James Rollins - Blood Infernal

But Marie knew nothing of Elizabeth’s past, not even her full name.

None at the convent was given this knowledge.

A twinge in one knee caused Elizabeth to shift her weight to the other, recognizing the pain for what it was.

Aging.

I’ve had one curse replaced with another .

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Berndt Niedermann crossing the courtyard on his way to the dining hall for dinner. The elegant German lodged in one of the convent’s guest rooms. He was dressed in what passed in this era for formal: pressed trousers and a well-tailored blue jacket. He raised a hand in greeting.

She ignored him.

Familiarity was not yet called for.

At least for the moment.

Instead, she stretched a kink from her back, glancing everywhere but in Berndt’s direction. The Venetian convent was not without its charm. In the past, the convent had been a grand house with a stately entrance overlooking a wide canal. Tall columns flanked a stout oaken door that led to the dock. She had spent many hours staring out her room’s window, watching life travel by on the canals. Venice had no cars or horses — only boats and people on foot. It was a curious anachronism, a city largely unchanged from her own past.

Over the last week, she had chatted with the German lodger on occasion. Berndt was an author visiting Venice to research a book, which seemed to entail walking around the stone streets and eating fine food and drinking expensive wine. If she had been allowed to accompany him for one day, she could have shown him so much more, filled him with the history of this flooded city, but that was never to be.

She was always under the watchful eye of Sister Abigail, a Sanguinist who made it clear that Elizabeth must never leave the convent grounds. To keep her life — mortal as it was now — Elizabeth had to remain a prisoner within its stately walls.

Cardinal Bernard had been clear on that point. She was imprisoned here to atone for her past crimes.

Still, this German might prove useful. To that end, she had read his books, discussed them with the author over wine, careful to praise them when she could. Even these brief conversations were not private. She was only allowed to speak to guests while closely supervised, usually by Marie or Abigail, that gray-haired battle-ax of a Sanguinist.

Still, Elizabeth found gaps in their supervision, especially lately. As the months of her imprisonment ticked away, the others had begun to let their guard down.

Two nights ago, she had been able to slip into Berndt’s room while he was out. Among his private belongings, she had discovered a key to his rented canal boat. Rashly, she had stolen it, hoping he would think he had misplaced it.

So far, no alarm had been raised.

Good .

She wiped her forehead with a handkerchief as a small boy in a blue messenger cap appeared at the other end of the courtyard. The child moved in the careless modern way that she had seen Tommy use, as if children today were not in control of their limbs, allowing them to flop uselessly when they moved. Even at a younger age than this boy, her long dead son Paul would never have traipsed so artlessly.

Marie hobbled over to greet the messenger, while Elizabeth strained to overhear their conversation. Her Italian was passable now, as she’d had little to do beyond work in the garden and study. She studied far into the night. Everything she learned was a weapon that she would one day wield against her captors.

A honeybee lit on her hand, and she lifted it to her face.

“Be careful,” warned a voice behind her, startling her. That would never have happened when she was a strigoi . Then she had been able to pick out a heartbeat from fields away.

She turned to discover Berndt standing there. He must have circled the courtyard to approach her so discreetly. He stood close enough that she could smell his musky aftershave.

She glanced down to the bee. “I should be fearful of this small creature?”

“Many people are allergic to bees,” Berndt explained. “If it were to sting me , it might even kill me.”

Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow. Modern man was so weak. No one perished from bee stings in her time. Or perhaps many had, and one simply had not known.

“We cannot allow such a thing to happen.” She moved her hand away from Berndt and blew on the bee to make it fly.

As she did so, a figure stepped out of the shadows of the courtyard wall and headed toward them.

Sister Abigail, of course.

Her Sanguinist minder looked like a harmless old British nun — her limbs thin and weak, her blue eyes faded with age. As she reached them, she tucked in a wisp of gray hair that had escaped the side of her wimple.

“Good evening, Herr Niedermann,” Abigail greeted him. “Dinner is soon to be served. If you’ll head to the hall, I’m sure—”

Berndt interrupted her. “Perhaps Elizabeth would care to join me.”

Abigail grabbed Elizabeth’s arm with a grip that would leave a bruise. She did not resist. Bruises might engender sympathy from Berndt in the right circumstances.

“I’m afraid that Elizabeth cannot go with you,” Abigail said in an irritated tone that brooked no argument.

“Of course I may, Sister,” Elizabeth said. “I’m not a prisoner, am I?”

Abigail’s square face flushed hotly.

“Then it’s settled,” Berndt said. “And perhaps afterward we could go for a short boat ride?”

Elizabeth forced herself not to react, fearing Abigail would hear the sudden spike of her heartbeat. Would the missing key be noted?

“Elizabeth has been ill,” Abigail said, clearly struggling for any explanation to keep Elizabeth within the convent’s walls. “She mustn’t overtire herself.”

“Perhaps the sea air will do me good,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

“I can’t allow it,” Abigail countered. “Your… your father would be very mad. You certainly don’t want me to call Bernard, do you?”

Elizabeth gave up toying with the woman, as much as it delighted her. She certainly didn’t want Cardinal Bernard’s attention drawn this way.

“That’s unfortunate,” Berndt said. “Especially as I must leave tomorrow.”

Elizabeth looked sharply toward him. “I thought you were staying another week.”

He smiled at her concern, clearly mistaking it for affection. “I’m afraid business calls me back to Frankfurt earlier that I was expecting.”

That presented a problem. If she intended to use his boat to make her escape, it would have to be this night. She thought quickly, knowing this was still her best chance — not just of escape, but so much more.

She had grander plans, to be more than just free.

While Elizabeth could walk under the sun again, she had lost so much more. As a mortal human, she could no longer hear the softest sounds, smell the faintest wisps of scent, or witness the glowing colors of the night. It was as if she had been wrapped in a thick blanket.

She hated it.

She wanted her strigoi senses back, to feel that unnatural strength flowing through her limbs again, but most of all, she desired to be immortal — to be unfettered not just from these convent’s walls, but from the march of years.

I will let nothing stop me .

Before she could move, the cell phone hidden in the pocket of her skirts vibrated.

Only one person had that number.

Tommy .

She moved back from the German. “Thank you, Berndt, but Sister Abigail is correct.” She gave him a quick curtsy, realizing too late that no one did such things anymore. “I am feeling a touch faint from working the gardens. Perhaps I should take my meal in my room after all.”

Abigail’s lips tightened into a hard line. “I think that is wise.”