James Rollins - Blood Infernal

“I would be happy to talk to you in the morning,” she said. “I was preparing myself to retire.”

Sister Abigail reached across and hauled Elizabeth bodily into the corridor, not bothering to hide her unnatural strength. “They mean now.”

Jordan placed a restraining hand on the nun’s arm. “I think we can do this without any roughness.”

“And this is a matter of some discretion,” Bernard said, waving Abigail off.

A muscle twitched under the nun’s eye. “As you wish. I have other matters to attend to, so I will leave Lady Elizabeth in your charge.”

Abigail released Elizabeth, turned on her heel, and stalked off.

Elizabeth enjoyed watching her leave.

“Would you like to talk in my bedchamber?” She gestured back at her cell, allowing a vein of irritation to show. “Though it is quite cramped.”

Bernard stepped closer, while glancing down the corridor. “We’ll be taking you to our chapels below St. Mark’s Basilica, where we might speak in private.”

“I see,” she said.

The cardinal reached to her arm, as if to escort her by the hand, but instead, he dropped a cold metal shackle around her wrist and fastened the other end to his own.

“Shackles?” she asked. “One of your strength cannot control a small, helpless mortal woman such as me?”

Jordan grinned. “Mortal or not, I’m guessing there’s nothing helpless about you.”

“Perhaps you are right.” She tilted her head and smiled at him.

He was a handsome man — a strong jaw, a square face, and a hint of wheat-colored stubble across his chin and cheeks. A heat emanated from him, an internal fire that she might enjoy warming herself beside.

Erin took his hand, asserting ownership of her man. Some things did not change with the passage of centuries.

“Lead me to my fate, Sergeant Stone,” Elizabeth said.

As a group, they paraded through the convent and out the main gates. She caught sight of Berndt’s boat and felt a twinge of irritation, but she allowed it to fade away.

While she wouldn’t be taking her boat ride to freedom this night, perhaps a more interesting opportunity had arisen.

Erin trailed behind the Sanguinists as they wended through the alleys and over the small arched bridges of Venice. She held Jordan’s hand, his palm hot in her own. She tried to push back her fears about him. No matter how feverish he felt, he looked healthy, ready to take on an army.

Once they were alone, she would pry out more details about what had happened in that cavern, and why he seemed to be pulling away from her lately. She suspected the source of these changes came from the angelic essence that Tommy had imbued into him when he had saved Jordan’s life. Still, while her mind pondered this possibility, her heart went immediately to more mundane places.

What if he simply doesn’t love me anymore?

As if he guessed her thoughts, Jordan squeezed her hand. “Ever been to Venice?” he asked softly.

“I’ve only read about it. But it’s like I always pictured it.”

Glad for the distraction, she glanced around. The alleys of this island city were so narrow that only two could walk abreast in some places. Small storefronts displayed antique books, pens fashioned from glass, leather masks, silk and velvet scarves. Venice had always been a trading center. Hundreds of years ago, these same shop windows had dazzled other pedestrians with their wares. Hopefully, they would do the same a hundred years from now.

She inhaled deeply, smelling the sea off the canals, the scent of garlic and tomatoes from some nearby restaurant. Closer at hand, the houses were façades painted in shades of ocher and yellow and faded blues, their window glass rippled by the passing centuries.

It was easy to imagine that she’d stepped into a time machine and arrived a hundred years earlier or even a thousand. She’d been raised on a rural compound by parents whose everyday life was more primitive than the people who lived in this city centuries ago. Her father’s faith had caused him to repudiate the modern world, and she sometimes worried that her profession, her curiosity about history, kept her out of sync with time as well.

Am I my father’s child after all?

The group finally crossed along a dark tunnel that passed through an ancient wall. At its end, St. Mark’s Square opened before them, and she faced the city’s famous basilica.

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.”