Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  Like the Church, he thought that these three might be the prophesied trio—until Father Korza had turned the countess into a strigoi, and she was supposedly slain.

  Yet he remained convinced of the power of the Bathory family. Each generation, he selected a single woman from that lineage to train and protect, poisoning her blood against the strigoi, to ensure she would never be turned as her ancestor had been.

  Most of the women had served him well, until the line had ended with Bathory Darabont. But by then the lost Gospel of Christ had been brought back into the world, heralding what Judas must do next.

  He lifted the glass block and read those words.

  The one who took Him from this world will serve in bringing Him back, sparking an era of fire and bloodshed, casting a pall over the earth and all its creatures.

  At long last, that time had come.

  37

  December 20, 5:22 A.M. CET

  Mediterranean Sea

  Tommy shivered in the breezes blowing across the open platform of the oil rig, the wind driving away the last dregs of his sleepiness.

  He stared across the pad to a silver helicopter parked there. It had blacked-out windows and a large radar array sprouting from its nose. From the sleek lines and unusual features, it looked custom-made and expensive. A pilot stood next to the helicopter, dressed in a black flight suit, including a helmet and gloves.

  Not a scrap of skin showed, suggesting he was like Elizabeth and Alexei.

  Strigoi.

  Elizabeth stood next to him. Even though sunrise was two hours away, she was also encased from head to toe. She wore high boots, black pants, a long-sleeved tunic and gloves, along with a veil that covered her face. It left a slit open for her eyes, but she held a pair of sunglasses, ready for the approach of dawn.

  Iscariot waved toward the parked aircraft. “Everybody get aboard.”

  With no choice, Tommy ducked under the rotors as they began to spin and climbed into the helicopter. Dread etched through him. Where were they taking him? He remembered Iscariot’s talk of destiny, and somehow he knew he was not going to like it.

  As he strapped himself in, he noted Elizabeth fussing with the shoulder and lap belts.

  “Do you need help?” Tommy asked.

  “It is more complex than harnessing a team of horses,” she said, but she figured it out and snapped herself in place next to him.

  Iscariot spoke to the pilot, then climbed into the cabin, bringing with him his two hulking bodyguards. When he closed the door, the entire cabin went pitch-black. No light came in through the windows, and Tommy could not see out. He was glad when artificial lights came on.

  Elizabeth slowly took off her veil and sunglasses.

  Iscariot handed them each a set of heavy wireless earphones.

  Tommy put his on and Elizabeth followed his example, clearly watching his every move.

  The engine volume got louder, and they lifted off from the helipad with a jerk. With the windows blacked out, Tommy used his stomach to judge how far they climbed, when they leveled out, and when they started their flight back to land.

  Tommy leaned over and peered ahead. The windshield was also tinted to a solid black. How did the pilot know where they were going?

  Iscariot noted where he was looking. His voice came through the earphones. “There is a digital camera mounted on the nose of the helicopter. Let me show you.”

  Reaching across Tommy’s lap, he flicked a switch near the armrest. A monitor lowered in front of Tommy. It flickered to life, displaying a sweep of moonlit waves and a clear horizon in front.

  “There’s a small joystick near your right hand,” Iscariot said. “You can move the camera with it.”

  Testing this, Tommy spun the joystick in a circle and images on the monitor swung a full 360. He watched waves chasing waves. The horizon was water and sky. Behind the helicopter, the twinkling lights of the oil rig grew smaller and smaller. As he swung the view back forward, he spotted a set of tiny lights running low over the water, heading toward them.

  Another helicopter.

  Iscariot sat straighter, then leaned forward toward the pilot. “Who is that?”

  “Don’t know,” the pilot answered. “I’ve swept it with the night-vision scopes. No distinct markings on the hull, but it looks like a chartered aircraft. Could be tourists.”

  Iscariot scoffed. “Out before sunrise? Move us closer.”

  Their chopper dipped and dove toward the other craft, on an intercept course.

  Iscariot pushed Tommy’s hand off the joystick and commandeered it. He toggled a switch and the view turned brighter, in shades of silvery gray.

  Night vision.

  The view suddenly zoomed forward, centering on the windshield of the other aircraft.

  Tommy could make out the pilot’s face, remembering him from the ice maze.

  The shock of recognition quickly changed to hope. It was one of the priests, one of those who helped free him from the ice.

  They found me!

  He didn’t know how, but he didn’t care.

  Maybe they can rescue me . . . rescue us.

  He glanced at Elizabeth, who was also staring at the screen. She smiled with half her mouth, as if she couldn’t help herself. “The Sanguinists have tracked us.”

  Anger flared in Iscariot’s voice and reddened his cheeks. “Take them down.”

  In the corner of the screen, a yellow icon of four missiles appeared.

  Beneath it was a single word:

  Hellfire

  That couldn’t be good.

  Tommy felt a rumbling under his seat. He imagined a hatch opening, a missile bay lowering into view.

  On the screen, one of the yellow missiles turned red.

  Uh-oh.

  5:35 A.M.

  With her face pressed to the window, Erin watched the helicopter dive toward them. Earlier, they had noted the aircraft rise like a tiny mote from the galactic cluster of an oil rig farther out to sea. It seemed headed to the coast, going wide from their position—then it had suddenly swung toward them, plainly coming in for a closer look.

  Jordan had posited that it might be security for the rig, coming to investigate the approach of an unknown aircraft. These were suspicious times.

  Then suddenly it dove straight at them.

  Smoke flared from its underside, along with a flash of fire.

  “Missile!” Christian screamed from up front.

  Erin was thrown back as Christian forced the helicopter into a steep climb. Beyond the roar of the engines, a piercing scream ripped through the night. Their aircraft rolled to the right, as a whistling curl of smoke swept past the landing skid on the left.

  A second later, an explosion blasted into the sea behind them, the shock wave shuddering their craft. A flume of water and smoke shot into the sky.

  Christian immediately turned their helicopter into a stomach-dropping dive, trying to outmaneuver the other, but their rental aircraft was a lumbering fat bee compared to the sleek killer wasp on their tail.

  Black ocean zoomed toward them.

  She sucked in her breath. Jordan clutched hard against her.

  Inches from the crests of the tallest waves, their craft finally pulled up, sweeping fast and low over the water. She craned her neck and saw the other helicopter behind them. It tipped up on its edge, dropping sideways toward the sea, then straightened and sped toward them, coming in higher.

  They would never escape it.

  “Gonna try to reach the rig!” Christian yelled. “Use its bulk as a shield.”

  Jordan called up. “I saw three more missiles in its bay when it swept past overhead.”

  Three more chances to kill them.

  Christian struggled with the stick as if it had a life of its own. The helicopter zigzagged over the water, aiming for the oil rig. Another smoke trail screamed past on the right and exploded into the sea, casting a wave of smoke and water over their craft.

  Two more chances . . .

/>   The oil platform loomed ahead, a lamplit skyscraper rising out of the sea.

  Erin allowed herself a moment of hope.

  Then Nature slapped them down.

  An extra tall wave hit the skimming skids. The machine jolted and wobbled like a tightrope walker about to lose his balance. For a sickening second, she thought that it would tip into the sea. Then the helicopter righted itself, climbing out of the waves.

  She heaved out a sigh.

  “Brace yourselves!” Christian bellowed.

  Her throat clutched tightly, knowing they had lost too much speed. They could never outrun this next missile. Erin met Jordan’s eyes—as Christian dove them lower again, this time seeming to drag the skids in the water on purpose.

  Erin was thrown against her restraints as their forward momentum braked suddenly. The craft tilted up on its nose.

  The missile slipped under their uplifted tail and exploded beneath them.

  Fire blossomed up along both sides of the helicopter, flames covering the windows. The world spun in a dizzying wash of smoke, fire, and water. Then the chopper settled on its side in the water. Black smoke roiled into the darkened cabin.

  The helicopter hung for one last breath.

  Then sank into the sea.

  5:37 A.M.

  Judas studied the shattered wreckage, the spreading black stain on the dark water. The pilot hovered the helicopter, turning it in a slow sweep of the area, watching for survivors.

  “Sir?” the pilot asked.

  Judas weighed the odds of anyone surviving that last missile blast. It looked as if the strike had hit the tail of the helicopter square on. Nothing could have survived such a direct hit; even the stubborn bodies of the Sanguinists could not heal after being shredded to ribbons by ripped metal.

  Besides—he checked the platinum Rolex Yacht-Master on his wrist—none of this mattered.

  Whether there were any survivors, they could never stop him now. Dawn was less than two hours off. Even if the Sanguinists somehow survived, they could not close their lead on him.

  Still . . .

  “Contact the remaining crew at the rig,” he ordered. “Have them comb and watch these waters.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then continue to the coast.”

  Judas glanced at the boy, who looked ashen after the attack.

  No one can save you now.

  38

  December 20, 5:38 A.M. CET

  Mediterranean Sea

  A racking cough tore through Erin.

  She tasted blood, smelled smoke.

  Jordan gripped her hand hard.

  Alive—but for how long?

  Water swamped the windows all round, as the craft continued its plunge into the cold depths. Red emergency lights glowed, casting the cabin into shades of crimson. Water seeped inside, slowly filling the lower half.

  Rhun scrambled and splashed forward with Bernard, reaching Christian, who draped limply in his restraints. They fought to free him.

  Following their example, Erin fumbled with her seat harness’s quick release, which thankfully popped open. Jordan did the same, then clicked on a flashlight. He placed a hand against the window.

  How far down were they?

  The waters beyond the windows were as black as oil.

  Jordan moved aside as Rhun came splashing to join them, hauling Christian’s arms. Bernard had his legs. Blood covered the young Sanguinist’s entire face.

  Was he even alive?

  Jordan pointed to the window. “We need to break out of here. Rhun, do you have the strength to kick out this window?”

  “I believe so.”

  “No,” Erin called. “We don’t know how far down we are. The pressure could crush us. And even if we get free, I doubt we can make it to the surface in one breath.”

  Jordan frowned at her. “We have to try. We’ll drown just as surely by doing nothing.”

  Rhun nodded. “Jordan is right. I will do my best to shield you both and get you to the surface. Bernard can carry Christian’s body on his own.”

  Erin hugged her arms around her belly, looking at the rising water, already thigh-deep in the cabin by now, knowing they were wrong. She searched the space and called again. “Wait! There’s another way!”

  Jordan glanced at her.

  “You’re not going to like it,” she said.

  “What?” Jordan demanded.

  She pointed to the long box strapped below the water, the one Bernard had brought along to secure the countess.

  “It could act as our escape pod,” she said.

  Jordan’s jaw clenched, plainly not keen on putting their hopes of survival on a coffin. Still, he nodded, recognizing she was right.

  Rhun quickly ripped away the straps that secured the giant plastic box to the floor and it floated up to the surface, proving it was buoyant.

  “It should protect us from the pressure,” Erin said. “And there should be enough air in there for us to make it to the surface.”

  “That’s a lot of shoulds,” Jordan said.

  But there was no better option.

  As Rhun hauled the lid open, Jordan scrambled in first and sprawled onto his back. He lifted his arms, as if inviting her to bed. She climbed into the coffin, into his arms. He hugged her tightly.

  Rhun closed the lid of the box, sealing them in darkness. She heard the latches snug into place. In the blackness, she concentrated on Jordan’s heartbeat, feeling it thud against his rib cage, echoing into her. His body heat burned through his damp clothes, intense after the cold soaking. She shifted, noting his left arm felt hotter than his right.

  Before she could ponder this, Rhun thumped the outside of the box, likely warning them to prepare themselves.

  Jordan pulled her head down onto his chest. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

  She heard a crash, and a solid whump of water striking the side of the coffin, shoving it to the other side of the cabin. She rolled and got banged about inside. It felt as if a giant dog had the box in his mouth and was shaking it like a stick. She gritted her teeth to keep from yelling.

  Jordan’s arms pulled her closer. “I got you,” he said in her ear.

  But who’s got us?

  5:42 A.M.

  Rhun fought the pull of the sea and hauled the coffin through the shattered window. It became caught. An outer handle normally used by pallbearers snagged on a twisted piece of metal.

  He glanced to the side and saw Bernard heading upward through the dark waters, kicking and hugging Christian’s limp form in his arms. The cardinal also towed a sealed and deflated emergency raft, tied by a rope to his waist.

  Alone, Rhun positioned his feet to either side of the coffin, bracing against the side of the wreckage as it plunged ever deeper.

  Using all the strength in his legs and back, he yanked the box, bending the twisted piece of metal, watching the outer handle tear away. He feared the box might rip open and pictured water bursting inside and drowning Erin and Jordan.

  He listened to the frightened timpani of their heartbeats.

  He could not fail them.

  He heaved again, fueled by his past failures, refusing to repeat them.

  Finally, the coffin popped free—so suddenly, he lost hold of it.

  He rolled back through the water and watched the box begin to float upward, slowly, too slowly. He kicked and swept his arms and got under the coffin. Pushing from below, he propelled the pod ever higher, chasing the feeble glow of a distant moon.

  The surface seemed an impossible distance away, only visible because of his preternatural eyesight. He knew there was little air left in that coffin, and much of it contaminated by the smoke of the trapped cabin.

  He must hurry.

  All the while, he listened to their heartbeats, each distinct from the other, but sounding somehow in harmony. He prayed that their quiet chorus continued until he reached the surface.

  5:45 A.M.

  Jordan felt their escape pod breach the waves.
The steady upward trajectory suddenly gave way, his stomach lolling to match the roll of sea beyond their prison. A moment later, he heard the latches give way, and the lid suddenly shoved open.

  As they floated there, he took a deep breath of clean salt air, savoring the press of Erin’s body against his. But a tremble shook through her. He rubbed his hands along her back, trying to chase away the fear. He had felt her body fighting against panic the whole time.

  Rhun gripped an edge of the coffin and raised his head into view. “Are you both well?”

  Jordan nodded. “Thanks for the lift.”

  Erin let out a small giggle, though it was less amusement at his lame joke than it was the madness of relief. It was still the best sound he’d heard in a long time. She pushed against him and sat.

  Rhun pointed left. “Bernard has inflated an emergency raft. I will push you toward it.”

  Rhun’s dark head bobbed behind them like a seal as he began kicking toward a round raft, a bright yellow wafer spinning in the water. He saw that Bernard had Christian’s body sprawled atop it, a black stain against the yellow.

  Worry for his new friend iced through him.

  Too many Sanguinists had already died.

  He scanned the horizon, but apparently the other helicopter was long gone.

  But they weren’t alone out here.

  An echoing pitch of an engine reached them. Jordan looked beyond the raft to a single light racing toward them, bobbing over the waves. A Zodiac pontoon boat. It clearly had to come from the towering oil platform in the distance.

  The same site from where the attack helicopter had risen.

  Not good.

  “Rhun!” Jordan called, knowing the priest was too low in the water to see. “We’ve got company coming at our twelve o’clock!”

  If there was any question of them being friendly, it was dispelled as gunfire cracked out, pebbling the dark water, aiming for the larger, brighter target of the raft.