Blood Infernal

by James Rollins

  Golden light illuminated the front of the Byzantine building, a fanciful façade of arched portals, marble columns, and elaborate mosaics. Erin craned her neck to take in its breadth. In the center, at the top, stood a statue of St. Mark himself, above a golden winged lion, his symbol. Flanking the Warrior Saint were six angels.

  The entire structure was the epitome of opulence and grandeur.

  Jordan had his opinion. “Looks a bit gaudy.”

  A laugh escaped Erin. She couldn’t stop it. It sounded like the Jordan she had first met in Israel.

  “Wait until you see the inside,” she said. “It’s called the Church of Gold for a very good reason.”

  Jordan shrugged. “If it’s worth doing, I guess it’s worth overdoing.”

  She smiled at him as they headed across St. Mark’s Square. During the day, the place would be full of pigeons and tourists, but at this late hour, the square was practically deserted.

  Ahead, the countess walked regally next to Cardinal Bernard, her head held high and her eyes fixed on some distant point in front of her. Even in a fairly modern dress, she looked like a storybook princess, stepped from the pages of an ancient book. In the countess’s case, it would be a grim book of fairy tales.

  As they neared the basilica, Erin pointed to the mosaics at the entrance. “These were installed in the thirteenth century. They depict scenes from Genesis.”

  She recalled the story on the tablet in the Sanguinist library—and how that story had been altered. She searched the mosaics above for the serpent in the garden, recalling how that ancient account detailed a pact Eve made with that serpent: to share the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.

  Before she could get a good look, an elderly priest stepped out from under a shadowy archway. His white hair was disheveled, and his cassock was buttoned crooked. A ring of keys hung on his belt.

  The priest met Bernard at the basilica’s threshold. “This is very irregular. Never in all my years—”

  Bernard cut him off, lifting a hand. “Yes, it is an unusual request. I am grateful that you are able to accommodate it with so little notice. If it were not urgent, we would never think to bother you.”

  “I am always happy to be of service.” The old priest sounded slightly mollified.

  “As are we all,” said the cardinal.

  The Italian priest turned, led them to the main door, and unlocked it.

  As he stood aside, he warned Bernard. “I’ve deactivated the alarms. So you must notify me when you are finished.”

  The cardinal thanked him and hurried inside, drawing their group in his wake.

  Erin followed, gaping at the golden mosaics that appeared, covering every surface: walls, archways, and domed ceilings.

  Jordan let out a small whistle of appreciation at the sight. “Are my eyes playing tricks, or does it look like everything is glowing?”

  “The tiles were designed that way,” Erin explained, grinning at his reaction. “Created by fusing gold leaf between glass tiles. It makes them more reflective than solid gold.”

  Elizabeth turned her silver eyes on Jordan, drawn perhaps by his enthusiasm. “They are lovely, are they not, Sergeant Stone? Some of those mosaics were commissioned by my Bohemian ancestors.”

  “Really?” Jordan said. “They did an impressive job.”

  Erin didn’t like how Elizabeth’s smile widened at his attention.

  Perhaps sensing Erin’s irritation, the countess swung to face Cardinal Bernard. “I suspect you did not bring me here to admire my ancestors’ handiwork. What is so urgent that it requires such a nightly sojourn?”

  “Knowledge,” he answered her.

  By now, they had reached the center of the church. Bernard clearly didn’t want anyone eavesdropping. Christian and Sophia kept to their flanks, slowly circling the group, likely both to guard them and to keep any stray priest who might be nearby from getting too close.

  “What do you wish to know?” Elizabeth asked.

  “It concerns a symbol, one found in your journals.”

  He reached inside his coat and pulled out the worn leather book.

  Elizabeth held up her free hand. “May I see it?”

  Erin stepped forward and took it herself. She flipped to the last page and pointed to the symbol that looked like a cup. “What can you tell us about this?”

  The countess’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “If you’re inquiring about it now, then I trust you have found the same symbol elsewhere.”

  “Maybe,” Erin said. “Why?”

  The countess reached for the book, but Erin moved it out of her reach. A flash of irritation crossed the woman’s smooth features.

  “Let me guess then,” Elizabeth said. “You found the symbol on a stone.”

  “What are you talking about?” the cardinal asked.

  “You are a gifted liar, Your Eminence. But the answer to my question is written across this young woman’s face.”

  Erin blushed. She hated being so transparent, especially when she had no idea what the countess was thinking.

  Elizabeth explained. “I’m referring to a green diamond, about the size of my fist, with this same marking upon it.”

  “What do you know about it?” Jordan asked.

  The countess threw back her head and laughed. The sound echoed across the cavernous space. “I shall not give you the information you seek.”

  The cardinal loomed over her. “You can be made to tell us.”

  “Calm yourself, Bernard.” Her use of his common name only seemed to irritate the cardinal even more. She was clearly enjoying pushing his buttons. “I said that I would not give you this knowledge, but that does not mean that I shall not part with it.”

  Erin frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Simple,” she said. “I shall sell my knowledge to you.”

  “You are in no position to bargain,” the cardinal blustered.

  “I believe I am in a very good position,” she countered, facing the storm growing in the cardinal’s stance with a steady calm. “You are frightened of this symbol, of this stone, of the events even now transpiring against you and your precious order. You will pay me what I want.”

  “You are a prisoner,” the cardinal began. “You—”

  “Bernard, my price is a slight one. I’m sure you’ll be able pay it.”

  Erin gripped the journal more tightly, her eyes drawn to the countess’s triumphant face, dreading what was coming next.

  The cardinal kept his tone guarded. “What do you want?”

  “Something of very little worth,” she said. “Only your eternal soul.”

  Jordan had stiffened next to her, as if expecting an attack. “What exactly does that mean?”

  The countess leaned closer to the cardinal, her black hair brushing his scarlet cassock. He took a step back, but she matched it.

  “Restore me to my former glory,” she whispered, her voice more seductive than demanding.

  Bernard shook his head. “If you’re referring to your former castle and lands, that is not within my power.”

  “Not my lands.” She laughed brightly. “I can get those back myself, should I have need of them. What I require from you is much simpler.”

  The cardinal stared down at her, revulsion written on his face. He knew what she was going to ask for.

  Even Erin did.

  Elizabeth reached toward the cardinal’s lips, toward his hidden fangs.

  “Make me a strigoi again.”

  March 17, 9:16 P.M. CET

  Venice, Italy

  Elizabeth shivered in delight as shock washed away Cardinal Bernard’s usual calm composure. For a fraction of a moment, he bared his teeth at her, dropping his mask, showing his true nature. After centuries of sparring, she had finally managed to crack his façade of diplomacy and order, exposing the animal beneath.

  I need that animal.

  She would risk even death to unshackle it.

  To the side, the archaeologist and the soldier loo
ked equally surprised, but the best reactions came from the Sanguinists. The young Christian went stiff; the slim Sanguinist woman with burnished Eastern features curled her lip in revulsion. In their holy minds, such a request was unimaginable.

  Then again, a failure of imagination had always been the Sanguinists’ chief sin.

  “Never.” The cardinal’s first word was a low rumble—then his voice rose, bursting from his chest, booming through the church. “You . . . you are an abomination!”

  She faced his fury, stoking it even more with her calmness. “Your priestly prudery holds no interest for me. And do not fool yourself, I am no more an abomination than you.”

  Bernard fought to bottle back his rage, to tamp it down inside him, but the cracks continued to show. His fists were iron at his side. “We will not discuss such mortal sins in this holy place of worship.”

  He yanked on her cuffed wrist, hard enough for the edge of the shackles to cut her skin. He stalked toward the back of the church, pulling the rest with him as if they were equally bound to the cardinal.

  And maybe they were, in their own ways.

  Elizabeth had to run to keep up with him, but she could not keep that pace. Her feet tangled in her long skirt, and she sprawled across the cold marble. Her handcuff bit deeper into the flesh of her wrist.

  She kept silent, savoring the pain.

  If he was hurting her, he had lost control.

  And I’ve gained it.

  She struggled to get her feet beneath her, losing a shoe in the battle. In her efforts to rise, she tore the shoulder of her dress. Aghast, she clutched it with her free hand to keep it from falling.

  Christian blocked Bernard, touching the cardinal’s arm. “She cannot keep up with you, Your Eminence. Remember, she is mortal now, as much as she might not wish to be.”

  Jordan helped her to her feet, his strong hands warm against her body.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to the sergeant.

  Even Erin came to her aid, reaching over and adjusting Elizabeth’s dress so that it did not hang down so. Despite the woman’s low background, she did indeed have a well of kindness, one deep enough to help an enemy in distress. Perhaps that was part of Rhun’s attraction to her—her simple kindness.

  Elizabeth stepped away from the woman without offering her thanks. She kicked off her other shoe, so as not to walk with a limp. Cold stone pressed against the soles of her bare feet.

  Bernard apologized through gritted teeth. “I beg your pardon, Countess Bathory.”

  He turned and continued onward, but now at a more moderate pace. Still, anger was evident in each exaggerated step. He plainly could not appreciate what she wanted, what she demanded of him. He had been immortal so long that he had forgotten mortal desires, mortal weaknesses. But in doing so, he had also created a powerful weakness inside him.

  And I will exploit it to the fullest.

  The cardinal reached the far side of the basilica and led them down a set of stairs, likely heading to the buried Sanguinist chapel.

  A dark space for dark secrets.

  At the bottom of the stairs lay a candlelit crypt. The floor was smooth and clean, an easy walk, even in bare feet. On the far side, Bernard stopped in front of a stone wall decorated with a carved figure of Lazarus.

  She guessed it was one of the order’s hidden gates.

  How they loved their secrets.

  Standing before the statue, the cardinal peeled off his left glove and took a knife from his belt. He pierced his bare palm with a small knife and dripped blood into a cup that Lazarus was holding. He spoke softly in Latin, too quickly for her to follow.

  A moment later, the small door swung open to the side with a grating sound.

  The cardinal faced the others. “I will speak to the countess alone.”

  Murmurs spread among the others, uncertainty on their faces.

  Christian was the boldest, maybe because he was newer to the order, willing to confront his superior directly. “Your Eminence, that goes against our rules.”

  “We’re well beyond rules,” Bernard countered. “I can come to a more satisfactory arrangement without the presence of others.”

  Erin stepped up. “What are you planning on doing to her? Torture the information out of her?”

  Jordan supported the archaeologist. “I was against enhanced interrogation techniques in Afghanistan, and I’m not going to tolerate it now.”

  Ignoring them, the cardinal backed through the door, pulling Elizabeth with him. From the threshold, he called out a command that echoed through the crypt.

  “Pro me. For me alone.”

  Before anyone could react, the door slammed closed between them.

  Darkness enfolded Elizabeth.

  Bernard whispered in her ear. “Now you are mine.”

  9:20 P.M.

  Erin pounded the flat of her hand against the sealed door.

  She should have suspected such an underhanded maneuver from Bernard. If there were secrets to be learned, he had shown in the past that he would go to extreme measures to control the flow of information. Erin would not put it past the cardinal to withhold whatever knowledge he gained from Elizabeth, maybe even killing the countess to silence her.

  She turned to Christian and pointed to the cup in the statue’s hands. “Get this door open.”

  Before he could obey, Sophia touched the young Sanguinist on the shoulder, but her words were for them all. “The cardinal will question the countess himself. He has experience in such matters.”

  “I am the Woman of Learning,” Erin argued. “Whatever Elizabeth knows concerns our quest.”

  Jordan nodded. “And this Warrior of Man agrees, too.”

  Sophia refused to back down. “You don’t know with certainty that her information has any direct bearing on your quest.”

  Erin fumed, hating being cut out of the loop so abruptly. But she also had a bigger concern. She didn’t trust the countess, not even with the cardinal. Erin feared Bernard might be outmatched by Elizabeth. It was evident the woman knew how to push Bernard’s buttons, but was it just a sadistic game or was Elizabeth manipulating Bernard to her own ends?

  Erin took a different tack. “If things go sour in there, how fast can you get us inside?”

  “Define sour,” Christian said.

  “Bernard is locked alone in there with the Blood Countess. She’s a brilliant woman who knows more about strigoi and their nature than anyone.”

  Sophia raised an eyebrow. She looked a little surprised.

  Erin pressed on. “The countess has conducted experiments on strigoi, trying to determine their nature. It’s all in her journal.”

  Jordan stared toward the sealed gate. “Which means the countess likely knows Bernard’s weaknesses, probably better than he does himself.”

  Erin looked into Christian’s eyes. He wanted to help her, but he clearly still felt a duty to follow Bernard’s orders.

  “Either way, it doesn’t matter,” Sophia said. “The cardinal closed the door with the command pro me, which means that it will open only to him.”

  What?

  Erin turned worriedly to the door.

  “So he’s trapped in there with her,” Jordan muttered.

  Christian clarified. “We can get inside, but not with the blood of only two of us.” He motioned to Sophia. “To override the cardinal’s command, it would take a full trio of Sanguinists. The power of three can open the door at any time.”

  Sophia’s eyebrows drew down in worry. “Perhaps it is best if I fetch a third. Just in case.”

  “Do that,” Erin said.

  And hurry.

  Sophia rushed across the crypt and melted into the darkness of the stairwell.

  Erin met Jordan’s eyes and saw her own worries reflected there.

  This is going to end badly.

  9:27 P.M.

  Elizabeth fought against panic. With the door sealed, the darkness was so thick that it felt as if it had substance, as if it could craw
l down her throat and smother her. But she forced herself to stay calm, knowing Bernard must hear the pounding of her heartbeat. She stiffened her back, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

  She focused on the fiery pain of the shackle on her wrist. Warm blood dribbled from her torn skin and trickled into her palm. The cardinal must sense that, too.

  Good.

  She rubbed her hands together, smearing them both.

  “Come,” Bernard said hoarsely.

  He tugged on her cuffs and pulled her deeper into this cold lair of the Sanguinists. She shivered against that chill. He half-dragged her through the darkness for what seemed like forever, but was likely only minutes.

  Then they stopped again, and a match flared, bringing with it the smell of sulfur. Light illuminated Bernard’s pale, set face. He touched the match to a golden beeswax candle set in a wall sconce. He moved along to another, lighting that taper, too.

  Soon, a warm, flickering light illuminated the room.

  She looked up to a domed ceiling shining with a silver mosaic. Just as the glass tiles in the basilica above had been fashioned of gold leaf, these were made with silver. They covered every surface.

  The room glowed with their splendor.

  The mosaic depicted a familiar Sanguinist motif: the raising of Lazarus. He sat upright in a brown coffin, white as death, a streak of crimson dripping from one corner of his mouth. Facing him stood a gilded Christ, the only golden figure in the mosaic. Finely detailed tiles showed Christ’s luminous brown eyes, curly black hair, and a sad smile. Majesty radiated from his simple form, awing those who had gathered to witness this miracle. And it wasn’t just humans. Light angels watched the scene from above, while dark angels waited below, and Lazarus sat forever caught between them.

  The Sanguinists’ Risen One.

  How much simpler her life would be if Lazarus had never accepted Christ’s challenge.

  She turned her face from the ceiling, her eyes falling on the room’s only other adornment. In the middle of the chamber rose a white-clad altar. Atop it rested a silver chalice. The touch of silver burned strigoi and Sanguinists alike. To drink from a silver chalice was to intensify a Sanguinist’s pain, to increase their penance when they consumed their holy wine.