Blood Infernal

by James Rollins

  Jordan finally asked it. “Do you think she’ll survive the wine?”

  Christian stopped, sighing loudly. “She will survive if she truly repents of her sins and accepts Him into her heart.”

  “That’s not likely to happen,” Erin said.

  Jordan agreed.

  Christian had a more compassionate response. “We can never know the heart of another. No matter how much we think that we might.” He turned to Jordan. “Leopold had us all fooled, serving as agent of the Belial within our own folds for decades.”

  Erin nodded. “And he was able to drink holy wine without burning to ash.”

  Jordan frowned, realizing there was one subject he’d never had the time to address. He had told everyone about Leopold’s body missing from that subterranean temple, but he never elaborated on the stranger aspect of that story.

  “Erin,” he said, “there is something I never mentioned about that attack in Cumae. That strigoi who . . . who wounded me . . . just before he died, he said he was sorry. He knew my name.”

  “What?”

  Christian turned sharply to him. Apparently Baako and Sophia had also failed to share this detail with the Sanguinists. Perhaps all of them had been ready to simply dismiss it as a coincidence. Maybe the dead strigoi was German, which would explain the accent. Maybe he knew Jordan’s name because whoever sent that monster down there knew the Warrior of Man was in that buried temple.

  Still, he wasn’t buying it.

  Jordan, mein Freund . . .

  “I swear the voice that came out of the strigoi was Leopold’s,” he said.

  “That’s impossible,” Erin muttered, but she had witnessed enough of the impossible to be unsure now.

  “I know how it sounds,” he said. “But I think Leopold was using that body like a mouthpiece.”

  Erin remained silent, her gaze distant as she digested this information. “What sort of connection could there be between them to allow that to happen?”

  Christian offered one theory. “Maybe when Leopold died, his spirit leaped into this other strigoi.”

  Erin turned to him. “Has that ever happened before?”

  Christian shrugged. “Not that I know, but since meeting the two of you, I’ve witnessed many things I thought would have been impossible.”

  Erin nodded at the truth of his words. She eyed Jordan. “Was there anything else unusual about that strigoi, anything that might explain such a psychic link?”

  “Besides being supersized in strength and speed?” he asked.

  “Besides that.”

  Jordan remembered one last detail. “Actually there was one other odd thing. He had a black mark on his chest.” He mimicked with his own palm. “It was shaped like a hand.”

  Erin’s hunched shoulders grew straighter. “Like Bathory Darabont had?”

  “That’s exactly like I thought. Some mark of ownership.”

  “Or possession,” Erin added.

  Christian looked concerned. “They must have finished with the autopsy on that body back in Vatican City. Perhaps by the time we’re back there, they’ll have some better explanation. Cardinal Bernard will likely know what to—”

  Christian’s voice died away. Plainly he had momentarily forgotten that the cardinal was no longer in charge of the Sanguinists. He was now a prisoner.

  Jordan shook his head. This was the worst time for the order to have a shake-up in leadership. “What will happen to Bernard?” he asked.

  Christian sighed. “He will be taken back to Castel Gandolfo and placed on house arrest until he is ready to stand trial. Because he is a cardinal, a conclave of twelve other cardinals must be gathered to pass sentence. It might take a couple of weeks, especially with the increased strigoi attacks.”

  “What are they likely to decide?” Erin asked.

  “Cardinal Bernard is powerful,” Christian said. “Few will want to speak against him. Because of that—and the fact that there are mitigating circumstances—penance will likely be assigned.”

  “What kind of penance?” Jordan asked.

  “He committed a grievous sin. Normally a death sentence would be warranted. But the order can also choose to forgive him. Sophia told me that the cardinal has broken our laws in the past, feeding on human enemies during the Crusades.”

  “The Crusades?” Erin’s voice rose in pitch. “That was over a thousand years ago.”

  “You guys have pretty long memories,” Jordan said.

  “It is a difficult calling.” Christian fingered his rosary beads. “And if Countess Bathory has information that can aid you in the quest to reshackle Lucifer, the court may go easy on the cardinal.”

  Erin looked down the length of the nave. “So Bernard’s life might depend on the countess surviving her transformation?”

  “Seems fitting,” said Jordan.

  “Fitting or not,” Christian said, “I’m sure we’ll know her fate soon enough.”

  Jordan imagined Bernard was resting no easier this night.

  Serves him right.

  5:58 A.M.

  With both arms shackled in front of him, Bernard braced his legs as best he could against the roll of the boat. The silver manacles seared his wrists each time he moved, filling the dark hold with the smell of his own charred flesh.

  I have been imprisoned like a common thief.

  And he knew whom to blame for his current state: Cardinal Mario. The cardinal of Venice had always loathed Bernard, mostly because Bernard thwarted his centuries-long campaign to move the center of the Sanguinist order to this decadent city of canals. This harsh trip in the dark hold was the payment for that sin.

  Still, this was but an annoyance. Bernard had no illusions of what was to come. While he didn’t know what his exact punishment would be for this greater sin, he would be toppled from his lofty post, falling so far that he could not even guess where the bottom might land. He would certainly be stripped of his title.

  Death would be a simpler option.

  He bowed his head. He had served the Order of the Sanguines for nearly a thousand years. Few Sanguinists of his age remained. In all that time, he had never been tempted to retreat to the Sanctuary, to become one of the Cloistered Ones. That was not a path for him or his ambitions.

  I belong among the ranks of the Church, serving the order to my fullest capacity.

  He lifted his cuffed hands high enough to touch his pectoral cross with his thumbs. The pain was familiar, comforting. It reminded him that he was not done serving.

  He must focus on that—rather than how he had been laid low by the likes of Elizabeth Bathory. Fury flashed through him, but he schooled himself, accepting his faults. The countess had recognized the depth of his pride, used the fires of his ambition against him. Her words rang in his head.

  Only you have the power to save your world.

  She had tempted him—not just with blood, but with her precious knowledge. Stored in her brain were secrets that he had desired as much as he had wanted her blood. He had been too eager to pay her price. She had known what music to play.

  And I was but her instrument.

  But no longer.

  The others did not understand the depth of evil that the countess carried in her black heart, but Bernard did. He had no doubt the wine would consume her, but if it did not, he must be ready.

  He knew one way to control her if she survived. She cared for the boy, Tommy.

  Control the child, and you control the mother.

  He shifted enough to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket. His captors had stripped him of his weapons, but they had left him with this. He dialed a number in the dark. Even in times such as this, there were those who were loyal to him.

  “Ciao?” said a voice on the other end.

  Bernard quickly explained his needs.

  “It will be done,” his conspirator said, closing the connection.

  Bernard took cold comfort that his plan for the countess would not fail.

  This time, I will t
urn her into an instrument of my purpose.

  No matter the cost.

  6:10 A.M.

  Elizabeth knelt with the chalice poised at her lips, teetering on the brink between salvation and extinction. Above her head, the mosaic of Lazarus stared back down at her, along with Christ, but she found herself looking at those gathered to witness that event. They were Lazarus’s family, his sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany. The small glass tiles captured their looks of terror, not joy.

  Did they fear their brother would not survive the act of drinking Christ’s blood?

  Her gaze drifted to another who matched their fear, who held the chalice to her lips. Reflected candlelight shone on Rhun’s tense face, turning his pale skin to silver. She had never seen him look so terrified, save the moment when she had first kissed him in front of the fireplace at her castle, the moment that had set the events in motion that led them both here.

  Rhun’s dark eyes stared into hers. This was the moment for a poetic farewell, but she could think of nothing to say to him, especially in front of the gathered Sanguinists.

  She focused on Rhun, letting everything else go.

  “Ege’sze’ge’re,” she whispered over the brim of the cup. It was a common Hungarian toast: To your health.

  Rhun’s eyes softened with the hint of a smile.

  “Ege’sze’ge’re,” he repeated with a small nod.

  She tilted her head, and he tipped the cup.

  A spill of wine poured over her tongue.

  It is done . . .

  As she swallowed, the liquid burnt a fiery trail down her throat. It felt as if she had sipped molten rock. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her back arched in agony, thrusting her breasts against the rough-spun cloth of her nun’s habit. Her arms jerked wide. Fire flowed through her body into her limbs, out to her fingertips. Every vein in her body ran with flame. It was an agony that she had never known.

  With that pain, the wine’s holiness spread inside her, draining her strigoi strength. It fought against the darkness in her blood. But the holiness did not win. The evil was not completely burned away. It still pulsed within her, like a banked fire.

  She finally gasped out a breath, casting out some of the fire.

  She suspected what might come next, bracing herself against it. From Rhun’s account, every time she drank the wine she would be forced to relive her worst sins. He called this experience penance. Its purpose was to remind each Sanguinist that they were fallible and that only His incredible grace could carry them through their sins.

  And I have so much to atone for.

  As the fire receded inside her, she bowed forward across her knees, covering her tear-stained face with her hands. But it was not to blot out any terrible memories.

  It was to hide her relief.

  She had survived their test—and she saw no scenes of past depredations. Her mind felt as clear as it ever had been. It seemed she needed no penance.

  Perhaps because I have no regrets.

  She smiled into her palms.

  Were the Sanguinists the architects of their own penance and their own pain?

  Rhun’s hand dropped onto her shoulder as if to comfort her. She let it stay, unsure how long penance normally lasted. She kept her hands in front of her face and waited.

  Finally, Rhun’s fingers tightened on her shoulder.

  Taking this as a sign, she raised her head, careful to keep her expression tragic.

  Rhun beamed down at her as he helped her to her feet. “The good in you was triumphant, Elisabeta. Thank the Lord for His eternal mercy.”

  She leaned on him, notably weaker from the holiness, stripped of the strangely expanded strigoi strength. She clutched Rhun’s hand, while gazing across the faces gathered here, most remained stoic, but a few could not hide their surprise.

  She continued to play the role expected of her. She looked into Rhun’s eyes. “Now that I’m reborn, I cannot break my promise to you, to everyone. I will tell you what I know, something that could help you on your quest. Let this be my first act of contrition.”

  Rhun hugged more tightly to her, thanking her and perhaps wanting to reassure himself that she was indeed still alive.

  “Then let us go,” he said.

  He led her past the others. They touched her shoulders as she walked among them, welcoming her to their ranks. However, one witness could not keep the shock from her face. She was the last to acknowledge Elizabeth.

  Sister Abigail gave a small bow of her head.

  “I am humbled to have joined you, Sister,” Elizabeth said.

  The old nun marshaled her features into something resembling welcome. “It is a difficult path that you walk now, Sister Elizabeth. I pray that you will find the strength within yourself to keep to it.”

  Elizabeth fixed the somber expression on her face. “As do I, Sister.”

  She headed out of the chapel, bottling the laughter ringing inside her.

  Who knew escape would be this easy?

  March 18, 9:45 A.M. CET

  Venice, Italy

  The Blood Countess survived . . .

  Still coming to grips with this, Erin stared at Elizabeth’s back as the former countess led them across the depths of St. Mark’s Basilica. She was dressed in a simple nun’s habit, accepted now as one of the Sanguinists. Still not believing this sudden change, Erin studied her. Despite the humble clothes she wore, Elizabeth still strode with the haughtiness of royalty, her shoulders thrown back, her neck stiff.

  But she did pass the Sanguinists’ test.

  Erin gave a small shake of her head, accepting this truth.

  At least for now.

  And if nothing else, the woman was at least proving cooperative.

  “This is what I’ve come to show you,” Elizabeth said, stopping beneath a magnificent mosaic that graced the roof above. “It is titled the Temptation of Christ, one of the finest in the basilica.”

  Rhun kept to Elizabeth’s side, shadowing her at every step, his gaze wide upon her, his face full of relief and awe . . . and joy. After all that the countess had put him through, he still loved her.

  Jordan stood a little apart from Erin. She wished Jordan would look upon her with that same expression of unquestionable, unquenchable love. Instead, he studied the spread of the artwork.

  “So this is showing the three times Satan challenged Christ,” Jordan said, “when Christ was out fasting in the desert for forty days.”

  “Exactly,” Erin said. “The leftmost section shows the devil—that’s the black angel in front of him—bringing Christ stones and tempting him to turn them to bread.”

  Christian nodded. “But Christ refused, telling him Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God.”

  Erin pointed to the next section. “The second temptation is where the devil tells Jesus to jump off a building and have God catch him, but Jesus refused to tempt the Lord. And the last one—showing Christ standing on a set of mountains—is where the devil offers Christ all the kingdoms of the earth.”

  “But Jesus turns him down,” Jordan said.

  “And the devil is banished,” Erin added. “Then those three angels to the right take care of Jesus.”

  A new voice intruded. “And that number is significant.”

  Erin turned to Elizabeth, who kept her hands demurely folded before her.

  “What do you mean?” Erin asked.

  “Three temptations, three angels,” Elizabeth explained. “Note also that Christ stands atop three mountains during the second temptation. Three was always an important number to the Church.”

  “As in the Son, the Father, and the Holy Ghost,” Erin said.

  The Holy Trinity.

  Elizabeth unfolded her hands and motioned to Rhun, Christian, and herself. “And it is why the Sanguinists always move in groups of three.”

  Erin also recalled how it took the blood of three Sanguinists to open the door that Bernard had sealed. Even the Blood Gospel’s prophecy centered on three figur
es: the Woman of Learning, the Warrior of Man, and the Knight of Christ.

  “But that’s not the most significant trio that is hidden in this mosaic,” Elizabeth said and pointed up. “Look closer at the mountains under Christ’s sandals.”

  Jordan squinted. “It looks like He’s standing on some sort of watery bubble?”

  “And within that bubble?” Elizabeth asked.

  With the mosaic so far overhead, Erin wished that she had binoculars, but she still saw clearly enough to understand. Small luminous tiles of white surrounded a trio of objects hidden there, floating in that watery brilliance.

  “Three chalices,” Erin said, unable to keep the awe from her voice.

  One hope rose through the questions in her mind: Could one of them be Lucifer’s Chalice, the cup they were supposed to find?

  She turned to Elizabeth. “But what’s the significance of you showing us this?”

  “Because it might be linked to your quest. Long ago, this artwork was commissioned by men who would later form a court in Prague under Emperor Rudolf II. The Court of the Alchemists.”

  Erin frowned. She had read about that group, in children’s tales about the Biblical golem. They were a group of famous alchemists assembled in Prague, who studied the occult, along with seeking ways to transform lead to gold. In their many labs, they sought to tease out the secrets of immortality.

  So far as she knew, they had failed.

  “What’s the significance of the chalices?” Erin asked.

  “I do not know for sure. But I know they are somehow connected to that green stone you found. That green diamond.”

  “Connected how?” Jordan asked.

  “That stone also has a history that goes back to the Court of the Alchemists. To a man I once knew, back when I was performing my own study concerning the nature of the strigoi.”

  Erin scowled at her choice of words. Study. It was a despicably clinical way to describe the torture and murder of hundreds of girls.

  “He was one of the court’s alchemists,” Elizabeth continued. “He showed me that symbol you discovered on that diamond, the mark I copied in my journal.”

  “Who was he?” Erin pressed.