James Rollins - Blood Infernal

“Will we succeed?” she asked.

Lazarus closed his eyes and did not answer.

I must break free…

Leopold’s consciousness drowned in a sea of dark smoke. As a Sanguinist, he’d grown used to pain — the ever-present burning of his silver cross against his chest, the searing of sacramental wine down his throat — but those pains were trivial compared to his current agony.

Bound within a dark well of smoke, he was lost, senseless to the world around him. Even the awareness of his own limbs had been stripped from him by this black pall.

Who knew the lack of pain, of any sensation, could be the worst torture of all?

But even more monstrous were those moments when the darkness would recede, and he would find himself looking out his own eyes again. Too often, they revealed horror and bloodshed, but even those brief respites from eternal darkness were welcome. In those moments, he tried to draw as much life back into himself as he could before he was drowned again by the demon that possessed his body. But as much as he struggled to hold on, it never lasted. In the end, such hopes proved crueler than any torment.

Better to simply let go, to allow the flame of myself to be extinguished into this nothingness, to add my smoke to the multitude that have come before me.

And he knew there were others before him. Occasionally wisps of smoke would brush through him, carrying with them snatches of another’s life: a flash of a lover’s face, the sting of a lash, the laughter of a child running through clover.

Is that all my life will become? Scraps in the wind?

As he pictured that wind, the darkness shredded around him, as if torn apart by a gale. He found a naked woman pressed under him on a bed. A streak of scarlet ran down her neck and between her breasts, coating a golden locket that hung there. Her eyes, as green as oak leaves, met his. They were wide with fear and pain, and they begged him to let her go.

Gasping, he forced his gaze away, to the sumptuous room. Heavy silver curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the sunlight, but he sensed that they would soon be opened. With the eternal clock of a Sanguinist, he knew sunset was less than an hour away.

Other bodies lay broken on the cold marble floor to either side of the bed, naked and unmoving.

He counted nine.

The demon inside me must be hungry .

But it wasn’t just the demon.

A half dozen strigoi shared the chamber, some slumbering and slated, others still feasting on the dead. The intoxicating scent of blood lingered in the air, enticing Leopold to partake in this slaughter. But he also sensed his belly was full.

Perhaps that is why I have broken free, even for this brief moment .

He intended to take advantage of it.

He pushed higher off the woman, though one hand still clutched her arm. She shrank away, her heart fluttering like a wounded bird. The demon had fed too deeply upon her. He could not save her, but perhaps he could release her to die in peace. Summoning all his concentration, he forced one finger, then another to let go, willing his hand to obey.

Sweat sprang up on his brow from the effort, but he succeeded, freeing her arm. Unable to speak, he nodded to tell her that she should go.

Trembling, she looked down at her arm, then back at him.

Candlelight flickered against green eyes, and reminded him of another flash of emerald. The green diamond . Impotent hate flashed through him. Just to think of that stone numbed his body, making it even more difficult to move.

By my own hand, I doomed myself — and so many others .

He had been ordered to break that foul gemstone by a master who he had believed could return Christ to this world. But upon shattering that stone, he had unleashed a demon instead. He remembered that icy blackness flowing out of the heart of the shattered diamond, invading his body, bringing with it other voices, snatches of other lives. He was quickly lost, deafened by that cacophony — but one name rose above the others.

Legion .

That was the name of the darkness that had suffocated him, of the demon that had consumed him.

Since then, he had drifted in and out of awareness.

But for how long?

He could not tell. All he knew for sure was that the demon seemed to be gathering others to its side, building an army of strigoi .

With a great effort, Leopold lifted his hand before his own face as the woman dragged herself away, tangling in the bedsheets. He ignored her as shock rang through him. His normally pale white hand was as black as ink. He turned his head, discovering a mirror on the wall.

In its reflection, he was naked, a sculpture in ebony.

Leopold screamed, but no sound came from his lips.

The woman fell from the bed, stirring up one of the slumbering strigoi . The monster hissed, spitting blood. As it reared up, Leopold spotted a black palm print in the middle of its bare chest, like a brand or tattoo, only that blackness reeked of corruption and malevolence, far worse than even the stench of the strigoi who bore it.

Worst of all… that oily darkness was a match to the hue of his new skin.

But that was not all.

Leopold reached his arm out, splaying his fingers, realizing a new horror.

That mark on the beast is the same shape and size as my hand .

The demon must have marked this monster as his own, perhaps enslaving it as surely as it had Leopold.

The strigoi grabbed the woman, twisted her around, and ripped out her throat.

Before Leopold could react, darkness again welled up, dragging him back into that smoky sea, taking with it the sight of the ravaged woman. For once, he didn’t resist, happy to let the horrors of that room vanish. But as he drowned into nothingness, he let go of any hope of escape.

A new desire filled him.

I must find a way to atone for my sins…

But along with that goal came a nagging question, one that might prove important: Why was I allowed to break free for so long just now? What drew away that demon’s attention?

Damn, this bastard’s fast…

Jordan brought up his machine pistol and fired three bursts toward the attacker who had climbed out of the tunnel. His rounds spattered against the rock wall of the cavern temple, finding no target.

Missed again…

From its fangs, it was plainly a strigoi , but he had never seen one move like that. The creature was there, and a split second later the monster was across the room, as if it had teleported the distance.

Baako and Sophia had Jordan’s back, literally. The three of them stood in a circle, shoulder to shoulder. Baako carried a long African sword, while Sophia wielded a pair of curved knives.

The strigoi hissed from behind the room’s altar. A long laceration bled across his chest. It was a wound Baako had inflicted as the beast first charged at them, saving Jordan’s life in the process.

Unfortunately, it was the only successful strike his team had inflicted.

“It’s trying to wear us down before the kill,” Sophia said.

“Then time for a new strategy.” Jordan pointed his gun, but as his finger pulled on the trigger, he shifted his aim to the side and fired into emptiness, anticipating that the strigoi would move again.

It did — right into his line of fire.

A scream pierced the roar of his weapon. The strigoi flew backward, blood spraying the walls.

Lucky shot, but I’m taking that point on the scoreboard.