Innocent Blood

by James Rollins

  Bernard suddenly dove off the side and vanished, abandoning Christian.

  Did that mean the young Sanguinist was already dead?

  Rhun had slowed their approach to the raft. “Leave them to Bernard. But in the meantime, we should make less of a target.”

  Without warning, the priest upended their coffin and dumped them both into the cold sea. While Jordan understood the necessity, he didn’t necessarily care for the manner. He sputtered on a mouthful of water as he came to the surface. He hurried to Erin, knowing she was not a strong swimmer, nor a fan of water in general.

  But she came up smoothly, her eyes scared but determined.

  Rhun joined them. “Make for the raft, but keep its bulk between you and whoever comes.”

  The priest led the way.

  In a few strokes, their group reached their floating refuge but dared not mount it. Jordan peered over its edge as the Zodiac closed the distance, slowing. He spotted three men: a driver and two gunmen with rifles.

  In the water, they were sitting ducks.

  But unknown to the newcomers, there was also a shark in these waters.

  Bernard suddenly rose on the starboard side, a long silver blade flashing in the moonlight. Moving in a blur, he slashed the length of the pontoon on their side. The Zodiac listed crookedly, the engine choking out, throwing the standing gunmen off balance. A hand lunged out of the water, grabbed an ankle, and plucked one man from the boat. He got tossed high, but not before Bernard hacked his leg off at the knee with one savage swipe.

  The other rifleman fired, but Bernard was already gone.

  As the Zodiac continued to wallow, the second gunman turned in a wary circle, watching the waters all around. Then suddenly the boat opened under the man, the tarp floor ripped out beneath him. His body was yanked straight through the new hole and vanished.

  The last man—the driver—gunned the engine to full life and swung the boat away, clearly wanting to flee back to the safety of the oil platform. But Bernard bounded out of the sea, like a dolphin performing a trick. He landed behind the driver, gripped his hair, and slashed his neck, nearly taking the man’s head off.

  Bernard threw his body into the sea with one arm.

  Jordan tried to balance the pious man of the cloth with this savage butcher.

  “Make for the other boat!” Rhun said, loudly enough for Bernard to hear. “Quickly now. I’ll grab Christian and join you there.”

  The priest leaped and rolled onto the raft.

  Erin and Jordan swam for the Zodiac. Bernard helped them aboard the foundering craft. Jordan knew Zodiacs were tough little boats, capable of running on only one float. By the time Jordan followed Erin up, Rhun was already there, towing Christian by one arm.

  He helped Rhun get the young Sanguinist aboard the boat.

  “What now?” Jordan asked as Erin and Bernard attended to Christian.

  “Can you pilot this craft?” Rhun asked.

  “Not a problem,” Jordan said.

  The priest pointed to the oil rig. “We’re too far from the shore. We’ll never make landfall with this small engine. We must find another means of transportation to reach the coast.”

  Jordan stared toward the towering structure. Despite their team’s firepower sunk to the bottom of the sea, they had to go into that nest of vipers.

  Knowing this, Jordan crossed and took the wheel, while Erin leaned over Christian’s body.

  “Is he still alive?” she asked.

  “It is difficult to say,” Rhun admitted, kneeling between her and Bernard.

  Christian’s eyes remained closed. A deep gash ran along his forehead. Jordan knew it would be useless to check for a breath or a heartbeat. The Sanguinists didn’t have either.

  The cardinal placed his silver cross atop Christian’s forehead, as if ready to administer last rites. After a moment, Bernard lifted the cross, revealing a seared mark matching its shape on the younger Sanguinist’s skin.

  “He lives,” Bernard declared.

  Rhun explained, the relief palpable in his voice. “If we die in service to the Church, we are cleansed. Blessed silver would not burn us.”

  Erin held Christian’s hand.

  “But he requires medical attention,” Rhun warned, eyeing Jordan as he gunned the engine. “His life may still be forfeit.”

  Jordan aimed for the oil platform. “Then let’s go pay our neighbors a visit.”

  39

  December 20, 6:02 A.M. CET

  Mediterranean Sea

  As the boat fled toward the lights of the oil platform, Rhun studied Christian’s pale face. He was young, relatively new to the cloth, making him brash and irreverent, but Rhun could not fault his faith and his bravery. He clenched a fist of frustration, refusing to lose another companion so soon after Nadia’s death.

  Bernard poured little sips of wine from his leather flask through Christian’s slack lips, but most spilled down his hollow cheeks. He was still too weak to swallow.

  “What if I gave him some of my blood?” Erin asked. “Like we did with the countess. Wouldn’t that help revive him?”

  “We will consider that only as a last resort,” Bernard mumbled.

  Erin looked little satisfied with that answer.

  Rhun whispered to her. “The taste of blood for one as young as he risks freeing the beast inside him. We dare not risk it, especially here where we have so little means to control him. Let us see what we find at the oil platform.”

  “What we will find will surely be more enemies,” Bernard added and pointed to the flask hidden and tied to Rhun’s upper thigh. “We ourselves should drink, restore our strength to its fullest.”

  Rhun knew Bernard was correct, but he hated taking penance in front of others, knowing it often left him weeping and confused. He did not wish to display such weakness.

  Still, he knew he must.

  As Rhun freed his holy flask, Bernard upended his own and drank deeply, unabashedly. Bernard seemed at peace with his sins. He did his penance and was always calm moments afterward.

  Rhun prayed for the same today as he lifted the flask to his lips and drank fully.

  The cemetery loomed around Rhun as he lay on his back atop his sister’s grave. The beast straddled him, their limbs entangled like lovers. The monster’s blood filled his mouth.

  Rhun had come to his sister’s grave this night to mourn her passing, only to be waylaid by this beast, a monster wearing fine breeches and a studded leather tunic. Fangs had torn into Rhun’s throat, draining his blood into this other’s hungry mouth. But instead of dying, his attacker had offered Rhun a wrist, sliced open, pouring with the beast’s black blood.

  He had resisted—until cold, silken blood burst to fire on his tongue.

  Bliss welled through him, and with it, hunger.

  He now drank fully from that crimson font, knowing it was a sin, knowing that the pleasure that pulsed through every limb in his body would damn him for all eternity. And still he could not stop. He longed to stay locked in this man’s embrace forever, drowned in ecstasy with every fiery swallow.

  Then his head cracked painfully against his sister’s headstone. He watched the beast yanked off him. Rhun moaned, reaching again for him, wanting more of his blood.

  Four priests pulled the monster from Rhun’s aching body. Their silver pectoral crosses glinted in the cold moonlight.

  “Run!” shouted the beast, attempting to warn him.

  But how could he ever abandon such a font of bliss and blood?

  His arms remained up, stretching to the other.

  A blade flashed silver across the beast’s throat. Dark blood exploded from the wound, staining his fine white shirt, soiling his leather tunic.

  “No!” Rhun struggled to rise.

  The four priests dropped the man’s body to the ground. Rhun heard it hit the scattered leaves, knew without knowing how that the man was gone forever. Tears rose in his eyes at the loss of such ecstasy.

  The priests sat Rhun up a
nd wrenched his arms behind his back. Rhun fought with the ferocity of a cornered lynx, but they imprisoned him with an implacable strength for which he was no match.

  He twisted, his sharp teeth seeking their necks.

  His body ached for blood, any blood.

  They carried him through the night without a word. But for all their silence, Rhun heard more than he ever had before in his life. He listened to each leaf crumble under their boots, the soft hush of owl wings overhead, the scurry of a mouse into its hole. Rhun’s mind strained to fathom it. He could even hear the tiny beasts’ heartbeats: the mouse’s swift and frightened, the owl’s slower and determined.

  Yet when he turned his ear to the priests around him, he heard nothing.

  Only a dreadful silence.

  Was he so cut off from the grace of God that he could not hear holy heartbeats, only those of soulless beasts in the field?

  Despairing his fate, he went limp in the priests’ hands. His lips formed desperate prayers. Still, all the while, he wished only to tear out these priests’ throats and bathe his face in their blood. The prayers did nothing to quiet this bloodlust. His teeth continued to chatter with longing.

  Desire burned hotter than anything he had ever felt, fiercer than any love for his family, even his love for God.

  The priests carried him back to the monastery, where moments before he had left as an innocent, a seminary student about to swear his holy vows. They stopped in front of a clean, bare wall that transformed into a door. During his years here, he had never known of its existence.

  He had known so little of everything.

  The priests bore him below to where a familiar figure sat at a desk holding a goose quill: Father Bernard, his mentor, his counselor in all things. It seemed Rhun’s lessons were not yet finished.

  “We bring him to you, Father,” said the priest holding his right arm. “He was felled in the cemetery, but he has tasted no other blood.”

  “Leave him to me.”

  The same priest refused. “He is in a dangerous state.”

  “I know this as well as you.” Bernard rose from his desk. “Leave us.”

  “As you wish.”

  The priest released Rhun’s arm, dropping him to the stone floor, and headed away, drawing his brethren with him. Rhun lay there a long moment, breathing in the smells of stone, mildew, and old rushes.

  Bernard remained silent.

  Rhun hid his face from his mentor. He loved Bernard more than he had ever loved his own father. The priest had taught him of wisdom, kindness, and faith. Bernard was the man Rhun had always aspired to become.

  But right now all Rhun knew was that he must slake his thirst or die trying. In one bound, he closed the space between them, knocking them both to the floor.

  Bernard fell under him, his body strangely cold.

  Rhun lunged for his neck, but his prey moved with an unearthly speed, rolling from Rhun’s grasp and standing next to him. How could he be so quick?

  “Be careful, my son.” Bernard’s rich voice was calm and steady. “Your faith is your most precious gift.”

  A hiss started low in Rhun’s throat. Faith meant nothing now. Only blood mattered.

  He sprang again.

  Bernard caught him and bore him down to the floor. Rhun struggled, but the older man pinned him against the tiles, proving himself far stronger, stronger than the beast who had changed him, even stronger than the priests who had carried him.

  Father Bernard was as hard as stone.

  Was this strength proof of God’s might against the evil inside of Rhun?

  But his body raged against such thoughts. Throughout the long night, Rhun continued to battle this priest, refusing to listen, trying always to gain a mouthful of his precious blood.

  The old man would not be taken.

  Eventually, Rhun’s body weakened—but not from exhaustion.

  “You feel the approach of dawn,” Bernard explained, holding him, pinning him. “Unless you accept Christ’s love, you will always weaken with the morning, as will you die if the pure light of sun shines upon you.”

  A great weariness grew inside of Rhun, weighing down his limbs.

  “You must listen, my son. You may view your new state as a curse, but it is a blessing for you. For the world.”

  Rhun scoffed. “I have become an unholy beast. I yearn for evil. It is no blessing.”

  “You can become more than what you are.”

  Bernard’s voice held simple certainty.

  “I wish nothing more than to drink your blood, to kill you,” Rhun warned, as his strength ebbed even further. He could barely lift his head now.

  “I know how you feel, my son.”

  Bernard finally loosened his grip, and Rhun slid to the floor.

  On his hands and knees like a dog, Rhun mumbled to the tiles. “You cannot know of the lust inside of me. You are a priest. This evil is beyond your ken.”

  Bernard shook his head, drawing Rhun’s eye. His white hair shone in the light of the dying candle. “I am like you.”

  Rhun closed his eyes, disbelieving. He was so tired.

  Bernard shook Rhun until he opened his eyes again. The old priest drew Rhun’s face to his own, as if to kiss him. Bernard parted those lips in invitation—but long sharp teeth greeted Rhun.

  Rhun gaped at his mentor, a man whom he had known many years, a man who was never a man—but a beast.

  “I have hungered as you have, my son.” Bernard’s deep voice filled Rhun with calm. “I have indulged evil appetites.”

  Rhun struggled to understand.

  Father Bernard was good. He brought comfort to the sick and dying. He brought hope to the living. Without him, most of the priests in this very monastery would never have found their way to God.

  “There is a path for us,” Bernard said. “It is the most difficult road that any priest can walk, but we can do good, we can serve the Church in ways that no others can. God has not forsaken us. We, too, can live in His grace.”

  With those words, Rhun slipped toward a deep well of sleep, letting this lasting hope tame his bloodlust and offer him salvation.

  Rhun came out of his penance, to find the cardinal leaning over him, those deep brown eyes shining with that same love and concern.

  Bernard had saved him back then.

  Still, Rhun now knew the misery that had followed that one act of mercy, picturing Elisabeta’s eyes, her cunning smile, the deaths and suffering that followed in her wake.

  Perhaps the world would have been better served if Bernard had let him die.

  40

  December 20, 6:07 A.M. CET

  Near Naples, Italy

  Elizabeth clutched Tommy to her side, feeling him tremble every now and then, likely still picturing the fire and explosions. She had never seen such a battle: two adversaries flying about like hawks, smoke screaming from impossible cannons in their bow, booms that shook even the air. The fighting exhilarated her, awed her—but it had terrified the boy.

  He leaned against her shoulder, seeking comfort.

  She remembered the other vessel exploding and rolling into the sea, sinking like a scuttled ship. She pictured Rhun torn to pieces—but oddly she found no satisfaction in the vision, only disappointment.

  He should have died at my hands.

  She also could not discount a sense of hollowness at his loss. She explored that emptiness now, knowing it was not grief, at least not entirely. It was more like the world was barren without him. Rhun had always filled her life, even back at the castle, before she was turned—with his frequent visits, their long conversations, their long pregnant silences. After that bloody night, he continued to define her, having given birth to her new existence. And ever since then he had plagued her shadow—even into this modern world.

  Now he was simply gone.

  “We’re almost there,” Iscariot said, waving a hand to the screen before them.

  She drew her attention forward. The screen showed a dark coastline, l
ittered with a blaze of lights. Farther to the east, she noted the skies had begun to pale with the approach of dawn. She felt its approach in the lassitude that weighed her down, making her feel sluggish.

  Their craft suddenly veered away from the mass of lights that marked the city of Naples. It swung toward a shadowy stretch of coastline, overlooked by a tall hill, with a thin sandy beach at its base. The crown of the hill was scooped out, marking it as one of the many old volcanoes that dotted this region of southern Italy, but its slopes had long turned to thick forests, sheltering deep lakes.

  “Where are we?” Tommy asked, stirring from her side.

  “Cumae,” Elizabeth answered, staring across the top of the boy’s head to Iscariot.

  “We’re going to visit an old friend,” Iscariot added cryptically.

  Elizabeth had little interest in anyone whom Iscariot considered a friend.

  As their craft reached the shore, it swept low over the sandy beach, stirring dust into a cloud. They lowered back to the land as sand rose around them in a cloud.

  She felt Tommy stiffen in her arms. He must know his destiny was close at hand and rightly feared it. She remembered Iscariot’s instructions to her, that she was supposed to keep the boy calm, to play nursemaid to him.

  She tightened her arm around his thin shoulders—not because it was her duty, but because the boy needed such comfort.

  At last, the craft bumped to the ground. The sand sifted and settled, opening a view to the ocean on one side and the steep slope of cliffs on the other.

  Iscariot cracked open his door, washing in the smell of salt and burning oil.

  They all climbed out.

  Once Elizabeth’s feet felt the sand, another note struck her keen senses.

  A whiff of sulfurous brimstone.

  She faced the seaside cliffs of that ancient volcano, knowing what lay far beneath it, protected by an ancient sibyl.

  The entrance to Hades.

  Standing beside her, Tommy stared dully out across the dark seas, likely picturing the deaths far out there, wondering about his own fate. She took his hand and gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. She would play her role as ordered, biding her time until she could make her escape.