Rhun considered escaping with her. Even if he could overwhelm those gathered here, what then? A damned existence wandering the earth, fighting to keep her from expressing her true nature, both of them severed from God’s grace?
“It must be done, and it must be done now,” Sophia said.
“Wait.” Jordan held up a hand. “Maybe we all need to step back, talk this through.”
“I agree,” said Erin. “This is an extraordinary set of circumstances. Remember, she has information we need. Should we not at least obtain that before we risk losing her again?”
“Erin’s right,” Jordan said. “It seems the countess was paid in full. She got what she asked for, and now she needs to tell us what she knows.”
Christian frowned, but he looked like he was being slowly swayed to their side. Unfortunately, Sophia looked little moved, and she was backed by the two Sanguinists at her side.
Then support came from a new direction.
“I will tell you what I know,” Elisabeta rasped out, turning her head with what clearly took great effort. “But not if it means my death.”
Sophia slipped free two curved blades, their lengths shining in the candlelight. “We cannot let a strigoi live. The rules are clear. A strigoi is allowed only two choices: to join our order or to be put immediately to death.”
Rhun tightened his arms around her. He could not lose her twice in one night. If necessary, he would fight.
Perhaps sensing the tension was coming to a head, Erin stepped between Rhun and the others. “Can we not make an exception for her? Let her keep her current form. The Church was willing to work with her as a strigoi before, when we sought out the First Angel. She was allowed to live as a strigoi in exchange for her help back then. Are these current circumstances any different?”
Silence hung within the room.
Bernard finally broke it with the truth. “We lied to her before. If she had survived as a strigoi after the First Angel was recovered, she was to be killed.”
Erin gasped. “Is that true?”
“I was to end her cursed life by my own hand,” Bernard said.
Rhun stared at his mentor, the man who had raised him in this new life. He had trusted Bernard for hundreds of years. Now he felt the world shifting beneath him. Nothing was as it seemed. No one was who they said they were.
Except for Elisabeta.
She had never pretended to be anything other than what she was, even when she was a monster.
“So your promises are meaningless, Cardinal,” said Elisabeta. “Then I see no reason to adhere to my oaths. I will tell you nothing.”
“Then you will die now,” Bernard said.
She stared at the cardinal, the two ever at war. “Put the question to me then,” she said. “Offer me what you Sanguinists must offer any strigoi in their custody.”
No one spoke.
She rested her head again, looking up at Rhun, her eyes aglow with sadness but purpose. “Put the question to me, Rhun.”
“I will not. You have nothing to answer for.”
“Oh, but I do, my love. In the end, we all do.” She reached up and touched his cheek with a trembling hand. A ghost of a smile showed on her tired lips. “I am ready.”
Bernard interrupted. “You will be burnt to ash if you touch the wine. Tell us what you know first and perhaps God will forgive you.”
She ignored him, keeping her gaze upon Rhun.
He read her determination. With cold lips, he asked her, “Do you, Bathory de Ecsed, forsake your damned existence and accept Christ’s offer to serve the Church, to drink only His blood, His holy wine . . . for now and forever?”
Her gaze never faltered, even as his tears fell upon her face.
“I do.”
March 17, 11:29 P.M. CET
Venice, Italy
Erin stared up at the vast cupola in the center of St. Mark’s Basilica, raising her face to that golden shine as if it were the risen sun. It was nearing midnight, but here the darkness of the night held no sway.
Earlier, down in the smaller silver chapel, she had watched the others lead the countess away into the darker recesses of the Sanguinist level. Erin worried what they might do to her, but Sophia had been adamant that this was a sacred rite of their order, one Erin couldn’t observe. All she knew was that Elizabeth would be washed and dressed in a nun’s habit before she underwent the ritual of transformation, which apparently involved prayers, repentance, and drinking transubstantiated wine.
Erin would have liked to witness that event, but she wasn’t the only one shut out.
One Sanguinist had not been permitted to go with the others.
At least not yet.
She turned to find Rhun pacing the length and breadth of the vast basilica, stirring the candles in his wake as he passed from one shadow to another. He clasped his rosary with one hand, never letting go. His lips moved in constant prayer. She had never seen him so agitated.
Jordan, in contrast, sat sprawled on a nearby pew. His machine pistol lay within easy reach. She crossed and scooted in next to him, settling her backpack beside her.
“I think Rhun’s going to wear ruts in the marble,” Jordan said.
“The woman he loves might die tonight,” she said. “He’s earned the right to pace.”
Jordan sighed. “She’s not really that great of a catch. I’ve lost count of the times she’s hammered him.”
“That doesn’t mean he wants to watch her die.” She took Jordan’s hand, dropping her voice, knowing that Rhun could likely hear them, even from across the nave. “I wish there was something we could do.”
“For who? Rhun or Elizabeth? Remember, she asked to be turned into a strigoi. Something tells me she calculated the angles before she agreed to convert. I say we let the chips fall where they may.”
Erin leaned against Jordan’s side, noticing again his burning heat. He shifted away from her. It was a slight movement, but unmistakable.
“Jordan?” she started, ready to confront her own fears. “What happened to you in Cumae?”
“I already told you.”
“Not about the attack. You’re still burning up . . . and . . . and you seem different.”
That word barely described what she felt.
Jordan sounded faraway. “I don’t know what’s happening. All I know—and this is going to sound strange—but I feel like what has changed in me is leading me down a good path, a path I must follow.”
“What path?” Erin swallowed.
And can I come with you?
Before he could answer, Rhun appeared at the end of their pew. “Could I trouble you for the time, Jordan?”
Jordan took his hand from hers to check his wristwatch. “Half past eleven.”
Rhun held his pectoral cross, staring toward the stairwell in the north transept that led below, plainly distraught. The ceremony was to begin at midnight.
Erin stood up, drawn by his anguish. She wasn’t going to get anything more concrete out of Jordan. Maybe he didn’t know more than he had already told her, or maybe he just didn’t want to tell her. Either way, she wasn’t doing any good sitting here.
She joined Rhun. “Jordan’s right, you know.”
Rhun turned his face toward her. “About what?”
“Elizabeth is an intelligent woman. She wouldn’t agree to convert unless she thought that she stood a good chance of surviving the transformation.”
Rhun sighed. “She thinks that the process is complex, that it leaves room for doubt and error, but it does not. I’ve attended many of these ceremonies in the past. I’ve seen many . . . succumb when they drink the wine. She cannot trick her way through it.”
He set off again to pace, but Erin kept to his side.
“Maybe she’s changed,” she offered, not truly believing it but knowing Rhun wanted to.
“It is her only hope.”
“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”
“I pray you are right, because I—” Rhun�
��s voice broke, and he swallowed before speaking. “I cannot bear to watch her die again.”
Erin reached over and took his cold hand. His fingertips were red, blistered from the silver of his rosary beads. He stopped and looked into her eyes. The suffering in those dark eyes was hard to face, but she didn’t look away.
He leaned toward her, and she instinctively took him in her arms. For the space of a breath, he relaxed against her and let her hold his cold, hard form. Over his shoulder, she saw Jordan watching them. Knowing how he felt about Rhun, she expected him to be jealous, but he stared past her, clearly lost in his own world, a world where she seemed to be losing her place.
Rhun broke free of their embrace, touching her shoulder gently. The simple gesture conveyed his gratitude to her. Even in his anguish, he was more aware of her than Jordan.
They returned down the nave silently until they reached Jordan.
He glanced over at them, looking infuriatingly calm. “It’s almost time,” he said before Rhun could ask. “Will you be with Elizabeth when she takes the wine?”
“I cannot,” Rhun said, his voice dropping even lower. “I cannot.”
“Are you not allowed to be there?” Jordan asked.
His guilty silence was answer enough.
Erin touched Rhun’s arm. “You must be there.”
“She will live or die regardless of my presence, and I cannot watch if . . . if . . .”
He sagged beside her.
“She’s frightened, Rhun,” Erin said. “No matter how she tries to hide it. There’s a chance that these could be her last moments on earth, and you’re the only one left in the world who truly loves her. You can’t leave her alone.”
“Maybe you are right. If I had let her live out her life as God intended, she would not be suffering this fate now. Perhaps it is my duty—”
Erin squeezed his arm. It felt like clutching a marble statue, but there was a wounded heart somewhere deep inside. “Don’t go out of a sense of duty,” she urged. “Go because you love her.”
Rhun bowed his head, but he still looked undecided. He turned and started on another circuit of the nave. She let him go alone this time, knowing he needed to ponder her words, to make up his mind.
She blew out a breath and sat next to Jordan again. “If we were in this position, would you let me drink the wine alone?”
He lifted her chin with a finger to face him. “I’d break your ass out of here before it got to that.”
She grinned back at him, enjoying this moment, but it didn’t last.
Christian appeared from the entrance of the basilica and crossed down the aisle toward them. He carried a flat box that smelled like meat, cheese, and tomatoes. His other hand held two brown bottles.
“Pizza and beer,” Jordan said. “You’re a dream come true.”
“Remember that when calculating my tip.” Christian handed him the box.
Rhun returned to them, suspecting Christian came with more than just a late dinner.
The young Sanguinist nodded to Rhun. “It’s time. But you don’t have to be present. I understand how painful that might be.”
“I shall go.” He gave Erin a long look. “Thank you for reminding me why, Erin.”
She bowed her head, acknowledging his words, wishing she could go with him, to be there for him if the countess didn’t survive.
Rhun turned away and headed off to face what was to come, to share it with Elizabeth.
Their two fates forever entwined.
11:57 P.M.
Elizabeth stood again in the silver chapel where she had died and been born again. Someone had cleaned her blood from the floor and walls. The room smelled of incense and stone and lemons. Fresh beeswax candles had been lit on the altar.
It was as if nothing had ever happened.
She stared up at the bright mosaic of Lazarus overhead. He had done what she would soon attempt, and he had survived. But he had loved Christ.
She did not.
She ran her palm over her black garments, the uniform of a lowly nun. A silver rosary had been tied around her waist, and a pectoral cross hung from her neck. Both objects burned even through the thick cloth. She felt like she had donned a costume, one she might wear to a ball.
But that wasn’t her only masquerade.
Keeping still so that no one would know how she truly felt, Elizabeth reveled at the strength inside. The cardinal had fed deeply on her and had offered little of his own blood in return, not enough to sustain her. Even worse, her sensible shoes stood on holy ground, a place that should have weakened her even further.
But she felt strong—stronger, perhaps, than she ever had.
Something has changed in the world.
Eight Sanguinists shared the chapel with her, watching her, judging her. But she only noted one. Rhun had come to participate in this rite, standing next to her. She was surprised how deeply this gesture struck her.
He stepped closer, his words a faint whisper. “Do you have faith, Elisabeta? Faith enough to survive this.”
Elizabeth looked up into Rhun’s concerned eyes. For centuries, he wanted nothing more than for her to battle the evil inside her, to devote herself to a joyless existence serving a church she had never trusted. She wanted to comfort him, to reassure him, but she would not lie to him, not when this might be their last moment together.
The Sanguinists behind him chanted a prayer. If she tried to escape, they would kill her—and if she died, then Tommy would die along with her. Down this burning path lay the only chance to save the boy’s life and her own.
“I do have faith,” she told Rhun, which was the truth. It just wasn’t the faith he wanted her to possess. She had faith in herself, in her ability to survive this and save Tommy.
“If you don’t believe,” Rhun warned, “if you don’t believe Christ can save your damned soul, you will die with the first sip of His blood. It has ever been so.”
Has it?
Rasputin had been excommunicated from the Church, yet she had seen with her own eyes that he still lived outside of the realm of the Church. Likewise, the German monk, Brother Leopold, had betrayed the Church for fifty years, yet he had drunk the wine countless times and never been burned.
Was it the monk’s belief in his purpose, in the one he served, that had sustained him?
She hoped it was so. For her sake, and for Tommy’s. She had to trust that there were other pathways to the salvation offered by that holy blood. While her heart was not pure, surely helping Tommy was a noble enough goal.
But if I am wrong . . .
She reached to Rhun’s bare wrist, touching it with a finger. “I want you to give me the wine. No one else.”
If I’m to die, let it be by the hands of someone who loves me.
Rhun swallowed, fear darkening his face, but he didn’t refuse her. “Your heart must be pure,” he warned. “You must come to Him with openness and love. Can you do that?”
“We will see,” she said, shying from his question.
Satisfied but reluctant, Rhun gestured to the silver chalice resting on the altar. The sharp smell of wine rose from it, cutting through the incense. It was difficult to fathom that such a simple substance, a fermentation of grapes, could hold the secret of life. Or that it might destroy her newfound immortal power and her along with it.
Rhun stood before the altar, facing her. “First, you must publicly repent your sins, all of your sins. Then you may partake of His holy Blood.”
With no other choice, she listed sin after sin, seeing how each one fell onto Rhun’s shoulders, how he took the blame for her acts onto himself. He bore it in front of her, and she recognized pain and regret in his eyes. In spite of everything, she would have spared him that if she could.
By the time she had finished, her throat was hoarse. Many hours had passed. Her strigoi body sensed that daylight was not far away.
“That is all?” Rhun asked.
“Is it not enough?”
He turned, pick
ed up the silver chalice from the altar, and held it above his head. He chanted prayers necessary to transform the wine into the blood of Christ.
All the while, Elizabeth searched her conscience. Did she feel fear that these were her last moments? That she might soon be burned to ash and scattered across the clean floor? She came to only one conclusion.
Whatever must come would come.
She knelt before Rhun.
He bent down and brought the chalice to her lips.
March 18, 5:41 A.M. CET
Venice, Italy
Jordan stretched a knot out of his back. He had fallen asleep, sprawled across one of the wooden pews of the basilica. He stood now and twisted his spine to and fro, forcing circulation back through his body. He bent down and massaged a spasm in his calf.
I can miraculously heal a mortal wound, but I got nothing for a charley horse.
He hobbled toward Erin, who studied a piece of artwork a few yards away. She stood with Christian, who had kept them company during this long vigil, all of them waiting for word about Elizabeth. From the slight hunch in Erin’s shoulders and the puffiness of her red eyes, he doubted she had gotten any sleep.
Christian could have joined his fellow Sanguinists and participated in the rite, but he remained here, either to guard them from some kind of threat or to keep them from interfering with what was happening down below. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to watch the countess burn to death any more than Rhun did.
All night long, Christian had been straightforward with them, answering Erin’s questions about what was likely going on below. And more important, he also fetched Jordan more beer.
“What are we looking at anyway?” Jordan asked as he joined them.
Erin pointed to the mosaic straight above their head.
He craned his neck. “Is that Jesus sitting on a rainbow?”
She smiled. “Actually, it is. He’s ascending to heaven. Giving this section of the basilica its name: the Ascension Cupola.”
The three of them continued along the nave. Erin questioned Christian about various pieces of art, but clearly there was a greater question hanging above all three of their heads.
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