into scientific context, to understand the rules. But for now, she simply held tight to him, grateful that he was warm and alive.

  Rhun walked on the other side of her. He looked beaten down, weaker than even the recent loss of blood could explain. She could guess why. Bathory had done a great deal of damage to him—and not only to his body. He still clearly loved her, and the countess seemed intent on using those feelings to hurt him.

  Finally, Christian stopped in front of a well-lit storefront.

  “Where are we?” Jordan asked.

  “An Internet café.” Christian opened the door, tinkling a bell attached to the door frame. “It was the closest one I could find this late.”

  Happy to escape the snow, Erin hurried into the warm building. Inside, it looked more like a convenience store than an Internet café—shelves of food stretched off to her left and a refrigerator case covered one wall. But in the back, two metal folding chairs waited in front of computer monitors and keyboards set on a long card table.

  Christian spoke to the bored woman behind the counter. She wore black, with a silver stud in her tongue that glinted as she talked. Christian purchased a cell phone, asking terse questions in Swedish. Once done, he handed her a hundred-euro note and headed for the back of the store.

  At the counter, Jordan ordered four sausages from the roller grill, where it looked like they had been turning since the beginning of the millennium. Erin added two Cokes, a couple bags of potato chips, and a handful of chocolate bars to the pile.

  She might not get a chance to eat again for a long time.

  Jordan carried their dinner on a piled tray to the computer stations. Christian already sat in front of one monitor, his fingers flying, blurring over the keyboards.

  Rhun hovered at his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Jordan asked, wolfing down a sausage.

  “Checking the contingency plan I worked out with Cardinal Bernard.”

  “What contingency plan?” Erin pressed, forgetting the unwrapped chocolate bar for the moment.

  “The cardinal wanted our dear countess kept on a short leash,” Christian explained. “In case she broke her bonds and tried to escape. I devised a way to keep track of her.”

  Jordan gripped the young Sanguinist’s shoulder with a greasy hand, smiling. “You planted a tracking device on her, didn’t you?”

  Christian smiled. “Inside her cloak.”

  Erin matched his grin. If they could track Bathory, there was a good chance they could track the boy.

  Rhun glared down at the smaller man. “Why was I never informed of this?”

  “You’ll have to take it up with Bernard.” Christian ducked his head lower, looking chagrined at his subterfuge.

  Rhun sighed heavily, shedding his anger. Erin read the understanding that came to his eyes. The cardinal had not trusted that Rhun might not escape with the countess. After Rhun had hidden Bathory for centuries, Bernard could not be blamed for this bit of caution.

  “It may take a few minutes to pick up her signal and gain a fix on it,” Christian warned. “So make yourselves comfortable.”

  Erin did exactly that, slipping her arm around Jordan’s waist and resting her head against the warmth of his chest, listening to his heartbeat, appreciating each solid lub-dub.

  After ten minutes of keyboard tapping and mumbled complaints about connection speeds, Christian pounded a fist on the table—not in anger, but satisfaction.

  “Got it!” he declared. “I’m picking up her signal at the airport.”

  Rhun turned with a sweep of his black robe, drawing up Christian, who quickly logged out. The two Sanguinists rushed away, not bothering to hide their preternatural speed from the counter clerk.

  Oblivious, the girl had her nose buried in a dog-eared paperback, her iPod earbuds firmly in place.

  Jordan hurried after them, grousing. “Sometimes I really wish those guys needed to eat and sleep.”

  She grabbed his hand again and jogged with him toward the door, waving good-bye to the girl behind the counter. Erin was equally ignored by the disdain of youth.

  She suppressed a smile, suddenly missing her students.

  11:18 P.M.

  Elizabeth settled into a seat by the airplane’s window. The space was much like the one she had traveled in earlier to come here: rich leather seats, small bolted tables. Only this time, she was not trapped in a coffin. As she touched the scarf around her neck, anger flared inside her.

  She stared out the round window. The lights of the airport glowed, each wreathed in a glittering halo of snow. She clipped the unfamiliar belt into place across her lap. She had never worn such a restraint, but Iscariot and the boy had both fastened theirs, so she assumed that she should as well.

  She glanced at the child seated next to her, trying to understand what made him so special. He was the First Angel, another immortal, but he seemed outwardly to be just a normal boy. She even heard his heart beating in fear and pain. After bandaging the worst of his outer wounds, his new captors had given him a set of gray clothes to wear, soft and loose so as not to abrade his raw skin.

  Sweats, they had called them.

  She turned her attention to the mystery seated across from her.

  Judas Iscariot.

  He had removed his overcoat and wore a modern cashmere suit, well tailored. On the small table between them rested a glass box, holding his collection of moths, save three that flitted about the cabin. She knew they remained loose as a reminder of the price of any disobedience, as if she had not been paying that price for centuries.

  The plane accelerated across the snowy black field. She clasped her hands in her lap, letting her cloak fall over them so that Iscariot could not see her nervousness. She tried not to imagine this metal contraption flinging itself into the air and hurling itself hundreds of miles across land and sea.

  Nature never intended such a thing.

  Next to her, the boy reclined his seat, clearly indifferent to the airplane and how it functioned. Several spots of crimson stained his gray sweats, weeping from the hundreds of cracks in his thawed skin. The scent of his blood filled the cabin, but oddly it held no temptation for her.

  Was the blood of angels different from all others?

  He brushed brown hair out of his eyes. He was older than she had first thought, perhaps fourteen. The anguish in his face reminded her of her son, Paul, whenever he was hurt. Sadness welled up in her at the memory, knowing her son was now dead, along with all her children. She wondered what had happened to her son.

  Did he have a long life? Was he happy? Did he marry and father children?

  She wished that she might know these simple facts. Bitterness rose in her throat. Rhun stole that from her with a single careless act. She had lost her daughters, her son, everyone whom she had loved.

  The boy shifted in his seat with a small groan. Like her, he had also lost everything. Rhun had told her how his parents had died in front of him, poisoned by a horrible gas.

  She gently touched his shoulder. “Are you in much pain?”

  Incredulous eyes met hers.

  Of course he was in pain.

  A cut above one brow had clotted and dried. Already he was healing. She touched her throat, still
throbbing from the wound Nadia had given her. She was also healing, but it would take more blood.

  As if reading her thoughts, Iscariot flicked her a quick glance. “Refreshments will be served in a moment, my dear.”

  Beyond their cabin, the engines rose in pitch, and the plane took a smooth jump into the sky. She held her breath, as if that would help hold the plane aloft. The craft rose higher. Her stomach fell and settled. The feeling reminded her of jumping her beloved mare across fences.

  Finally, their course settled into a smooth glide, like a hawk through the air.

  She slowly released her breath.

  Iscariot lifted an arm, and the blond bear of a man who had accompanied them from the maze lumbered into the back of the plane.

  “Please, Henrik, bring drinks for our guests. Perhaps something warm after all the ice and cold.”

  The man bowed his head and departed.

  Her attention returned to the window, captivated by the lights growing smaller and smaller below. They flew higher than any bird. Exhilaration flared through her.

  Henrik returned a few minutes later.

  “Hot chocolate,” he said, bending to place a steaming mug into the boy’s hands.

  He then lifted a small bowl toward her. The heady fragrance of warm blood wafted to her. She noted the white tape at the crook of the brute’s thick arm, stained with a drop of blood. It seemed there was little that his servants would not do for their master. Her opinion of Iscariot grew.

  She accepted the bowl and drained its warm contents in a single draught. Heat and bliss spread outward from her belly, into her arms, her legs, the ends of her fingertips. The lingering ache in her neck faded. She now throbbed with strength and delight.

  How could the Sanguinists refuse such pleasure?

  Rejuvenated, she turned her attention to her young companion. She remembered the conversation aboard the train. “I understand your name is Thomas Bolar.”

  “Tommy,” he answered softly, offering something more intimate.

  She offered the same. “Then you may call me Elizabeth.”

  His gaze focused a bit more strongly on her. In turn, she studied him. He might be a valuable ally. The Church wanted him, and if he was truly the First Angel, he might have powers that she yet failed to comprehend.