Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  “You should drink,” she said, nodding to the mug in his hands. “It will warm you.”

  Still looking at her, he lifted the cup and sipped gently, wincing a bit from the heat.

  “Good,” she said and turned to Henrik. “Fetch clean towels, hot water.”

  The blond man seemed taken aback at her tone. He glanced at his master.

  “Bring her what she wants,” Iscariot ordered.

  She savored this small victory, and moments later, Henrik returned with a basin and a pile of white towels. She soaked the first towel and held it toward Tommy.

  “Clean your face and hands. Gently now.”

  Tommy seemed ready to refuse, but she kept her arm out until, with a tired sigh, he took the towel. After placing his mug down, he wrung the towel’s heat in his hands and pressed it to his face. Soon he was rubbing a second towel up his arms, tucking it under his shirt and across his chest. His face softened with the simple pleasure of the damp heat.

  His gaze, also softened now, found hers again. “Thank you.”

  She nodded her head very slightly and turned her attention to the gray-haired man across from her. When she had last seen him, four hundred years ago, he had worn the gray silk tunic of a nobleman. It felt like only months ago, after slumbering away the centuries in Rhun’s trap. Back then a ruby ring had adorned one of his fingers, a ring that he had given to Elizabeth’s youngest daughter, Anna, marking his oath to protect the Bathory family.

  But why?

  She asked that now. “Why did you come to me when I was imprisoned in Čachtice Castle?”

  He studied her for a long breath before responding. “Your fate interested me.”

  “Because of the prophecy?”

  “Many spoke of your skills at healing, your sharp mind and keen eye. I heard whispers of the Church’s interest in you, in your family. So I came to see for myself if the rumors of your wisdom were true.”

  So he came sniffing at the edges of prophecy, like a dog on a coattail.

  “And what did you find?” she asked.

  “I found the Church’s interest of possible worth. I decided to watch over the women of your lineage.”

  “My daughters. Anna and Katalin.”

  He bowed his head. “And many after that.”

  A yearning ached in her, to fill in the gaps of her past, to know the fate of her family. “What became of them? Of Anna and Katalin?”

  “Anna had no children. But your eldest, Katalin, had two daughters and a son.”

  She turned away, wishing she might have seen them, the seed and blood of the noble house of Bathory. Had they possessed Katalin’s simple beauty and easy grace? She would never know, because they were also long dead.

  All because of Rhun.

  “And what of my son, Paul?”

  “He married. His wife bore him three sons and a daughter.”

  Relief washed through her, knowing now they had all lived, had lives after her. She was afraid to ask how long they had lived, how their lives had unfolded. For now, she was content to know that her line had not been broken.

  Tommy dropped the towel into the bowl next to his seat and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, looking more settled.

  “You should finish your drink,” she scolded him, motioning to the mug. “It will help to restore your strength.”

  “What do I care about my strength?” he mumbled. “I’m just a prisoner.”

  She lifted the mug and held it out to him. “As am I. And prisoners must keep up their strength at all costs.”

  He took the mug from her hands, his brown eyes curious. Perhaps he had not realized that she was as much a prisoner as he.

  Iscariot shifted in his seat. “You are not my prisoners. You are my guests.”

  So said all her captors.

  Tommy didn’t look any more relieved than she. He swirled the mug, transfixed by the contents. Clearly he had been a much-loved boy once, anyone could see that. Then he had been taken away, been hurt, and grown wary.

  Tommy finally looked up, ready to face this other. “Where are you taking us?”

  “To your destiny,” Iscariot answered, steepling his fingers and staring over their tips toward the boy. “You are fortunate that you came into being at such a pivotal time.”

  “I don’t feel fortunate.”

  “Sometimes you cannot understand destiny until it is upon you.”

  Tommy simply sighed loudly and stared out the window. After a long time, Elizabeth noted him eyeing her, studying her hands, her face, trying not to show it.

  “What is it?” she finally asked.

  He scrunched his face. “How old are you?”

  She smiled at his discourteous question, understanding his curiosity, appreciating his boldness. “I was born in 1560.”

  He sucked in a breath, and his eyebrow rose in surprise.

  “But I have slept many of those centuries away. I do not understand this modern world as I should.”

  “Like the story of Sleeping Beauty,” he said.

  “I am not familiar with that tale,” she said, earning another raised eyebrow. “Tell me it. Then perhaps you can tell me more about this age, how I might learn to live in it.”

  He nodded, looking happy for the distraction—and maybe she needed the diversion, too. He took a deep breath and began. As she listened attentively to his tale of magic and fairies, his warm hand stole across the armrest and nestled into hers.

  She felt his warm fingers clasped to hers. Beyond his powers and unknown destiny, she saw he was also a lonely young boy, bereft of his father, his mother.

  As Paul had been after her trial.

  Her fingers tightened over his, an unfamiliar feeling rising in her.

  Protectiveness.

  11:32 P.M.

  In the backseat of the stolen silver Audi, Jordan clutched the car’s grab bar as Rhun raced across Stockholm for the airport. He tried to ignore the red lights that they blew through. Desperate times called for desperate measures, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be wrapped around a light pole.

  He hoped the owner of the car had good insurance.

  Now on the highway, Rhun wove in and out of lanes, as if the freeway lines were mere suggestions. Christian sat up front, oblivious to the danger, studying his new phone, using its cellular connection to keep track of the countess. A moment ago, he had reported that she was already airborne, whisking south from Stockholm over the Baltic Sea.

  Rhun refused to allow her any more of a lead. He sped alongside a semitruck, the side of their car racing less than an inch from the truck’s running board.

  Erin clutched Jordan’s arm.

  “It’s easier if you close your eyes,” he said.

  “When my death comes, I want to see it.”

  “I already died once today. I don’t recommend it, eyes wide or not.”

  “Do you remember anything from when you were . . . ?” Her words trailed off.

  “When I was dead?” He shrugged. “I remember feeling the kick to the chest and falling. Then everything went dark. The last thing I saw was your eyes. You looked worried, by the way.”

  “I was. Still am.” She took his hand with both of hers. “What do you remember after that?”

  “Nothing. No white light, no celestial choir. I vaguely remember having a dream about the day I got struck by lightning. The lines of my tattoo burned.” He scratched at his shoulder. “Still sort of itches.”

  “Marking when you last died,” she said, studying his face, as if looking for meaning in this detail.

  “Guess Heaven didn’t want me then or now. Anyway, next thing I knew I was staring into your eyes again.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Like I just woke up on Christmas morning, full of energy and ready to go.”

  “Seeing you sitting here is like Christmas morning for me.”

  He squeezed her hand—as Rhun suddenly slammed the brakes, pitching Jordan against his seat belt.

&nbs
p; “We’re here,” Rhun announced.

  Jordan saw they were back at the airport, parked next to their jet.

  They all quickly exited, hurrying to continue their chase.

  Rhun and Christian led Erin toward the plane.

  As Jordan followed, he felt guilty lying to Erin a moment ago—or at least not telling her the entire truth.

  He rubbed his shoulder. His entire left side burned with a fire that refused to subside, tracing along the fractal lines of his lightning flower. He didn’t know the significance of that blaze—only its source.

  Something is inside of me.

  32

  December 19, 11:50 P.M. CET

  Airborne over the Baltic Sea

  As soon as the jet reached cruising altitude, Rhun unbuckled his seat. He needed to move, to pace out his frustration. Earlier, he could barely contain his anxiety while Christian performed his interminable preflight check, and Jordan examined the plane with a sensor for any hidden explosives. Both were wise precautions, but Rhun chafed against any further delays, sensing Elisabeta flying farther and farther away with every passing minute.

  He pictured the smug countenance of the man who had killed Nadia. Elisabeta was now under his thumb, a man who could murder her with a single gesture

  Why had he taken her?

  Why had she gone with him?

  Rhun at least understood the answer to that last question. He glanced back to the empty coffin in the rear of the plane, where Elisabeta had been imprisoned on the flight over.

  I failed to protect her.

  But who was this man truly?

  While driving to the airport, Grigori had sent a text to Rhun’s phone. It was a single picture of an old-fashioned anchor.

  Beneath it were the words: This is his symbol. Be wary of it.

  Needing to move, Rhun walked to the cockpit and peered inside the room lit with instruments.

  “You can come in,” Christian said, waving to the empty copilot’s seat.

  Rhun stayed in the doorway. He did not like to be close to the controls, afraid that he would inadvertently bump into something and cause havoc.

  “I’m still tracking the countess’s plane,” Christian said. “It continues south, sticking to the prescribed air corridor. Now it’s just a matter of following, seeing if we can close their lead. But should we even be attempting this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you truly believe the man we are chasing is the Betrayer of Christ?” Christian asked. “Not some deluded madman?”

  “Elisabeta recognized him from her time, marking him as immortal. But he also has a heartbeat. So he cannot be a strigoi, but something else.”

  “Like the boy.”

  Rhun considered that, sensing there must be a connection between the two.

  But what?

  “Whether he is indeed Judas Iscariot from the Gospels or not,” Rhun said, “he was granted immortality while still maintaining his humanity. Such a miracle would seemingly take the hand of God, or possibly an act of Christ as the man claimed.”

  “If you’re right, then he must’ve been granted this miracle for a purpose.”

  “To bring about the Apocalypse?”

  “Maybe.” Christian looked to Rhun, touching his cross. “If you’re right, are we interfering in the will of God by trying to stop him, by following him, by trying to rescue this boy?”

  A stirring rose behind him. Erin unbuckled and crossed toward them, drawing Jordan with her. They had both changed into clean, dry clothes prior to taking off. The scent of lavender drifted forward with her, pushing Rhun farther into the cockpit, to better keep his distance from her.

  She leaned against the door frame. “Do either of you believe it would be God’s will to torture an innocent child?”

  “Remember,” Jordan said to her, “we’re talking about Judas. Isn’t his role always the bad guy?”

  “Depends on how you interpret the Gospels,” Erin said, turning to him, but her words were for them all. “In the canonical texts of the Bible, Christ knew Judas was going to betray Him but did nothing to stop it. Christ needed someone to turn him over to the Romans so that He could die on the cross for man’s sins. In fact, in a Gnostic text—the Gospel of Judas—it states that Christ asked him to betray Him, that He said to Judas, ‘As for you, you will surpass them all. For you will sacrifice the human being who bears me.’ So, at best, the character of Judas is murky.”

  Jordan scowled, clearly not accepting this judgment. “Murky? I saw him mow down Nadia and Rasputin’s kids. He shot me in the chest. I’m not buying him as a force for good.”

  “Maybe,” Christian said. “But perhaps God sometimes needs a force of evil to act. The betrayal by Judas served a higher purpose. Like Erin said, Christ needed to die to forgive our sins. Maybe this is what is happening now. An evil act that serves a greater goal.”

  Erin crossed her arms. “So we sit back and let evil happen on the off chance there is a positive outcome. As in, the ends justify the means.”

  “But what are the ends?” Jordan asked, homing in with his usual practicality to the heart of the problem. “We still have no idea what this bastard wants with the boy.”

  “He remains the prophesied First Angel,” Rhun reminded them. “The boy must serve a destiny. Perhaps Judas intends to pervert it in the same way he attempted to break the trio by killing Jordan.”

  Jordan rubbed his chest, looking discomfited by that thought.

  Erin frowned. “But what is Tommy? He plainly cannot die. So is he actually an angel?”

  Rhun gave her a doubtful look. “I heard his heartbeat. It sounded natural and human, not something unearthly. At best, I suspect he carries angelic blood, some blessing cast upon him when he was atop that mountaintop at Masada.”

  “But why him?” Erin asked. “Why Tommy Bolar?”

  Rhun shook his head, unsure. “Back at the mountain, I sought to console him, to ask him what he knew concerning the tragic events that killed so many, yet spared him. He mentioned finding a dove with a broken wing, of attempting to save it, just before the ground split open and the earthquakes began.”

  “A single merciful act?” Erin mumbled. “Would that be enough to earn such a blessing?”

  Christian glanced back as they hit a jolt of turbulence. “The dove is often the symbol for the Holy Spirit. Perhaps that messenger sought someone deserving of such a blessing. A small test placed before him.”

  Rhun nodded. “He was an ordinary boy when he came to that mountain, but perhaps when he performed this merciful act in the right place at the right time, he was infused with angelic blood.”

  “I don’t care what’s in his blood,” Jordan said. “If you’re right, then he’s still essentially just a boy.”

  “He is more than a boy,” Rhun said.

  “But he’s also a boy,” Erin pressed. “And we should not forget that.”

  Rhun could not deny her words, but none of it settled the fundamental concern raised by Christian. Rhun faced them all. “So do we risk thwarting the will of God by rescuing Tommy from the hands of Iscariot?”

  “Damn straight.” Jordan raised his chin, ready to fight for the boy. “My former commander drilled a quote into all of us soldiers. All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

  Erin looked as resolute. “Jordan is right. It’s about free will. Tommy Bolar chose to save that dove and was blessed for that kind act. We must allow the boy to choose his own future, not to have it stripped from him by Iscariot.”

  Rhun had expected nothing less from the pair and took strength from them. “Christ walked willingly onto the cross,” he agreed. “We will give this boy Tommy the same freedom to decide his fate.”

  11:58 P.M.

  As the plane hit a rough patch of turbulence, Christian sent them back to their seats. The bouncing and rocking echoed Erin’s own unease, keeping her further unsettled. While buckling into the seat, she knew she should get some sleep,
but she also knew any effort toward that goal would be wasted.

  Jordan seemed less troubled, yawning with a pop of his jaws, his training as a soldier serving him. It seemed he could sleep under the roughest of circumstances.

  As he reclined his seat, squirming his large frame into a better position, Erin stared out the window at the stretch of darkness over the midnight sea. Her mind spun on the mystery that was Tommy Bolar, on the stretch of history surrounding Judas Iscariot. Finally, needing a distraction, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the oilcloth-covered object she had recovered from the snow of the ice maze.

  Rhun stirred across from her, his gaze sharpening at what was in her hands. “That belongs to the countess. She found it frozen in the wall of the maze. She must have dropped it during the commotion.”

  Erin pinched her brows, remembering finding her sister’s baby quilt similarly encased in ice, planted by the Russian monk to distract and cause pain. The sight of that stained cloth had struck her deeply and personally.

  Yet, still I abandoned it.

  She rubbed a thumb across the oilcloth. Bathory had clearly dug her prize out. Was that the right choice in the maze? Erin had chosen to follow the dictates of necessity, rather than emotion. Yet Bathory won by crashing through the ice to reveal a shortcut. Had Grigori been testing their hearts?

  Is that why I failed?

  Even now a pang of regret rang through her. She should have retrieved the quilt, so it could be taken back to California and buried in her sister’s grave where it belonged.

  She considered the object in her hands, wondering what it held, if it had the same emotional punch for Bathory as the quilt did for her. Needing to know, she struggled to work the knot loose, her fingers slipping each time the plane bounced.

  Finally, the cord loosened a fraction. She slowly worked the rest of the knot free and teased back a corner of the cloth. It looked like linen that had been treated with beeswax to make it waterproof.

  “Whatever is in here,” she mumbled, “must have been important to Bathory.”